@HeySeussLikewise, I am also waiting on others. This depends on what the rest have to say and how far along they are, but in a day or two perhaps the next GM or Co-GM post could wrap up the kitchen scene and transition into the next game day proper and te break-up the group to open new post possibilities up.
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9 yrs ago
"Mecha Cowboys" has less than a thousand hits on Google. I've never been more upset.
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RP Concept: "Screw just the plans, we're stealing the Death Star and taking that baby for a joyride!"
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Bio
Writer of schlock dressed up in some decent clothes.
Most Recent Posts
@The Darklight ProjectWell dang. Keep us posted!
o shit
WHY DID YOU THROW THE COUNT OFF THE RITUAL WAS ALMOST COMPLETE!?!
Constance put a hand on her hip as the boys barged into the room, ready to lash out that she didn’t care in the slightest that Conway had landed. They were interrupting an important meeting with important people, and she wasn’t about to come running at Conway’s beck-and-call like some lapdog when she finally found sensible people who actually understood her value. However, her face softened as Edward mentioned an obelisk and she stepped forward, stopping only when she heard Maxine’s voice. Didn’t have time for an adventure? Nonsense. Constance was the only one who knew what time she did and did not have, even if it did make Maxine wrinkle her brow.
Yet she hesitated and listened carefully as Edward and Maxine exchanged words about Joseph Geralt. The Joseph Geralt, actually. She finally remembered the significance behind that name: he had been the damn fool who tried to fly through the storm wall and got himself killed (or not, actually). A living legend, then. An old living legend. Constance squinted at the mention of his age. She had only agreed to meet the man; it wasn’t as if she was throwing herself into a shotgun wedding. She also did not understand Edward’s rush; it wasn’t like the obelisk was going to be going anywhere anytime soon.
Still, why choose when you could have both?
“Maxine, dear, why don’t you have Arn tell Mr. Geralt to come join us?” Already she was speaking as if she was going with Edward and the others. “I would love to see more of this land, and we could use the ride over to the obelisk as time to get to know each other. Personally, that sounds like an absolutely fantastic idea to me.” She offered Maxine a soft smile. “Please. They are a rather helpless bunch and I fear what would happen if I wasn’t there to take care of them. I wouldn’t want to sour the Holloway reputation by having one of my fellow travellers make an ass out of themselves.”
Yet she hesitated and listened carefully as Edward and Maxine exchanged words about Joseph Geralt. The Joseph Geralt, actually. She finally remembered the significance behind that name: he had been the damn fool who tried to fly through the storm wall and got himself killed (or not, actually). A living legend, then. An old living legend. Constance squinted at the mention of his age. She had only agreed to meet the man; it wasn’t as if she was throwing herself into a shotgun wedding. She also did not understand Edward’s rush; it wasn’t like the obelisk was going to be going anywhere anytime soon.
Still, why choose when you could have both?
“Maxine, dear, why don’t you have Arn tell Mr. Geralt to come join us?” Already she was speaking as if she was going with Edward and the others. “I would love to see more of this land, and we could use the ride over to the obelisk as time to get to know each other. Personally, that sounds like an absolutely fantastic idea to me.” She offered Maxine a soft smile. “Please. They are a rather helpless bunch and I fear what would happen if I wasn’t there to take care of them. I wouldn’t want to sour the Holloway reputation by having one of my fellow travellers make an ass out of themselves.”
Annie clutched her knife in her left hand, holding the weapon so close to her chest that she could feel the thundering of her heart as she pressed up against the alley wall, rain falling upon her visor. One minute. She would give herself one minute to catch her breath and then she would move. Her whole body tensed as a burst of gunfire cut through the pitter-patter of rain, answered by the spraying call of a submachine gun. It was a familiar sound, and one that she had never grown used to. She imagined few ever did. Her right hand grasped her shoulder where a stray bullet had winged her. Her fault. Stupid, careless. The stinging pain was already fading; she had been shot enough times to know that more damage had been done to her leather jacket than to her body. Still, the jacket had been an expensive, frivolous purchase. That’d teach her to buy anything besides second-hand.
A stupid thought to have as gunfire sparked against the wall near her like miniature, murderous fireworks.
