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6 yrs ago
Don't leave me, baby! Middle of winter, I'm freezin' baby! - It's cold, and Gucci Mane lyrics work for most any context when slightly edited.

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@The One Oops, will edit.


Logan heard the clanking of pots a good distance away. It seemed all his faculties were about him again. He took the shot glass with him as he exited the empty tavern and went to find out the source of the racket--it had begun to give him a headache. Some miles of walking and he began to notice just how empty the streets were. Was this place that desolate? He hadn't seen this few people since Earth-807128. At least he wasn't some old bastard this time. As the clanging continued, Logan roused a growl from his lips. Whoever was making that racket would pay for it! He found the culprit and was ready to give her a mouthful!

"CUT OUT THAT DAMN--" it was a child. Logan huffed, his anger rebuffed by the small girl's joyous face. A smile almost creeped upon his face--then he killed it. He had seen adorable things before, and none of them made him smile. He sure wasn't going to let some small, adorable, innocent girl in a kimono break him. Not after all these years.

"Ey, let me have whatever the hell she's talking about." Logan grizzled.

@VitaVitaAR


Soft lipstick decorated full lips. On her lap was the Remmington shotgun she had been cleaning and loading, there were compartments, straps, and containers for all of her weapons that were currently lying on the table in front of her. A conglomerate of candles made up all the light in the room and painted her small studio apartment's living room a lush, dim, and deep red. She slid both of her primary handguns into their respective holsters beneath her brown cashmere coat. Her two secondary handguns, the C275 automatics, found their home in a second set of crossed holsters angled on her back. She finished cleaning the shotgun and slung it into the strap on her back. She took four clips, two each for all of her guns--including a hefty amount of shot for the shotgun--and stowed it in the slit seam of her coat. She wouldn't need more than this. Her katana was fit into its sheathe. She was prepared to head out of the door to fulfill the contract she had undertaken.

Then she vanished!

A courtyard? Did Zara's eyes deceive her? How did she get here? A quick surveillance of her surroundings told her nothing other than she really hoped someone was going to compensate her for the work she was about to miss. There were eight others already present, but only three she could give proper distinction--a small child, someone resembling an angel (or perhaps an actual Angel, interesting) and one donned in all black. Somebody better have an explanation or some money, otherwise some heads were getting blown off.

Name: Zara Jade
Gender: Female
Age: Unknown
Species: Demigoddess
Appearance:


Personality: Loves a good fight, will not back down from a challenge, will sometimes put herself above others, will not let anyone harm her pet. She will initiate conflict, and can be hyper-aggressive where it is not necessary.

Bio: She was born from Ares--Greek God of War--and an earthly woman. While she did not acquire the extensive powers of her father, she did gain much of his personality and she one of his more refined capabilities--she always hits her target. Her younger years were filled with strife as she wrestled with her identity as a demi-goddess and her affinity for other kinds of magic. To earn her father's trust, she underwent rigorous military training and studied various martial arts styles and different schools of technique. Yet, the same differences that set her apart also made her appreciate those who are lonely and who do suffer. When called upon to fulfill a duty, she will answer the call no matter what is at stake--she may be a little selfish, but she is sacrificial and will give life and limb to save another.

Power: Supernatural Marksmanship - she never misses a shot.

Clairvoyance - She can see supernatural beings, auras, alignments (good or evil).

Bottomless bag - She never runs out of the items she needs.

Mystical bullets - Her bullets can wound most kinds of deity, and are indiscriminate of type. They are less effective against holy beings and beings who have superior magic capabilities.

Likes: Target practice, combat, cooking.
Dislikes: Inaction, cowardice, subtlety.
Family: Mother, brother, Ares.
Friends: Few.
Sentimental Attachment: None.
Weapon: Twin Beretta 92FS semiautomatic pistols, a Remmington 870 autoloading shotgun strapped to her back, Venom Tactical Taipan sniper rifle, twin C275 automatic machine pistols.
Other: A katana.

Pet Name: Zainna, a white lion.
Pet Age: 7 (earthen years).
Pet Gender: Female
Pet Species: White Lion
Pet Apperance:


Pet Personality: Aggressive.

For tech, there will be a mixture of futuristic, modern and ancient. It all changes depending on where you go in the world.
A map with undecipherable lines and directions. This place resembled Earth, sure, but Jorvis wasn't so sure the inhabitants of this alternate universe had a respectable grasp of their own geography. Wainwright's confusion surmounted his more rational sentiments. His legs carried him without aim, he followed the intricate curves and contours on the map to the aptly titled 'lodge' scrawled near the edge of the map where it conveniently ended. Was there nothing beyond this place? Did it lead to some unexplored extra-terrestrial dimension? Intrigue struck Jorvis. On the horizon he saw a consortium of browns and mocha, all finished with a rustic wooden overlay: a lodge. This must be the place.

He had no other possessions in hand--interuniversal travel is not what he expected to come out of a faulty experiment. Alas, he was stuck and he had to make the most out of the ordeal. Was anyone else at this lodge? He thought he saw a van of some sort in the distance, and perhaps another traveler some paces ahead of him. Whomever and whatever is at this place must have some kind of importance. Something struck him about the environment, though--whatever sort of lodge it is, it didn't spell "tourist attraction" to his better judgement. The nature of its seclusion seemed intentional, manufactured even. It could be that he's overthinking things again, something he did often.

