Recent Statuses

25 days ago
Current Sending out a signal for anyone interested in a hardcore narrative driven grimdark Spongebob roleplay.
1 mo ago
Other than RPNation's and Iwaku's obsession with BBcode, nothing really wrong with them. The problems we find on this forum are magnified on these other forums due to the higher amount of activity.
2 mos ago
RPGO: Infinity War. Where Mahz attempts to gain the six roleplay stones and the mods are his Black Order.
3 mos ago
We need M.Night Shyamalan, Uwe Boll and Neil Breen to make that live action Avatar TV series we all so desperately want.
1 like
4 mos ago
Yeah, man. I want to practice my Walmart Roleplays publicly without fear of harassment.


- Walmart Apocalypse Roleplay
- Nightmare Gas Station
- Underrail/Fallout/Post Apocalyptic Roleplay. Codename: Clausterclysm
- Anthromorphic Grimdark Animal Fantasy Roleplay. Codename: Fallowbrook.
- Eldritch Abomination Garfield Roleplay. Codename: Lasagna.
- Infinite IKEA Roleplay. Codename: God Morgon
- Cooking High Fantasy RP. Codename: Smorgasbord.
- Roleplayerguild High School RP. Codename: Highschool Roleplay
- Cyberpunk South East Asia RP. Codename: Straits of Malacca. [CURRENTLY HAPPENING]

Most Recent Posts



September 20th, 2019 - By Augustus Freeman

As tensions continue to rise between law enforcement and metahuman rights protestors, mayor-elect Thomasin Jefferson criticized the movement during an live interview with Dakota National, dismissing the allegations made towards her as nothing more than “ irrational tomfoolery.”

“ I do not hate these protestors. I pity them. The liberal media has deluded them into becoming hateful extremists without a shred of reason or empathy.The metahuman threat is here and it is present. These so-called Bang Babies are actively disrupting our way of life and pose a danger to all our fellow Dakotans. As your mayor, I will not let these metahumans or their misguided supporters turn this great city into their personal playground. Therefore, I will be introducing new measures to give our law enforcement greater powers to combat this threat. “

These statements are reflective of the promises to voters that Mayor Jefferson made during his campaign for office in February. Earlier this week, Mayor Jefferson introduced strict martial law orders in an attempt to contain the spread of contaminants from the Paris Island Exclusion Zone.

Robert Hawkins, the owner of Freeman Community Center, spoke out visibly whilst attending a public protest at Dakota Town Hall.

“ We are living through the worst economic recession this city has faced. I see homeless preschoolers walking by Hemingway. Rents are becoming more absurd. Drugs are flooding our neighborhoods. Just last week, the Daily Planet reported that what happened in the bay two weeks ago was one of the worst environmental disasters this country has ever experienced in the last 40 years. Yet, how does our mayor assure the public? He wants to wage a war that doesn’t need to happen.”

As public officials attempt to make sense of this crisis, others try to solve it through unconventional means. Reports of the metahuman vigilante, Static, are on the rise with more than a dozen arrests attributed to his activities. DCPD Chief Hartley issued an official warning to the vigilante during a press conference on current metahuman activity in Dakota City.

“ I don’t care what his intentions are. As far as I’m concerned, he’s interfering with the ability of law enforcement and is proving uncooperative so far. I have only one word for Static. Cease immediately or we will be forced to escalate.”

[cont on Page 9]

“ Get a load of this, Rich.” Virgil’s temple pulses with a headache as he scrolls through the newspage. “ Uncooperative? Last night, they were getting ready to cuff me while I was stopping some guy from cracking open an ATM! ”

“ Stop whining.” A nasally voice replied back. “ You’re lucky that you’re here speaking to me instead of sitting inside a cell.”

Virgil lifted up the hem of his shirt and looked down at the purple splotches lining his belly. He was more than lucky. The police could take their non-lethal and shove it up their asses. He took the pack of ice off the table and rested it against his stomach, wincing as the chill subsided the throbbing pain.