The job was supposed to be a run-of-the-mill milk run. Pick up the package, deliver the package, payment on delivery. Sweet. Short. Simple. It didn’t pay much, but a little extra spending cash to pad her pocket with sounded good at the time. Normally she would squirrel away any earnings she had made, but after the week she had she felt it was necessary to treat herself. Maybe she would’ve gone to one of those bougie restaurants in District 10 that liked to pretend that they were an experience akin to fine Alpha dining or treat herself to a massage from a place where the masseuses didn’t and weren’t expected to proposition the clientele at the end. Now, she would just settle for making it home alive and soaking in the tub until this entire night washed off of her.
The sound of sirens in the distance was added to the continuous call-and-response of gunfire, doing little more than doubling Annie’s desire to escape from her current predicament. She’d take getting shot at any day over being question by the police. The alley to her right was out of question as another rattle of shots rang off of the walls; she’d have to cut left through the back markets. Stashing her knife, the carrier turned away from the alleyway, staying low and moving quickly in case any other stray shots found their mark on her, black boots crunching through wet, broken glass. All she had to do was get back to her bike. If she got on her bike, she would be fine.
Annie had been hired by some small-time, two-bit crook who just went by Jay to receive a manila envelope to a even smaller-time, wannabe gangster that had broken off of the District 15 Deltas to form his own band of merry drug dealers and pimps out of his own greedy desire to take home a bigger cut. Whatever, she needed money too; it wasn’t her position to judge. She was to meet Mr. Hotshot in a strip joint that he was now the sole proprietor of ever since he pushed the Deltas out; a real classy place where the only thing sadder and more pathetic than the patrons were the dancers. No amount of makeup or glitter could hide the tell-tale dead eyes of a burnout; a bunch of walking corpses spasming and gyrating to a bad techno beat. Lovely place.
The bouncer had given her little trouble at the door; Mr. Hotshot had been expecting her. She kept her helmet on. Anonymity wasn’t always necessary, it wasn’t as if she had aspirations for public office one day, but she preferred to keep her face hidden around recipients just in case they tried anything funny and came after her later. She was led to the VIP Room, which was nothing more than a slightly nicer booth in the corner of the place, and she made certain to note the exits as she made her way through the pulsating lights and smoke. Better to be cautious than to be dead. Mr. Hotshot was nursing a clear drink with a girl on either arm. Perhaps it would impress her if she were a guy, but to Annie it appeared as if he was trying just a little too hard.
She should’ve realized something was fishy from the start. Too many eyes were on them instead of the dancers, and the guard detail was too lax for the head of a gang, even a newly formed one. Mr. Hotshot had hardly pulled the envelope out of his jacket before his brains were splattered across the table, the girls beside him screaming at the top of their lungs before they too got caught in the crossfire. Annie had dove out of the booth, but not before catching a glance across the shoulder. Fire filled her arm as the unmistakable blast of a shotgun echoed from behind the bar, peppering the shooter that had engaged on her table. Another blast and the bartender was taken out; seconds later, and Annie found herself in the middle of a gang war.
And so now she was trying to escape said gang war, crouching behind emptied knick knack stands on a street full of neon lights and canopy tents. A spray of bullets ventilated the tent next to her as Annie hit the ground, throwing out a son-of-a-bitch underneath her breath as she scraped against the asphalt. The sirens grew louder and louder, but the gangers seemingly did not hear them or did not care. Crawling on her stomach, Annie looked for an exit. This place was foreign to her, but any main street would help her gain her bearings. Another spray of bullets forced her head back down. Shit.
The sirens were practically upon her now. She heard the sound of a man screaming uncontrollably as thousands of volts went through his body moment after a loudspeaker announced the presence of the police. Shit. Shit shit. She did not need this kind of headache. Making a break for a building, Annie lifted her foot and gave one, two, three mighty kicks near the door’s handle before it gave. Alarms sounded throughout the building. She paid them little attention as she quickly made her way through, unlatching the front door before slipping out into the main street. The road was more or less barren. Good. A few seconds to breath.
Yet the seconds lasted one too short as blue and red lights rounded the corner, the high beams of a squad car falling on Annie. She knew they wouldn’t give chase for long and didn’t care enough to actually get an arrest, but the cops were no better than the gangs out here: if they had a moment to participate in a little game of smear the carrier they certainly weren’t going to pass it up. Her bike was two blocks away in the direction of the cop car. A game of chicken, then. She bolted towards the high beams as the car’s tires spun up to gain traction on the slick road and peeled towards her, narrowly avoiding a hit as the car jumped the curb in an attempt to swipe her and instead bashed into a trash can, sending garbage spilling everywhere. Snapping her head back, she could see red taillights come to life as the car was put into reverse, the driver intent on ending her’s.
