Atrophy

Carvings of the Galaxy (FULL)

@beyond visionsOh I like this. Gotta few questions:

1)How far flung in the future was it before our characters were turned into popsicles? We talking centuries from now with all sorts of rad sci-fi things like robots, flying cars, and lasers with the year being 300X? Or minutes from now in an alternative universe where the US government flipped the budget of the military with the budget of things like NASA?

2)Likewise, how bad were things on Earth before we were frozen? Was it all doom and gloom end of the world type of stuff, or was it more like "Yeah, things are kinda rough in some areas but I still gotta go to the office and work on the Dodgson Report"? Like, would our characters have been greatly relieved to have been chosen for Project Renascence while our neighbors super jealous, or would people think we were nuts for agreeing to freeze ourselves just because the price of gas was up and we're at war with yet another guerrilla force?

3)How well would our characters know one another? Would we wake up and be like, "Oh, that's Sally. She's a brain surgeon whose favorite color is green and enjoys playing tennis on her days off. She's one of those people who didn't own a TV and would constantly talk about it, and she kept asking if the prep pill was cruelty free. I don't like Sally. She's a jerk." Or would it be more, "Oh, that's Sally. She's, like, a nurse or something? Who cares, looks like a jerk." Or would it be more like, "Oh, that's a stranger. She looks like a jerk."

4)How big is the Artemis for 6 people? Cramped, where everyone is in each other's personal space all the time? Or is it large enough for us to get lost? What kinda rooms are there? Is it all science and survival stuff, or is there a library and a place for us to dunk some basketballs?

5)So we're gonna make steal the aesthetics straight out of the movie Alien for the Artemis and fill the ship with crappy VHS player, tube TVs, and computers that don't run anything beyond DOS, right? _...right?

One Rainy Night in Chicago

FULLER PARK
6:35 PM

FLARE

Flare had one hand on the ground trying to support her buckling legs and her head down when she saw the strobe of red and blue light up the asphalt below her. Shit, shit, shit, she thought, snapping her head up to see the squad car slide to a halt yards before them. Seconds ago, the sirens seemed like they were half the city away. She was certain they would’ve had more time. Whenever one of her flare’s lit up the sky it certainly seemed like the cops drove from halfway across the city. She guessed bigger explosions made for quicker responses. Obvious, really.

She chided herself for even thinking about these things. There were more pressing issues at hand currently, like not spending the rest of her night in jail for starters. Flare kicked it into overdrive and tried to force herself up to her feet so that she could run away like she assumed the others would, but her legs had another idea. They weren’t broken, at least they didn’t hurt enough to seem broken, but they sure as hell were wobbly. She slipped and caught herself from cracking her mask against the ground.

“Dick,” she quietly muttered underneath her breath, already playing out in her mind how the phone call to Mom from inside a jail cell would go.

Hey Mom, it’s me. You know how you thought I was so tired during the day because I was out all night drinking and doing drugs? Well, uh, good news...yeah, that’ s not gonna fly.

“Get the car guy!”

Flare was surprised to hear Arc’s voice and to see that both him and the Toy King had held their ground instead of leaving her in favor of a quick getaway. However, whatever warm and fuzzy feeling that was surfacing inside of her from their sudden camaraderie was quickly replaced with a hot anger as she watched Arc smack one cop in the knee like he was swinging for the fences while the King scrambled the brains of the other one. Flare always had this kind of idea that she was, in a way, working with the police, not competing against them like some of her kind. Shit like this was why she got chased by cops whenever they saw her. Well, that, and the act of maiming petty crooks, but it was much easier to blame others.

Still, all things considered, it was a better outcome than going downtown. She swallowed the venomous words that had risen to her tongue and finished pulling herself back off of the ground, although not without letting a pained grunt escape from her lips. Flare rubbed her neck, looked around between the KO’ed cops and the Fuller Park Crater, and decided that she had done enough for the night. Certainly, disposing of a bomb threat warranted some kind of break. She’d slump home after ditching these zeroes, hang up her cowl, and spend the rest of the night in the tub with hopes that she didn’t wake up the next morning with a full body charley horse.

“Like I was saying,” she said with a huff, picking a bit of garbage off of herself, “let’s get off of the streets.”