“ How’s the new costume that I made working out for you?”

“ That we made.” Virgil said haughtily. “ I gave a few pointers on the aesthetic.”

“ Right. I’m the one who made sure you don’t become a walking fire hazard everytime you shit out lightning.”

“ Wouldn’t mind it being more bulletproof, though.” Virgil moved the ice pack and hissed at the stab of pain, biting his tongue to make sure it wasn’t too loud. “ Cops are getting more trigger happy these days. ”

“ My allowance doesn’t compensate for kevlar plating. As for the fuzz, you’re just going to have to be more careful around them. ”

“ Careful? They shouldn’t even be allowed to do things like this in the first place.”

“ Tough talk coming from the vigilante.”

“ Which one of us gassed a bunch of middle schoolers first?”

Richie stayed quiet for a while before speaking back up, this time more softly.

“ Look, V. I get what you’re trying to do but… this is just the way things are nowadays. Look on the bright side. It could be a lot worse.”

“ It could be a lot better.” Virgil retorted back. He clicked the mouse and the news site disappeared from view. “ Are you still on top of that thing we discussed ‘bout?”

“ Well, trawling through hundreds of shipping manifests isn’t what I’d imagine doing for you for a Monday evening.” There was an audible sign on the other side of the line. “ But if it makes you happy…..”

“ I’ll pay you back with a midnight showing of Destructer Man IV. Swear on my soul. “

“ The things I do for you….” Richie grumbled “ Fine. Make it the front row. We’re also getting caramel popcorn.”

Virgil stuck out a tongue in disgust. He didn’t know how the hell Richie could consume the stuff. Maybe he was from another planet.

“ Deal.”

The line shut off and Virgil laxed back on his recliner, stretching out his arms. It was 10 pm and Dakota’s winter was in full force, even when his heater was on and chugging on electricity like a competitive eater. The wind howled relentlessly outside through the boroughs, the last autumn leaves dancing in the gales. Virgil just stared up at the ceiling all the while, ice pack glued to his gut.

What to do now?

He looked at the yellow goggles hanging off the open drawer. He lifted his arm over it, fingers splayed out, charge pooling in his palm. They snapped off with a rubbery twang and flew towards his open hand as if guided on invisible strings. He caught them and wriggled them over his forehead.

Time to go back to work.

C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T:

“ If you want to test a man, give him power. “

Year 0 interpretation of Static that examines the political effects of having a massive metahuman diaspora in an urban city. Toss in corporate malfeasance, corrupt law enforcement and gang warfare for a cocktail that examines what it means to make true change in a world that doesn’t want to.

C H A R A C T E R M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S:

I’m returning back to Virgil’s world once more because 1) I’m bored as fuck out of my mind and 2) I think his story resonates now with me more than ever. The story focuses more on exploring Dakota City rather than a character study of Virgil himself and his trials and tribulations as a hero. This story is different. This story explores Virgil attempting to solve the ever escalating problems of his hometown and realising that you can’t just punch away all the crime and expect everything to be perfect. Dakota City with all of its various parties of interest, nooks and crannies should be considered the secondary character of Virgil’s story.

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S:


S A M P L E P O S T:

He’s drowning yet rising, becoming something else. Water fills his lungs as his bones crack and reform. His nerves are on fire as the Dakota Bay grows murkier around him. His brain struggles for the last gasps of oxygen as he sees the world around him light up like a neon sign and he blacks out and and

“ Virgil? Virgil? Are you listening?”

Teenagers. Diane groused mentally. Ever since the Paris Island riots, she hadn’t slept for more than 2 hours a night. You couldn’t blame Dakota Union High’s superintendent for not taking into account a national bio-chemical incident but you could blame them for a lack of funding. Working 24 hours, 7 days a week with no overtime bonuses, in hindsight, seemed like less of a move of altruism on her part and more of a desire to fulfill some sort of hidden sado masochistic tendency within her.