Annie rounded the corner just in time for the car to blow by where she would’ve been if she had kept going straight. One more block. A hundred meter dash. Easy enough. She kept running, pumping her arms like a sprinter as the flashing red-and-blues corrected their course and filled up the street, reflecting off of the barred windows of closed pawn shops. A wall of parked cars served as a buffer between her and the police; she took the momentary respite to hit the remote start for her bike on her smartwatch. If anybody tried to jack it before she got there they would be in for a nasty surprise from the anti-theft system. She could see where she had parked her bike. Now there would be no delay in her escape. Just one problem: she had to cross the street.
The squad car had been staying neck-and-neck with her, but it pulled ahead for a second to let the officer riding shotgun out so that he could try and cut Annie off. There was nothing her stun gun could do against his hand-me-down armor, but she was running fast enough that she was within striking distance by the time he had leveled his gun. She smacked his wrist away as the weapon fired, a deafening ring echoing throughout her helmet as the bullet flew harmlessly by her head. He fired more shots into the air as Annie grabbed onto his wrists, twisted her body, and flipped him over her shoulder so that he would hit the concrete hard.
She kicked away his dropped gun and kept moving, the squad car keeping pace with her still. After getting back up to her full speed, she angled herself slightly and leapt up onto the hood of a parked car. With little loss of momentum, Annie pounded over the hood, up the windshield, and onto the roof of the vehicle. Without even a second of hesitation Annie leapt from the roof of the car and tucked her legs, the squad car speeding past underneath her. She landed with a roll and kept moving as the car screeched to a stop, but by the time it had turned around she had already jumped on her sportbike, kicked up the stand, and rolled on the throttle. She zipped off down the road, water spraying behind her as she weaved in and out of side streets to lose the cops. The sirens grew fainter and fainter and then completely vanished. She let out a sigh of relief and jumped on the freeway, heading towards the inner Districts.
She tapped a button on her bike. A small screen asking for a voice command appeared in the corner of her helmet. “Call Jay.”
“Calling: Jay,” replied the synthetic voice in her helm
“I expected your call thirty minutes ago,” said Jay.
“There were complications. Your friend was murdered by the Deltas.” Annie paused, and then added, “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, fuck him, he was no friend of mine. Did you receive the package?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I’ll be waiting for you at our agreed upon spot. Don’t make me wait.”
Click.
Annie groaned. Some milk run. Still, at least she was getting paid. Shifting gears, she tore down the freeway towards District 13, the world melting into a neon bleed of lights as her speedometer ticked higher and higher.
A stupid thought to have as gunfire sparked against the wall near her like miniature, murderous fireworks.
The job was supposed to be a run-of-the-mill milk run. Pick up the package, deliver the package, payment on delivery. Sweet. Short. Simple. It didn’t pay much, but a little extra spending cash to pad her pocket with sounded good at the time. Normally she would squirrel away any earnings she had made, but after the week she had she felt it was necessary to treat herself. Maybe she would’ve gone to one of those bougie restaurants in District 10 that liked to pretend that they were an experience akin to fine Alpha dining or treat herself to a massage from a place where the masseuses didn’t and weren’t expected to proposition the clientele at the end. Now, she would just settle for making it home alive and soaking in the tub until this entire night washed off of her.
The sound of sirens in the distance was added to the continuous call-and-response of gunfire, doing little more than doubling Annie’s desire to escape from her current predicament. She’d take getting shot at any day over being question by the police. The alley to her right was out of question as another rattle of shots rang off of the walls; she’d have to cut left through the back markets. Stashing her knife, the carrier turned away from the alleyway, staying low and moving quickly in case any other stray shots found their mark on her, black boots crunching through wet, broken glass. All she had to do was get back to her bike. If she got on her bike, she would be fine.
Annie had been hired by some small-time, two-bit crook who just went by Jay to receive a manila envelope to a even smaller-time, wannabe gangster that had broken off of the District 15 Deltas to form his own band of merry drug dealers and pimps out of his own greedy desire to take home a bigger cut. Whatever, she needed money too; it wasn’t her position to judge. She was to meet Mr. Hotshot in a strip joint that he was now the sole proprietor of ever since he pushed the Deltas out; a real classy place where the only thing sadder and more pathetic than the patrons were the dancers. No amount of makeup or glitter could hide the tell-tale dead eyes of a burnout; a bunch of walking corpses spasming and gyrating to a bad techno beat. Lovely place.