Flare took two uncertain steps towards an alley and then stopped, although not because she couldn’t walk. She had seen something in the red and blue glow of the flashing lights: the gun. At first she thought about leaving it there. Ideally, the officer would recover and retrieve his firearm. Then again, things were never ideal. Besides, if she had a gun earlier than she never would’ve gotten close to Derby, never would’ve been blown away by some big explosive, never would’ve almost been arrested, and those two cops never would’ve been put down the path to an early desk job.

Screw it, she thought as she bent down and scooped up the weapon. Flare checked to ensure that the firearm was safe and then slid the gun into the waistband of her jeans. She felt every bit like an asshole for doing so, but the holster on her vest was already occupied. And it wasn’t like she actually planned on firing it anyway, unless some other lunatic throwing pipe bombs showed up on her trip back to her Mom’s apartment. So, like, a fifty-fifty shot.

“Fuck me, I hate walking,” she said with a drawn out groan, as if the others needed to know how each heavy, joint-straining step towards the alley was more exhausting than the last. The roar of a nearby car engine—a cop? No shit, it’s gonna be a cop—drove whatever pain there seemingly was there temporarily out of existence, however, as Flare quickly shot a glance at the other two before picking up her pace and hustling for the comforting safety of a dark alley in one of Chicago’s least friendly neighborhoods.

The Origin: A War Resumed (Arc One; Completed)

@Sol GrimDidn't realize Dal was Snoop in disguise.

One Rainy Night in Chicago

Speaking of roughing up Blues...

@FubsyYou want Toy King to take care of that cop, or should Flare make (what would be a rather poor) attempt?

One Rainy Night in Chicago

I ain't no quitter.

Present!

@Fubsy

Man, you were one of those kids?

The Origin: A War Resumed (Arc One; Completed)

Vesta

Vesta was mute for the rest of the ride. She almost always had a sour look on her face to begin with, as if her horse had just trotted in something foul, but there was something about it now that looked sunken, sullen, and exhausted. She hardly directed her horse; it was only through the fine breeding of the horse that she had spent quite a sum of the Ambassador’s money on that she even remained with the others. Otherwise, as distracted as she was Vesta would have been fine with letting the animal wander off and graze in a field. Even the bizarre transition from day to night that normally would have jangled alarms to be wary of witchery and draw her sword closer to her did not draw the woman out of her daze-like state.

She dismounted only because the others had, following their motions like some sort of puppet. It was the easiest way a soldier could function, yet certainly the least efficient. Her body acted on its own as it braced itself as the ground shook, and only by muscle memory alone did she reach for her sword as the loud scream echoed throughout the air of the strange atmosphere. Vesta hardly noticed the pirate sneaking behind her for cover as the whirl drew closer, and only by the grace of it being too quick and crashing into somebody else did she not pull her sword on the girl. Already again she was sinking back into her own thoughts, although she didn’t ignore Dalious’s flask—she didn’t need to think to know that she needed a drink. Her hand dropped the noticeably lighter flask back towards him without even the slightest hint of thankfulness as she filed in behind the others into the house of the Lady of Demons.

It was the mention of the God Kings that pulled her out of her haze. Her eyes narrowed as Karin and the Prince continued to talk, the food in front of her remaining untouched. The mention of a shadowy group of Divineborns caused her to throw a suspicious glance towards Drosil and Ambrosia’s dear baby boy, Christopher. Then she chuckled to herself, shaking her head—she knew that was ridiculous. Of course, even with this information Vesta was only certain of one thing: they should have been fighting Gartian inside of dining with some devil. Pawn or not, the less pieces on the board the better of a position they were in—and right now as those around her stuffed their faces she couldn’t help but consider how many Barceans were in skirmishes with the H’kelan regulars.

And then something horrible happened.

Some fop entered the room, manicured in such a way that Vesta couldn’t help but be reminded of the H’kelan Ambassador. She looked with some disdain at the instrument in his hand, saved only by the grace of some Divine that the man with four hundred million names was only interested in talking than playing. Yet, bards were much like other typical pests where if there’s one there was bound to be others, and Vesta’s fears were confirmed almost intermediately as another garishly dressed man swaggered into the room with an air of unearned confidence that seemed to radiate from their kind—and this one wanted to sing. Vesta buried her face into her hand, her fingers gripping the bridge of her nose as if she was suffering from some kind of migraine before he had even plucked the first note.

