Afro Samurai

An Error in Morality (A Cyberpunk Story)

bet

California Love -- An L.A. 90's Crime RP

The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

March 18th, 1997

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Smog snuffed radiance, and spring did little to ease one’s mind. A fan circled its near perpetual dance above Kentrell’s head and he was staring at the fan as it turned. It was mid-day, the stove crackled flame, Darius and Lorraine were up cooking breakfast: eggs, sausage, cheese toast. It was the same thing every morning--mornings began whenever the eldest siblings woke--Kentrell sighed. Excising crust from his eyes and tossing his mess of covers from himself, Kentrell sat on the side of the bed and pushed his feet into the house slippers waiting for him on the rug beside his resting place.

As zombies of morn do, Kentrell lifted himself up and lumbered toward the kitchen. A smell once welcoming and sloughing the monotony of routine consumption, Kentrell (or Tre as his siblings called him) would have sooner found Nirvana if he never had to smell cheese toast and eggs again. Sausage made his stomach churn. Kentrell ate it anyway, he was no cook himself--a deficiency which,as Darrius and Shontay reminded him often, made him goofy. Darrius re-attached he smoke detector once all the hot breakfast had been cooked. Lorraine had disappeared into the bathroom and there was no sign of Terell, Marcus, or Shontay.

Kentrell hated being alone with Darrius.

No sooner than Lorraine went to get dressed for work did Darrius begin his shpiel,

“You found a job yet?” Darrius sipped black coffee while Kentrell toyed with a plate of scrambled eggs, Kentrell’s eyes met Darrius’ own,

“Still lookin’.” a dry enough response from the younger Price boy; Darrius knew it to be incredulous,

“Uh huh. Look Tre, I’ono what you plan on doing, but it gotta be something. Shontay and Terell ass, too, cause I know damn well I’m not about to keep doin’ no’ double shifts at McDonalds for three lazy niggas.”

“Man, ain’ no--”

“Nah, nah, nigga. Shut up.”

“Man, aight. I’ll see what up.”

“I’m serious, nigga.”

Lorraine came out of the bathroom and prompted an end to the exchange. In her return, Kentrell found safety from Darrius scold; Lorraine and Darrius left the house after other random chatter between themselves. Kentrell watched them leave and then finished his eggs and sausage. He went back to his room and threw on the same red t-shirt he had worn yesterday and exchanged his slippers for decaying red Converse sneakers. From inside his drawer he retrieved his red bandana and stuffed it in the back pocket of the khaki pants he had also worn yesterday. Hygiene, then Kentrell was outside.

Beyond the black iron fence which enclosed the apartment complex were a handful of people, all of whom had some designated article of clothing in homage to the hood. Red belts, red socks, hats, shoes, flags. Of the ten or so young men and women standing outside, there were the two he had wanted to see most: Terell and Shontay, and of the duo it was Terrell who welcomed Kentrell--or KP as he was known in the streets--first,

“Woop. What up, nigga. Where you been?”

“Shit, sleep.”

“Sleep?! Nigga, it’s 12:30! Been waitin’ on yo’ ass all day.” KP joined with the rest of the group, to which Shontay gave her own greeting,

“Here come this ugly ass nigga!” KP kissed his teeth and indulged her with a one-arm side hug.

“Ya mama, nigga.” KP’s retorts were never quite tuned for quality,

“Whatever, you ready?” 20 sets of eyes turned to KP, nerves flashed up the boy’s spine and settled in the rest of his body. A millisecond too long passed in silence, they could smell the hesitation.

“On Lanes, nigga, you already know I’m ready. Shit, been ready, blood.” the answer appeased none, but no one feigned belief better than KP and his friends.

“We gon’ see.” Shontay and Terrell had already put in work, exactly what that work was was something Terell didn’t quite know. A cherry red cadillac pulled up in front of the apartments, inside a muscled, dark skinned black man with a scar beneath his eye and a blunt hanging from his mouth screeched the cadillac to a halt. Shontay let her eyes fall to the vehicle,

“There he go. Aye!” she shouted to the car, “What up Bone?!” Bone only gave a nod,

KP had frozen solid in just that short span of time, it took a nudge from Shontay to rev life into him. With lowered tone, she spoke,

“Go ‘head nigga, don’t make him call you ova there.”

KP’s legs carried him. Hands clutched the unlocked door and he stepped in. Instinctively, he reached a hand out to Bone, who merely stared at the hand and then hit the gas.

And in a few seconds it all became real to him.

California Love -- An L.A. 90's Crime RP

Slippin' and slidin', CK ridin'.