The bouncer had given her little trouble at the door; Mr. Hotshot had been expecting her. She kept her helmet on. Anonymity wasn’t always necessary, it wasn’t as if she had aspirations for public office one day, but she preferred to keep her face hidden around recipients just in case they tried anything funny and came after her later. She was led to the VIP Room, which was nothing more than a slightly nicer booth in the corner of the place, and she made certain to note the exits as she made her way through the pulsating lights and smoke. Better to be cautious than to be dead. Mr. Hotshot was nursing a clear drink with a girl on either arm. Perhaps it would impress her if she were a guy, but to Annie it appeared as if he was trying just a little too hard.
She should’ve realized something was fishy from the start. Too many eyes were on them instead of the dancers, and the guard detail was too lax for the head of a gang, even a newly formed one. Mr. Hotshot had hardly pulled the envelope out of his jacket before his brains were splattered across the table, the girls beside him screaming at the top of their lungs before they too got caught in the crossfire. Annie had dove out of the booth, but not before catching a glance across the shoulder. Fire filled her arm as the unmistakable blast of a shotgun echoed from behind the bar, peppering the shooter that had engaged on her table. Another blast and the bartender was taken out; seconds later, and Annie found herself in the middle of a gang war.
And so now she was trying to escape said gang war, crouching behind emptied knick knack stands on a street full of neon lights and canopy tents. A spray of bullets ventilated the tent next to her as Annie hit the ground, throwing out a son-of-a-bitch underneath her breath as she scraped against the asphalt. The sirens grew louder and louder, but the gangers seemingly did not hear them or did not care. Crawling on her stomach, Annie looked for an exit. This place was foreign to her, but any main street would help her gain her bearings. Another spray of bullets forced her head back down. Shit.
The sirens were practically upon her now. She heard the sound of a man screaming uncontrollably as thousands of volts went through his body moment after a loudspeaker announced the presence of the police. Shit. Shit shit. She did not need this kind of headache. Making a break for a building, Annie lifted her foot and gave one, two, three mighty kicks near the door’s handle before it gave. Alarms sounded throughout the building. She paid them little attention as she quickly made her way through, unlatching the front door before slipping out into the main street. The road was more or less barren. Good. A few seconds to breath.
Yet the seconds lasted one too short as blue and red lights rounded the corner, the high beams of a squad car falling on Annie. She knew they wouldn’t give chase for long and didn’t care enough to actually get an arrest, but the cops were no better than the gangs out here: if they had a moment to participate in a little game of smear the carrier they certainly weren’t going to pass it up. Her bike was two blocks away in the direction of the cop car. A game of chicken, then. She bolted towards the high beams as the car’s tires spun up to gain traction on the slick road and peeled towards her, narrowly avoiding a hit as the car jumped the curb in an attempt to swipe her and instead bashed into a trash can, sending garbage spilling everywhere. Snapping her head back, she could see red taillights come to life as the car was put into reverse, the driver intent on ending her’s.
Annie rounded the corner just in time for the car to blow by where she would’ve been if she had kept going straight. One more block. A hundred meter dash. Easy enough. She kept running, pumping her arms like a sprinter as the flashing red-and-blues corrected their course and filled up the street, reflecting off of the barred windows of closed pawn shops. A wall of parked cars served as a buffer between her and the police; she took the momentary respite to hit the remote start for her bike on her smartwatch. If anybody tried to jack it before she got there they would be in for a nasty surprise from the anti-theft system. She could see where she had parked her bike. Now there would be no delay in her escape. Just one problem: she had to cross the street.
The squad car had been staying neck-and-neck with her, but it pulled ahead for a second to let the officer riding shotgun out so that he could try and cut Annie off. There was nothing her stun gun could do against his hand-me-down armor, but she was running fast enough that she was within striking distance by the time he had leveled his gun. She smacked his wrist away as the weapon fired, a deafening ring echoing throughout her helmet as the bullet flew harmlessly by her head. He fired more shots into the air as Annie grabbed onto his wrists, twisted her body, and flipped him over her shoulder so that he would hit the concrete hard.