To be honest, it wasn’t the worst song she had ever heard. She actually felt strangely relieved for a moment, although that relief flew out the door the moment the music stopped as all of her doubts and apprehensions swooped back in—accompanied now by the annoyance of being around not one, but two bards. She nearly threw her back out with the huff that escaped from her throat while Dalious and Etsuko played with their food, and leaned forward in her seat so that she could look down the table at the Lady of Demons.

“Before I ask my question, will there be anymore guests of yours barging in? A Jasian belly dancer? A Guratan sword swallower? A western mage who insists on showing us his amazing ability to pull a white rabbit out of his hat?” she said, counting each imaginary resident of with her fingers before curling her hand into a fist and pointing at the table with annoyance. “Or could we take a moment to discuss how we fight these Manu Propria. I highly doubt they are spending their time stuffing their faces and singing songs between apparently manipulating and creating kings. So, unless we can kill them through the power of song,” she said, her eyes darting between the two newcomers, “then perhaps we should focus. And if that is the way then I’ll regretfully not be much help, since I seemed to have forgotten to pack my flute, what, with all of my countrymen dying and whatnot.”

She sighed, the harshness dropping from her voice as it was replaced with pure exhaustion. “I’ve experienced firsthand the power of the God Kings. You’re saying these bastards created them.” The thought of what was to come made her body feel heavy. “That’s just...forget it,” she said, shaking her head. “Nevermind. Tell me where they are and how to kill them. That’s all I need. Nothing else.”

And with that she pushed her plate of warm bread over to Dalious.

One Rainy Night in Chicago

FULLER PARK
6:32 PM

The "Ballsy Hero"

I heard words drifting in and out between the ringing in my ears, something about balls and cops and heroes and waking up. Yet like an early morning alarm screaming on your nightstand, the sound hardly registered as anything more than a part of your dreams. Only, I wasn’t dreaming. I wasn’t sure what it was that I was doing, technically. In a way, it reminded me of the one time I had been convinced to go to a party with my peers. In a desperate attempt to escape from the bore of socializing with a bunch of assholes, I had taken to drinking straight from a plastic, goliath sized bottle of vodka. At least that was what I was told by piecing together evidence from pictures on the Internet. All I know is that I spent the next morning on the floor, my entire body dehydrated and hurting as I stared at some strange ceiling and fought off the worst migraine of my young life.

And like a hungover prick who’s still probably drunk, I reacted very poorly to outside stimulus. Normally when somebody felt their body get shaken while they were in some sort of sleep they’d do something about as drastic as opening their eyes, muttering under their breath, or even sitting up. Me? When I felt a hand push into side I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I was in the middle of one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Chicago taking a snooze after accidentally committing an act of terrorism. A hundred scenarios ran through my head of who I’d see when I opened my eyes. None of them were good—a dealer whose friend I busted, a cop who didn’t like people doing a better job than him, the ghost of Demolition Derby, one of the Iconoclasts waiting to collapse in my skull.

So I struck out in an attempt to blindly fight them and threw a kick out in the direction of the hand. Pain forced my eyes open as my shin cracked against something wooden and a yelp like a tiny dog being caught underfoot escaped from my lips before I could stop it. I rolled over in the trash and tucked my knee into my chest, rubbing my raw leg and making a mental note to purchase shinguards. I lowered my mask down over my chin again and winced as some loose strands of black hair got pulled with it, but at the very least I could actually see now. A pair of goggles held up by a black bandanna was staring at me, although it was kind of hard to tell, and the wooden object my leg had lost to took on the shape of a bat, only it had all of these weird wires laced around it. It was the lightning bolt on the man’s chest that made me realize it was that other vigilante—Arc.