Name: Kentrell “KP” Price

Age: 19

Occupation/Affiliation: Denver Lane Gangster Bloods (DLB, DLGB, Lanes)

Physical Description: Price stands at a lithe 6’1 and has smashed in his frame a reasonable amount of muscle for someone his age. Strewn across his back is a tattoo brandishing the initials of his gang, “DLB”.

History: Born aloof in the Vermont Vista apartments in 1978 to Regina and Andre Price, Kentrell and his five siblings: Marcus, Shontay, Terrell, Lorraine, and Darius were no exceptions to the poverty pervading the Vista and many other black neighborhoods. Following the outsourcing of most of Los Angeles’ factories in the middle and late seventies, thousands of African American and Latino blue collar salarymen without access to higher education found themselves out of work and in abject need.

The Price family patriarch fell to drug use, and the Price matriarch struggled to find work as well. A story typical, Price and his siblings turned to peers and distant family for help. For three of the Price clan: Kentrell, Shontay, and Terrell there was initiation. The youngest of the three, Kentrell, is the most aggressive and is willing to go to great lengths or what he believes is the betterment of his neighborhood and his family. His brash attitude is catalyst for the trouble he often finds himself in with both law enforcement and neighboring sets.

Since his initiation at a mere 11 years old, Kentrell has been merely a gang member, but in the weeks leading up to his 20th birthday and following a recent shootout with the Raymond Avenue Crips who border the Denver Lanes to the north and are some of the Lanes’ most bitter rivals, “KP” is about to earn his stain, this is where his story begins.

California Love -- An L.A. 90's Crime RP

Slippin' and slidin', CK ridin'.

Name: Kentrell “KP” Price

Age: 19

Occupation/Affiliation: Denver Lane Gangster Bloods (DLB, DLGB, Lanes)

Physical Description: Price stands at a lithe 6’1 and has smashed in his frame a reasonable amount of muscle for someone his age. Strewn across his back is a tattoo brandishing the initials of his gang, “DLB”.

History: Born aloof in the Vermont Vista apartments in 1978 to Regina and Andre Price, Kentrell and his five siblings: Marcus, Shontay, Terrell, Lorraine, and Darius were no exceptions to the poverty pervading the Vista and many other black neighborhoods. Following the outsourcing of most of Los Angeles’ factories in the middle and late seventies, thousands of African American and Latino blue collar salarymen without access to higher education found themselves out of work and in abject need.

The Price family patriarch fell to drug use, and the Price matriarch struggled to find work as well. A story typical, Price and his siblings turned to peers and distant family for help. For three of the Price clan: Kentrell, Shontay, and Terrell there was initiation. The youngest of the three, Kentrell, is the most aggressive and is willing to go to great lengths or what he believes is the betterment of his neighborhood and his family. His brash attitude is catalyst for the trouble he often finds himself in with both law enforcement and neighboring sets.

Since his initiation at a mere 11 years old, Kentrell has been merely a gang member, but in the weeks leading up to his 20th birthday and following a recent shootout with the Raymond Avenue Crips who border the Denver Lanes to the north and are some of the Lanes’ most bitter rivals, “KP” is about to earn his stain, this is where his story begins.

California Love -- An L.A. 90's Crime RP

I would also like to join.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

happy born day youngin

Faux Skin

aight

Caravan: Resurrection

^{The Rise of Kul}

Smor’Gen’Blok

Za’Kul felt both a rush of adrenaline and then the terror of wonder. Safety, that was all he desired. Perhaps he would be seen as weak for it, but war was no way to live; the Lok’Sha had shown the world that when they had lost their own campaign against the other nations so many years ago--and they had lost it right in their home, right atop the mountain where their greatest achievement now stood in ruins. They could not bear another loss.

When Mai’Li and Kul’O came with the news, Za’Kul found his giddy killed. To his father he looked first, then to Ja’Kul; finally, he turned to Mai’Li and Kul’Lo.

“Wor do this?” how fickle a thing is optimism; clenched fists, Za’Kul stormed to where his battle axes were; he moved to grab them and then thought of the Wor he had just saved. Za’Kul had promised them things would be different with his tribe, that the Kul were nothing like the monger Wor… and now it came time to show them that the Kul were beasts of their word. He let his hands fall back to his sides.

“I will go to Low Jo. Bring message to Low Dahla, too--all Low tribe must meet. Cannot have war in Low Tunnels with Wor. Cannot have our home collapse.”

Heroes Reborn: Year Six (OPEN)

Concrete Lillies

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Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn
January 11, 2026
12:20 A.M.