She kicked away his dropped gun and kept moving, the squad car keeping pace with her still. After getting back up to her full speed, she angled herself slightly and leapt up onto the hood of a parked car. With little loss of momentum, Annie pounded over the hood, up the windshield, and onto the roof of the vehicle. Without even a second of hesitation Annie leapt from the roof of the car and tucked her legs, the squad car speeding past underneath her. She landed with a roll and kept moving as the car screeched to a stop, but by the time it had turned around she had already jumped on her sportbike, kicked up the stand, and rolled on the throttle. She zipped off down the road, water spraying behind her as she weaved in and out of side streets to lose the cops. The sirens grew fainter and fainter and then completely vanished. She let out a sigh of relief and jumped on the freeway, heading towards the inner Districts.
She tapped a button on her bike. A small screen asking for a voice command appeared in the corner of her helmet. “Call Jay.”
“Calling: Jay,” replied the synthetic voice in her helm
“I expected your call thirty minutes ago,” said Jay.
“There were complications. Your friend was murdered by the Deltas.” Annie paused, and then added, “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, fuck him, he was no friend of mine. Did you receive the package?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I’ll be waiting for you at our agreed upon spot. Don’t make me wait.”
Click.
Annie groaned. Some milk run. Still, at least she was getting paid. Shifting gears, she tore down the freeway towards District 13, the world melting into a neon bleed of lights as her speedometer ticked higher and higher.
C.C. was worried. No, worried was what C.C. was when he was running late when trying to deliver a cup of coffee or whenever he engaged in a conversation with another intelligent creature. Worried was his balanced mood, his normal; if he was worried, then he was okay. Tonight he was beyond worried. He was wrecked. Shredded. Literally coming undone. He shifted in and out of shadows without even thinking, his form flipping and folding like the goo inside of a lava lamp. What if the mummy sent goons after him? Or scarabs? Or (shudder) cats, with their hissing and their razor-sharp claws and their refusal to let him pet them? What if he lead the bad guys straight towards Parry’s.
What if Parry was with the bad guys? He did drugs, after all, and C.C. had once been a fly on the wall during a laserdisc showing of the harmful effects of drugs in a middle school class when he was supposed to be observing one of the kids who was suspected of being an unregistered changeling. Regardless, after watching that film C.C. considered himself to be an expert on the effects of grass, and how it could lead one to descend into madness and become a heartless, soulless killing machine. Maybe the mummy had been on drugs, too. Why else would he want to harm the Count?
C.C. shook his head; no, no, no, that was impossible. Parry couldn’t have been a bad guy, because like C.C. he also helped to take care of children. Parry looked after them during the day, and C.C. made sure that they kept their noses clean during the night. Well, before the Count had told him to stop sneaking into the rooms of children, on account that he would be violating the edict if he did so. When C.C. had suggested that perhaps he just snuck into the rooms of supernatural children the idea was also poo-pooed, on account of it quote, just being creepy, end quote. Regardless, the point remained the same: Parry was a good guy, reefer madness aside.
Yet, the bogeyman still paused as if he was a vampire waiting to be invited in when he came to Parry’s slightly ajar, somewhat destroyed, definitely ominous door. For a solid minute he stood next to the entranceway, listening in and uncertain of how to take the next step. He heard voices, way too many voices for the late hour of the night. Or would it be the early hour of the day? Whatever. From what he could tell the voices weren’t chanting any ancient mumbo jumbo, and there was no red cloud of doom circling the daycare. Plus, Rusty’s bike was there, and if C.C. knew anything, he knew that Rusty was good at running from trouble whenever it arose. Case and point, earlier that night.
“Um, I’ll just show myself in. Please excuse me,” he said softly, pushing open the front door. A hinge creaked and then snapped, and C.C. shifted into the shadows on the wall as the top hinge came undone and the door leaned forward, the bottom two hinges keeping it from clattering to the ground. He decided that perhaps it would be for the best to pretend that the door had been that way when he found it and slipped further into Parry’s abode, following the sounds of voices as he stuck to the shadows.
He didn’t know why he kept himself hidden, Parry had invited him over earlier. Nerves, probably. Still, he had to make his presence known so he could find Parry and spread the word. Somebody was walking from the playroom towards the basement. This was his shot. After she passed he stuck his head out of the shadows and, quieter than a mouse, stammered out:
“H-h-h-hel—” And they were gone. “—lo.”