He continued his trek to the lodge and observed the immediate surroundings as he drew close. His earlier suspicions about the surrounding land being unnatural were snuffed. It was the one of the most beautiful sights he laid his eyes on. Everything was intricate, mountains laid in the right place and fit the right sized crevices, natural cliffs hung high beyond the tips of the trees and almost kissed the sun. Lush greens swirled with warm oranges and cherry reds. When Jorvis looked skyward, his breath left him, it was stolen by the endless expanse of a setting sky whose harsh grey had usurped the soft, inviting mid-day blue. He nearly shed a tear.

Jorvin got his senses about him, this was no time for poetic muse! His venture to the cabin came to an abrupt end once he reached the walkway that led up to the wooden building itself. There was someone to meet his approach, a whimsical looking female with glasses that bespoke a scholar; one versed in a field which required extensive deciphering of smaller items of study: numbers, strings of code. Mathematics was never an area of study he had real interest in, it always came as a byproduct of his chemistry and so he knew enough about algebra and some calculus to work with chemical bases and mixtures but nothing beyond. Jorvin spoke flat, no expression on his face,

"Is this the lodge?"

@Tergonaut
I will have a post up by tomorrow afternoon.
Mazone followed in tow. He was still eerie of their destnation and what he might behold once the group arrived. He kept his guard up, his eyes always on the lookout for any troublemakers of any sort. He found Quinn, the newest arrival, more of an oddity than himself. How did he get those legs? A bad bet? A fight? They looked real, but something about them still spoke 'artificial.' He took a moment to observe the entire group--a mysterious sweetheart, a talking cat, a servant-boy-robot-courier, and himself. Could the universe bring together a more misfit bunch? Probably.

He just hoped he could survive long enough to make a little money and win a few Waltzing contests.

"You know, I am sensitive. My feelings bruise."

@Yomojo @tex @Patches
Walter was confused by the whole matter after the operation was explained to him. He'd stick out so egregiously, there's no way he'd be able to infiltrate without being signaled as some kind of foreigner. He rather agreed with Belsy's suggestion that some of the group lay in wait while those more suited toward espionage handle the delicate matters. Walter sat in the middle, his attention fixed on the projector for the most part. He didn't quite care for the politics of it all, and none of the names of these "important" people resonated with him in the slightest. They were all cons in suits to him, it didn't matter who leaned what way.

All he knew is that there'd better be some type of reward for all of this. Better food at mess hall, softer bunks, something. His back was starting to ache from those rusted springs. Everyone started speaking and voicing their concerns--Walter wasn't as inclined, though he thought they all had valid points. Kaneda affirmed his own sentiments, and as he spoke Walter nodded along. An occasional "mhm, yep." combination slipped from his tongue. He barely knew any of these people--sure they were nice to him, nicer than folks were back home--but none of them had the skill to carry out such a task. Granted, Walter had never seen any of them in action, but he was sure his assumptions stood on solid ground.

He had no intelligent strategies to offer when he finally spoke,

"I'm not gettin' my black ass shot up over no politician who ain't never done a lick of good for me nor none of my folks. Let me hang back. Y'all can bother wit' that spyin' shi--stuff."

He resigned to listening to things others had to offer during the briefing session. Waves of sleep danced in the back of his mind--boredom was near.

Basketball Court, Lost Haven. 12:00 A.M.

The tips of his fingers kept a steady rhythm's tap against the head of the basketball. Its round surface thundered against blacktop concrete and expanded out into the lonely midnight air. A quick switch from his right hand to his left and Hassan accelerated past the defender he had left frozen in place from the quick shift in speed. A second victim approached, this one far larger than the last and blessed with superior wingspan. Fathead was what the other kids called him for, as one may guess, his unfortunate cranium construction. But just like before, Fathead fell before Hassan's lightning quick ball control; one move through the legs and a single transition behind his back put Fathead on his behind. Hassan had free passage to the rim and this was game point.

He missed.

"You some ass, boy." Fathead scolded from the blacktop pavement. Hassan thought he should worry about lugging himself and his gargantuan noggin up from the ground and deal with the fact that he got dropped by a kid half his size first. But no worries, Hassan harbored no bitter feelings.

"Whatever, fool." Hassan returned, "Ball up!" he continued. A sacred mandate among his group of friends. One always had to honor this unspoken tradition; if you missed, no matter how bad or how embarrassing, the other team always got the ball next. These were the rules, and may God bless any soul who thought it acceptable to break them. Fathead chest passed the ball to Hassan, it was forceful exchange; an extension of Fathead's embarrassment for sure. Hassan's phone rang; he waved a finger at Fathead to signal a respite from the game.

"Yoooo?" he began, unguarded and unaware of the caller since he didn't bother to check the number.

"'Yo'? Is that how you answer the phone, Hassan?" it was his mother!

"Oom" Hassan almost choked.

"Where are you? It's late, you were supposed to be home TWO HOURS AGO!" Hassan almost felt the spit flying through the phone as his mother went on her tirade.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming!" Hassan nervously re-assured.

"I know you're coming! Get. Your. Ass. Here. NOW!" Bibi capped. The phone went dead.

No amount of antagonizing from his questionable friend group could halt him from sprinting at what felt like mach 2 speed (he was only running at about five miles an hour) toward home. Wind cut by him as a knife through butter. In just under thirty minutes Hassan was home. Jubilee welled inside him, his mother's ire had roused her to sleep. Sleep seeped into Hassan much the same and he made his way to his room where he was prompt in unveiling his red, white, and blue covers away from his bed sheets. It took all of ten minutes for him to fade into REM sleep.

Then the visions happened.

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