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Rain in Brooklyn was seldom this time of year; gelid New York winter clasped the city. Snow hushed violent green grass and made the crush of shoe and boot into music, a music only a native could appreciate. The city was pulsating, melanoid sky be damned. On a bus stop sat Terrelle Pryor, 19. Black bubble goose jacket, fur hood pulled atop his head; a black skully rested atop his cranium. His hands were shaking inside his coat, the plated .357 was cold against his right thigh.

Pryor rubbed his hands together, attempts to bring warmth to his cupped hands as though it would suffice to heat the rest of his shivering body proved questionable as his presence on this bus stop in the middle of a city he barely knew. Nevermind it, he was supposed to wait until a black SUV picked him up. Headlights flashed twice and then pulled up to the bus stop. A door swung open; Terrell stood up and looked both ways before he was hurried to the car’s interior by the beckoning of a baritone voice,

“Hurry up, we ain’t got all gahtdamn day.”

Pryor stood, pulled up his sagging jeans, and got inside the vehicle after a skinny bald headed fellow exited the back left side so Pryor could get in. A low light emanated from the car’s interior lights and Pryor pulled the hood from his head, the only thing shielding his skull now was a black du-rag. Beside him sat one medium size man with rose colored aviators and a grey hoodie, a single gold tooth and a patchy beard were the most interesting things about his otherwise languid countenance. On Pryor’s opposite side sat a woman in a purple dress, hair kept up in long thick locs, she wore regular reading glasses. They looked to be prescription; a newspaper was unfolded and she was scanning its headline,

VIGILANTE SILENT, WHERE IS ‘THE TIGER’?

Pryor was still warming his hands frantically, the sound of skin and friction grated Lavelle Hammond’s ears. He pulled the rose aviator’s from his face and grabbed onto Pryor’s wrists,

“Boy if you don’t cut that shit out. I put on the AC for a reason!” Lavelle leaned forward and spoke to the woman who wore the purple dress,

“Cherry, baby, put down that damn paper! We got the mothafucka; his ass ain’ goin’ nowhere. We gon’ make sure dat. Well,” Lavelle’s eyes moved toward Pryor,

“You gon’ make sure of that, righ’? Big Lou tell me you the finest out of town help we can get and I payed ‘best-out-of-town-help’ money for your black ass, so he betta be good and right ‘bout it.” Hammond licked his gold tooth, a surly affirmation of his own gall and conceit. From the silence between the gross sloshing of Hammond’s tongue along his teeth, Cherry spoke up,

“Don’t ever call me ‘baby’ in front of the help again or I cut off your other finger, Lavelle.” Pryor’s eyes went wide; being licked with the flame of a tumultuous relationship was unsavory--being licked with the flame of a tumultuous metahuman relationship was deadly.

“Mr. Pryor,” Cherry began as the black SUV reached the abandoned steel mill on the other side of town in an inhuman amount of time, what felt like five minutes, “your friend Dupree tells us you are particularly skilled with dispatching gifted individuals.” for the first time, Pryor got to speak up,

“Yeah, yeah, som’ like it, fo’. Y’all tryn’ make me hit that Tiger nigga?” Pryor shook his head,

“‘Ono, fo’ be on heels. Ain’ really trynna turn pack.” a bit of a southern drawl, but the dialect was distinctly Midwestern. Cherry and Lavelle raised eyebrows in sync, both emitted a mocking laugh as they exited the vehicle; Cherry grabbed Pryor by the ear,

“Aye, fo’, fuh’y’doin’? AGH!” a snap of her fingers and the trio was inside the abandoned steel mill and inside of a dark room. It smelt of crimson and water. A man’s intensified breathing could be heard amongst the musk. A buzzing sound from a generator and then the whole room lit up. What Pryor saw before him was a man clinging to life, an assortment of needles breaching his body from the neck down; tubes lodged into his biceps and quads.

Marvin Hayes, reduced to a living science experiment. When the wounds would close, another injection of the anti-healing serum was given from each needle lodged into his skin, and an electrical shock to make sure each time he healed was slower than the last. Behind the trio that watched the dangling Hayes was a giant monitor which kept track of his vitals and gave a true percentage as to how fast he was currently healing. A small red bar teetered from one end of the color-coded chart all the way to the other side where a giant ALERT sounded loud to indicate that the patient was near death before it quickly bounced back to the other side to indicate that he was fine.

“Our problem, Mr. Pryor, is that our serum proves ineffective; the samples CADMUS sent are… missing something. You, Mr. Pryor, have just what we need to finish what CADMUS started.” Cherry gave a subtle grin, the dark lip gloss gleaned against the light and almost matched the ebony of her skin.

“You simply need to kill him.” it was more than that; Terrelle Pryor was walking venom, his blood corrosive to the touch, black and thick.