No worries. A pantless person had just come out of the kitchen. Time for round two.
“Ex-ex-excuse me,” he managed to stutter out before she had disappeared up the stairs. “No, it’s okay, you’re busy. Good talk.”
Okay, C.C., here came another one heading towards the kitchen. Time to get hyped. Let’s do this!
“...ah...um…”
And not even the slightest turn of the head. Nailed it.
C.C. sunk deeper into the shadows until he was indistinguishable from the shag carpet. Parties were exhausting. But, he knew he couldn’t give up. These people needed to be warned. It was his duty. He had to be brave. Strong. He had to do this for the Count. Set things right. Get everybody worked up to go against Nemsemet. Only he could do it. Popping up out of the shadows, C.C. swelled up his chest and marched right into the kitchen and—oh goodness it was crowded in there. No sweat. He could do this. One. Two. Three—
“There’s a crazy mummy trying to kill everybody!”
Okay, job’s done. C.C. melted into shadows and zipped away.
“Tell them, Rusty,” came a nervous voice from behind the fridge. “Tell them that we gotta avenge the Count.”
What if Parry was with the bad guys? He did drugs, after all, and C.C. had once been a fly on the wall during a laserdisc showing of the harmful effects of drugs in a middle school class when he was supposed to be observing one of the kids who was suspected of being an unregistered changeling. Regardless, after watching that film C.C. considered himself to be an expert on the effects of grass, and how it could lead one to descend into madness and become a heartless, soulless killing machine. Maybe the mummy had been on drugs, too. Why else would he want to harm the Count?
C.C. shook his head; no, no, no, that was impossible. Parry couldn’t have been a bad guy, because like C.C. he also helped to take care of children. Parry looked after them during the day, and C.C. made sure that they kept their noses clean during the night. Well, before the Count had told him to stop sneaking into the rooms of children, on account that he would be violating the edict if he did so. When C.C. had suggested that perhaps he just snuck into the rooms of supernatural children the idea was also poo-pooed, on account of it quote, just being creepy, end quote. Regardless, the point remained the same: Parry was a good guy, reefer madness aside.
Yet, the bogeyman still paused as if he was a vampire waiting to be invited in when he came to Parry’s slightly ajar, somewhat destroyed, definitely ominous door. For a solid minute he stood next to the entranceway, listening in and uncertain of how to take the next step. He heard voices, way too many voices for the late hour of the night. Or would it be the early hour of the day? Whatever. From what he could tell the voices weren’t chanting any ancient mumbo jumbo, and there was no red cloud of doom circling the daycare. Plus, Rusty’s bike was there, and if C.C. knew anything, he knew that Rusty was good at running from trouble whenever it arose. Case and point, earlier that night.
“Um, I’ll just show myself in. Please excuse me,” he said softly, pushing open the front door. A hinge creaked and then snapped, and C.C. shifted into the shadows on the wall as the top hinge came undone and the door leaned forward, the bottom two hinges keeping it from clattering to the ground. He decided that perhaps it would be for the best to pretend that the door had been that way when he found it and slipped further into Parry’s abode, following the sounds of voices as he stuck to the shadows.
He didn’t know why he kept himself hidden, Parry had invited him over earlier. Nerves, probably. Still, he had to make his presence known so he could find Parry and spread the word. Somebody was walking from the playroom towards the basement. This was his shot. After she passed he stuck his head out of the shadows and, quieter than a mouse, stammered out:
“H-h-h-hel—” And they were gone. “—lo.”
No worries. A pantless person had just come out of the kitchen. Time for round two.
“Ex-ex-excuse me,” he managed to stutter out before she had disappeared up the stairs. “No, it’s okay, you’re busy. Good talk.”
Okay, C.C., here came another one heading towards the kitchen. Time to get hyped. Let’s do this!
“...ah...um…”
And not even the slightest turn of the head. Nailed it.
C.C. sunk deeper into the shadows until he was indistinguishable from the shag carpet. Parties were exhausting. But, he knew he couldn’t give up. These people needed to be warned. It was his duty. He had to be brave. Strong. He had to do this for the Count. Set things right. Get everybody worked up to go against Nemsemet. Only he could do it. Popping up out of the shadows, C.C. swelled up his chest and marched right into the kitchen and—oh goodness it was crowded in there. No sweat. He could do this. One. Two. Three—
“There’s a crazy mummy trying to kill everybody!”