I didn’t know what to feel. I doubted that I had actually saved Arc, really. I heard him call me “hero”, but in my ears it had the tongue-biting tone ringing behind it like when somebody called a fat buy “tiny”. Still, I should’ve at least felt relieved that he hadn’t been murdered by the big bang. Yet there was a part of me that was disappointed, even angry that the man I had stuck my neck out for had been Arc. The baseball god of thunder had unjustifiably taken numerous lives in the past all under the pretense of justice. He wasn’t as bad as someone like Derby or Big Rig, but he was still a killer. Like I was now, technically. My body bristled at the thought. No, fuck that. The reason Derby was dead was because Arc forced me to act. The blood’s on both of their hands, not mine. The only thing I did was survive a massive explosion due to their cock-up.

Yeah, that’s right. I managed to not only stop a terror attack with a taser but walk away to tell the tale. Fuck, what a rush, what a rush.

FLARE

Flare pushed themselves up, the black bags and loose trash shifting beneath their body as they tried to find a way to steady their body. Finding some kind of support on the crunched trashcan, the vigilante picked a piece of garbage off of their tactical vest and then looked over at Arc. A moment of silence fell between the two as Flare sized him up, deciding on whether or not they should even say anything. Fuck it, they thought. They weren’t going to get far until their own feet steadied, and the odds that this person was both a recent graduate from their school as well as somebody who’d recognize the voice of that bitch who got expelled was unlikely.

“Yeah, I got some huge fucking brass balls. Enormous,” she said, her voice strained and weary. About as much balls as I have brains. She held out her hand expectantly. “Well? You just going to leave me in the trash?”

Her hand fell before Arc had a chance to take it, dropping to where her taser should’ve been as a shadow emerged from the alley and into the burning street. Her fingers scrambled frantically over her vest, but her weapon was nowhere to be found—a quick glance to her right saw that it had been dropped a few yards from the trash pile that was now slowly turning into her place of residence. Shit. Her fingers snapped the vibrantly marked pepper spray off of her chest, but by then the figure had already fully emerged. Flare’s hand relaxed as her eyes darted over the person: white jacket, toolbelt, black mask, pipes, spray paint—Toy King, if Flare remembered the moniker correctly. Why they were here was a mystery, however. Fuller Park never had any corporate fat cats hanging around its streets, and Flare somehow doubted Derby’s alter ego had been that of a board member. An eyebrow went up under Flare’s mask as Toy King made some kind of gesture.

“What the hell?” said Flare, unintentionally translating Toy King’s signing.

To Flare, when they heard the term “ASL” they thought of creepy dudes in anonymous chat rooms. She shook her head in slight disbelief, her hood bouncing back and forth. She was going to ask the two of them what the hell they were doing in her territory, but the familiar sound of sirens dipped between the tinnitus in her ears. Late as always. She hadn’t even fired off a flare, but with an explosion that big she didn’t need to—nor did she want to be tied to what had happened in Fuller Park. A heavy sigh escaped from her lips, as if she was somehow upset and burdened by the other two for being there.

“Look, we can swap origin stories or whatever the hell it is that vigilantes do when they run into each other later,” she said. “Let’s get off of the streets.”

With that said she rolled off of the garbage, grabbed her taser, and began to unsteadily struggle to her feet.

One Rainy Night in Chicago

FULLER PARK
6:31 PM

FLARE

A sharp whistle cut through the low rumble of the flames and momentarily froze Flare like a deer in headlights. Flare’s mask peered around the hump of the mailbox and caught the silhouette of man wielding a baseball bat several yards beyond Demolition Derby. A quick rundown of known vigilantes that used bats ran through their mind: Arc, Slugger, Bat Boy, Slammy Sosa, Pitch Perfect, Grand Slam, Speedball, the Ump—the list went on, but Flare gave up. This vigilante had only name in Flare’s mind: Distraction. Yet while they were thankful that Distraction had shown up to keep Derby busy, there was a part of their mind where they couldn’t help but think of how fucking stupid this vigilante was—and this was coming from the neophyte armed with a switchblade and a couple of self-defense toys from less-than-stellar Christmases whose plan of attack was to play it by ear.

Still, at least Flare didn’t make fun of some racist psychopath’s mother like they were a preteen boy playing a first person shooter online. They doubted it’d take much to set off Derby’s fuse, and now that Distraction had gone ahead and thrown out a “yo mama” joke the timer on the next explosion had been turned to imminent. There was no more time for this sneaking around shit. Eyes rolling behind their mask, Flare used the chatter to conceal the quiet splashes of their running shoes on the slick street as the sprinted towards Derby. Derby was yelling something back at Distraction, but Flare tuned it out. Listening any further to Derby’s casual hatred and Flare feared they’d actually end up burying their switchblade into his neck just so he’d shut the hell up.