Hayes body was lowered on the fly machine until his bare feet touched the floor. The mechanical arms which held the some one hundred pins inside of Hayes yanked each one out of him at the same time, and as violent as possible. Hayes let out a curdling howl,

”GRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!” he had jolted to life; but in his writing, a current of electricity shocked him once more; one could smell the hair frying atop his head and in other more private parts of his person. Marvin’s head hung down, blood soaked the floor around him in near an instant; his vigilante’s suit had holes peppered across it, some twenty wounds open at once and Marvin was bleeding out profusely. And then, just as before, they would heal.

Hayes heart was beating fast; blurred eyes viewed three images in front of him. He could not tell who these people were, but he knew there were some hundred more of them in this place, conducting the same experiments on others of his ilk in the same fashion. Reinforced walls muffled the other some hundred screams from the metahumans hung, caged, and being experimented on in the expansive steel mill. All CADMUS approved.

And Hayes would free them all as he had planned… Pryor stepped up to Hayes; the .357 drawn from his jeans and pressed to Marvin’s head,

...If he didn’t die first.

DC Unlimited 2.0 (Titans / JLU / Open World RP)

Robotman

&

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From beneath the helmet, Fate saw Kobra’s cultists. The supreme sorcerer levitated and let his hands float to his side. Golden energies spawned from both of the similarly colored gloves. The helmeted hero pointed his glowing hands toward some of the cultists and spoke...

”’Ant falaleub bima la taerifuh.”

If successful, the cultists would find themselves frozen in place, a large Ankh forcing them still where they stood--nor could they speak. For the three or four snake soldiers in front of him, the spell worked flawlessly. However there was still much more going on around the outskirts of the city. Most of the civilians had fled the scene , with less than a half dozen still in cars or hiding around the outside areas of Slumville. Fate could feel it… the perverted supernatural energies of a man-made Lazarus Pit in the surrounding woodland areas. As some of the heroes focused on getting the rest of the civilians out of harm’s way, Knight had taken the fight straight to what appeared to be the leader. When another orange clad general in the Cult showed up baring fangs, it was proven not to be the case.

Robotman went into the fray a little slower than some of the others, but he had just as much fight in him. The other man of steel (and screws) couldn’t fly, or shoot bolts of energy, but he could beat up minions all day. Out of the corner of one of his robotic eyes he finally saw the King. Bare chested, sporting a crimson hood and cape, he and several DNA spliced minions were unearthing a Lazarus Pit from a failed experiment years earlier.

“Knew I should’ve made sure that pit was dried up…” Cliff Steele thought to himself fighting towards the woods and the caped leader of this group.

There was approximately three generals now in the fight clad in orange, as well as another two dozen or so snake-men, a couple brutes that looked more like their DNA was spliced with dinosaurs… and the hooded King who was currently overseeing his minions taking samples from the pit.

“That stuff’s not gonna make that face any less ugly, Cobra Commander!” Robotman yelled still smashing his way through a couple more minions.

The King finally turned to acknowledge the hero…

“I hate GI Joe as much as I hate YOU, Cliff Steele! Serpent men, BRING ME THE ROBOT’S HEAD!!” he screamed still focusing on the Lazarus Pit samples.

Fate could feel the tug of the pits; another had come and muscled his way through the King Kobra’s small army and was quite bodacious with his entrance. A calm glance was issued Robotman’s way, Fate spoke to the rest of those present,

”The way is seen. We must destroy the Kobra’s Lazarus Pits.”
The mystic Ankh beneath those four gathered Cultist henchman exploded into a swathe of engulfing energy, the force sufficient to send the quadruplet flying backwards into some of their brethren. Fate lowered himself to the pavement below. King Kobra had truly brought an army with him, but there was no might in the land which supplanted Order.

Fate strode forward. A wild feeling unearthed inside the sorcerer as his eyes veered toward the Kobra and the ever growing platoon of generals who fought at his whim. Around the untrained and the unaware there was always a boundary to be manipulated, a vulnerability to the machinations of energies from beyond. It was like strings, waiting to be pulled--like clay waiting to be shaped. With the Kobra and his generals, there was nothing. A little deduction, there was a protection spell. Smart. To all who were not preoccupied or who could hear him over their personal engagements with the Kobra’s henchman, he spoke...

”Make your way to the generals. I will deal with his kindred.” Fate faced both palms toward the growing and encroaching hoard of Snake cultist minions and formed an Ankh construct which he then pushed forward with both hands. Its aim was to part the horde down the middle and make a path for his allies to pass through unharmed--at least for the next ten seconds until the Cultists recovered from their daze.

”Move! It will not hold.” Fate yelled out as several of the snake-men grunts switched tactics and began using clawed weapons.

Afro / Omega