Okay, job’s done. C.C. melted into shadows and zipped away.
“Tell them, Rusty,” came a nervous voice from behind the fridge. “Tell them that we gotta avenge the Count.”
@YoshiSkittlezI'm stoked this is still happening! I'll try and get a post together by today or tomorrow.
@Mercenary LordPOLITICS, SON!
Actually I'm cool with whatever. If people are leaning ancient advanced race, I'm cool with ancient advanced race. And, since I just noticed the last IC post, I'll start working on mine shortly.
Actually I'm cool with whatever. If people are leaning ancient advanced race, I'm cool with ancient advanced race. And, since I just noticed the last IC post, I'll start working on mine shortly.
“H-hey, wait for—”
Red tail lights zipped down the street like will-o’-wisps, leaving C.C. in a cloud of glittering exhaust from the motorcycle.
“—me...”
He dropped his outstretched hand and hung his head. Tonight was shaping up to be a pretty bad night. First of all, he had to bail on a party to go to work. Not that he didn’t enjoy going to work (he loved it, working was great, working meant he was useful, working meant he didn’t get sucked up into some magical trinket), but it was the first time he had been invited to one of Parry’s parties. Anybody’s party, actually, and C.C. wasn’t sure if Parry had actually meant to invite him or one of the other bogeymen, and it would’ve been way too awkward to ask. That aside, his boss had asked him, “What are you doing here?” when C.C. had shown up to the museum hours after delivering Parry’s purse and amulet earlier, and it hadn’t been in the high-pitched, hands-up-in-the-air-going-in-for-a-hug kind of way. It was more in the way the clients always said it when C.C. showed up on their doorstep. Or in their living room. Or in their cabinet. Clearly, he had made a mistake somewhere.
And then, and then, the cherry on top, just the ultimate night wrecker, an ultra scary mummy just shows up and, zap, there goes the boss. Dead! Like, dead dead, not vampire dead, or zombie dead, or ghost dead, or teenage “I wish I was” dead, but gone. Meanwhile, there wasn’t a damn thing C.C. could do but starting running. It wasn’t his proudest moment, zipping after Rusty like a bat out of hell and maybe, maybe not crying like a baby, but that murderous mummy was sucking in all of the shadows, and when you’re made of shadows that’s kind of a bad thing to be around. Well, he assumed that to be the case anyway; he had never seen anything quite like it.
The shadows stood on the end of C.C.’s neck as more crackling sounds of energy filled the air behind him. Okay, right, perhaps it was time to—more reality-tearing noises, okay, go, go, go, move, move, move. C.C. melted into the shadow of a nearby building and zipped across the street, moving as fast as he could go.
Of course, he couldn’t just run, could he? Well, he could, it seemed like a great idea and so far it was going well in regards to keeping him alive, but he couldn’t actually live with himself if he did. He had to warn the others, right? Call the office, spread the word, stir up a crowd, go back there with torches and pitchforks and kick that naughty mummy right in his papery tuchas. Call the office. Yeah. That’s what he’d do.
He jammed himself into a phonebooth. It was late enough and the lights on the street were low, so if any regular guy or gal just walked by he imagined he’d look like one of those dapper detectives from all those old films he used to watch instead of some weirdo shadow monster. Of course, given the decade, he would look like a weirdo anyway, but hey, he wouldn’t be breaking any of the rules or regulations. Also, tonight’s events certainly warranted an exception. He punched in the number for the office: nothing.
Oh, right, payphone. He reached into his pocket: once again, nothing. They said he didn’t really need money, because he didn’t really need to buy anything. He’d be sure to bring this night up during his next review. Call collect then. Surely they’d pick up if the operator told them it was Schwarzman. The ghouls who worked the office phones during the night shift would love to actually have someone to talk to. A gloved digit hit the zero as he shifted the receiver towards his noise hole. Nothing. He pushed it again. It didn’t even move. Okay. Weird. He must’ve been doing it wrong. He didn’t really use phones that often (he didn’t have anyone to call). Was there a lever or a switch or...he prodded at the machine, gave it a shake, blew into the receiver. No, nope, nada.