Eighty paces. Flare’s could see the faint reflection of their dark eyes widening off of the tinted lenses of their mask as Derby reached into his bag. Sixty-five paces. Unsurprisingly, it was a bomb—an idea that would have been insane a few months ago. Distraction had a new name now: Victim. They felt their calf muscles tighten as they broke out into a dead sprint. Fifty paces. No longer did Flare worry about being silent. They had to get their before the street was covered with chunks of bat, blood, and bone. Forty paces. Shit, shit. Derby cocked his arm back; Flare could see the red LED numbers already counting down. Thirty paces. Shit, shit, shit. The bomb left Derby’s hand. Shit. Hopefully the other vigilante was good at sprinting. Fifteen paces. Flare ripped the taser off of their vest and leveled it at Derby as they pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation.

It was around the second the barbs pierced through Derby’s coat and fifty thousand volts of electricity ran through the man’s body that Flare realized what a fucking terrible idea attacking him had been. The man emitted a sort of animalistic squeal as his whole body locked up. It was until he flopped to the ground the device he had been so carefully clutching freed itself from his grasp as Flare ejected the cartridge from their taser. It seemed like time slowed down for the vigilante as they watch the switch-like device clatter to the ground. They turned on their heels so they could run as far from the man as possible, and to Flare it felt like they were running through molasses. They hadn’t made it more than a few yards when they felt a wave of heat and saw the darkened street light up like a Christmas tree from the flash that was coming from behind them. The street shook as there was a deafening explosion; Flare’s body was lifted from the ground and tossed like a ragdoll down the street, their small frame crumpling against a trash can. Demolition Derby was completely wiped from the face of the planet, replaced by a smoldering crater and a few scraps of blackened gore.

The Idiot

The first thought was that I was dead, and that heaven looked even less appealing than it had sounded when my folks had dragged me to church. As my eyes focused and the fires and broken down buildings came into view from the crushed trash can that I laid upon I realized I was mistaken. I wasn’t in heaven. I was in hell, and hell looked a lot like Fuller Park—and then all of the feeling came back to my body. If I was dead, I’d hurt a lot less. Everything ached, but it didn’t feel like anything was broken or missing. My chest hurt something fierce, though, and I felt like I was drowning. I could see blackness creeping in at the edge of my eyes, and by pure willpower and a lot of luck I managed to hold onto my consciousness.

What had I been doing? I could see the street in front of me, lit red by the flames circling where Demolition Derby once stood. Some of the buildings around the epicenter of his spontaneous combustion had shattered glass, although I couldn’t remember if that had been the case before Derby had blown himself up. It was silent. Like, strangely silent—and then I heard the ringing in my ears like as if I had been standing too close to the speakers when a punk band had started to play. I had been trying to save that other vigilante, right? Did it work? Did it even matter? Right now, the only thing I could think about was how fucking stupid I had been. Well, that, and how hard it was to breath.

I lifted the bottom of my mask up just enough to let some fresh rain drip on my chin as I sucked in some cool air. My head dropped back down onto the trash can, my black hair probably dripping into something nasty. If I were an optimist I could have looked on the brightside of this situation: at least I wouldn’t have to waste one of my flares. Unfortunately, I could only focus on the fact that I had just unintentionally murdered someone...or would it be manslaughter? Maybe assisted suicide? I suppose I could figure out the proper definition of whatever number of crimes I had just technically been an accomplice to by waiting around for the police that were likely on their way, but that idea just didn’t sit well with me. The idea of moving didn’t sit well with me, either. In fact, doing anything sounded just like a horrible idea. Groaning softly, I let myself go as my body went limp in the garbage as whatever so called luck or willpower I had ran dry.

The Origin: A War Resumed (Arc One; Completed)

Two bards? Two fucking bards?

Damn you, you magnificent bastards, what have you done?

The Origin: A War Resumed (Arc One; Completed)

I drank a few too many to read, but I'll have you know...I'm pumped!