By the time he reached his tenth payphone, C.C. began to think that maybe something was up with the phones. Not a problem; he’d just do this the old fashion way and go door-to-door as if he was the ghost of Paul Revere. Just...it would take forever, and he was too soft-spoken to go shouting through the streets that the mummies were coming. He needed someone with connections who could spread the word fast; you know, a loudmouth. And who was the biggest loudmouth in New Camden? C.C. knew just the guy: Nemsemet had turned the Count into a puff of bloody confetti less than an hour ago.
Okay. The second biggest loudmouth, then. He started heading to Parry’s.
Red tail lights zipped down the street like will-o’-wisps, leaving C.C. in a cloud of glittering exhaust from the motorcycle.
“—me...”
He dropped his outstretched hand and hung his head. Tonight was shaping up to be a pretty bad night. First of all, he had to bail on a party to go to work. Not that he didn’t enjoy going to work (he loved it, working was great, working meant he was useful, working meant he didn’t get sucked up into some magical trinket), but it was the first time he had been invited to one of Parry’s parties. Anybody’s party, actually, and C.C. wasn’t sure if Parry had actually meant to invite him or one of the other bogeymen, and it would’ve been way too awkward to ask. That aside, his boss had asked him, “What are you doing here?” when C.C. had shown up to the museum hours after delivering Parry’s purse and amulet earlier, and it hadn’t been in the high-pitched, hands-up-in-the-air-going-in-for-a-hug kind of way. It was more in the way the clients always said it when C.C. showed up on their doorstep. Or in their living room. Or in their cabinet. Clearly, he had made a mistake somewhere.
And then, and then, the cherry on top, just the ultimate night wrecker, an ultra scary mummy just shows up and, zap, there goes the boss. Dead! Like, dead dead, not vampire dead, or zombie dead, or ghost dead, or teenage “I wish I was” dead, but gone. Meanwhile, there wasn’t a damn thing C.C. could do but starting running. It wasn’t his proudest moment, zipping after Rusty like a bat out of hell and maybe, maybe not crying like a baby, but that murderous mummy was sucking in all of the shadows, and when you’re made of shadows that’s kind of a bad thing to be around. Well, he assumed that to be the case anyway; he had never seen anything quite like it.
The shadows stood on the end of C.C.’s neck as more crackling sounds of energy filled the air behind him. Okay, right, perhaps it was time to—more reality-tearing noises, okay, go, go, go, move, move, move. C.C. melted into the shadow of a nearby building and zipped across the street, moving as fast as he could go.
Of course, he couldn’t just run, could he? Well, he could, it seemed like a great idea and so far it was going well in regards to keeping him alive, but he couldn’t actually live with himself if he did. He had to warn the others, right? Call the office, spread the word, stir up a crowd, go back there with torches and pitchforks and kick that naughty mummy right in his papery tuchas. Call the office. Yeah. That’s what he’d do.
He jammed himself into a phonebooth. It was late enough and the lights on the street were low, so if any regular guy or gal just walked by he imagined he’d look like one of those dapper detectives from all those old films he used to watch instead of some weirdo shadow monster. Of course, given the decade, he would look like a weirdo anyway, but hey, he wouldn’t be breaking any of the rules or regulations. Also, tonight’s events certainly warranted an exception. He punched in the number for the office: nothing.
Oh, right, payphone. He reached into his pocket: once again, nothing. They said he didn’t really need money, because he didn’t really need to buy anything. He’d be sure to bring this night up during his next review. Call collect then. Surely they’d pick up if the operator told them it was Schwarzman. The ghouls who worked the office phones during the night shift would love to actually have someone to talk to. A gloved digit hit the zero as he shifted the receiver towards his noise hole. Nothing. He pushed it again. It didn’t even move. Okay. Weird. He must’ve been doing it wrong. He didn’t really use phones that often (he didn’t have anyone to call). Was there a lever or a switch or...he prodded at the machine, gave it a shake, blew into the receiver. No, nope, nada.
By the time he reached his tenth payphone, C.C. began to think that maybe something was up with the phones. Not a problem; he’d just do this the old fashion way and go door-to-door as if he was the ghost of Paul Revere. Just...it would take forever, and he was too soft-spoken to go shouting through the streets that the mummies were coming. He needed someone with connections who could spread the word fast; you know, a loudmouth. And who was the biggest loudmouth in New Camden? C.C. knew just the guy: Nemsemet had turned the Count into a puff of bloody confetti less than an hour ago.
Okay. The second biggest loudmouth, then. He started heading to Parry’s.
Got a busy weekend of work, but I should have some time at night to bang out a post!
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