Besides, she wasn’t here for self-pity. She was currently focused on the boy in front of her looking out at the snow in a daze. His frizzy black hair was like an overgrown bush with dandruff peppered throughout. An oversized Lululemon fleece jacket, navy blue, hangs around his slim figure. She can just make out the black and yellow symbol of a clenched fist with the words ‘JUSTICE FOR - “ raised sky high on his white t-shirt before it moves out of view. His bright brown eyes flicker out of whatever daydream he was in, flushing in embarrassment as he rubs the back of his head.

“ Yeah, sorry, miss Franklin.” Virgil’s fingers were tangled together in a knot. “ Just a lot of thoughts going through my head right now.”

“Well, part of my job is to help you sort through all those thoughts.” She tapped the end of her clipboard for a moment before sighing. “ Did you listen to my question just now?”

“ No. No. I remember. You asked….ummmmm….Do you think the Dakota Destroyers will win this weekend’s playoffs?”

“ No. I’m of the opinion that the Gotham Gargoyles have a better chance than our sorry sack of a team.” She chuckled. “ But I digress. How have you been feeling?”

“ Good. You know, fine.”

“ Better than the last time we met?”

“ Well, uh, like everyone says, it’s a process, right? Everyone’s different and I’m different and uh….well…..therapy’s not a quick fix unlike those shrinks you see on TV. Like, you know, I’ve been keeping active if that’s what you’re worried about. “

“ You seem a little tense.”

“ Tense?” He nervously chuckles. “ Nah, why would I be tense? I’m not trying to hide anything or….”

“ Virgil.” Her voice becomes suddenly sharper before taking on a more gentle This is not an interrogation. This is just a conversation.”

“ I don’t know if I can believe that.”

“Nothing leaves this room without your wish.”

The lights in the room dim for a moment, and then, flare back up. Odd. They just did renovations for this block a week ago. She’ll have to call maintenance tomorrow to take a look at lighting. Virgil exhales, rubbing his hands together to warm himself in the chill of silence.

“ All right, then.” He looks up, his face haunted. “ It all began with a Big Bang.“

P O S T C A T A L O G:

A list linking to your IC posts as they're created. This can be used for a reference guide to your character or to summarize completed arcs and stories.
eyes thread

Well, there was a familiar face. Marcus slowly stood up, the hydraulic joints implanted in his legs creaking, as he bade Nicolas to come closer. His face was crinkled in a leathery smile, eyes brightening in recognition.

“ Nicolas.” He stuck out a scarred hand to shake the Filipino’s own. “ Nice to see you’re caught up in this mess too. Just don’t make me burn my own pay like I did for you in Vietnam, okay?”

He ended it with a firm squeeze in his handshake, giving the Black Yangtze gunman a smile, before patting him on the shoulder genially and sitting back down. Nicolas was a little greyer around the hairs the last time he worked with him but the Black Yangtze gunman’s stony countenance was unmistakable. You had to have a certain self-assured confidence to survive New Malacca, enough to push without getting pushed back but not to the point where you made too much attention. Some learned that lesson by force whilst others never took it to heart.

After Del Rosa settled himself down, several more came behind him, each more annoying than the last. One of them was a Russian that smelt of seawater and port rust. That Toma girl. His eyes met hers with repricatory acknowledgement, of the past they had with one another. The next came in a blur. A walking rainbow that looked more like a glamour girl than a professional mercenary. A girl that was young in both age and experience. A man built like a brickhouse who was relaxing in the corner, cigar fumes wafting from the blunt in his mouth like a lit fuse. Marcus’s jagged cataracts flickered back and forth each new arrival that passed through the doors of Suraiboshen. He remained passive, his chin angling towards them as they sauntered into the quiet hall that was quickly filling with chatter by the second. Marcus counted eight in total. You had to have a certain self-assured confidence on you to survive New Malacca, enough to push without getting pushed back but not to the point where you made too much attention.

Eight people. Eight complications. Eight potential guns pointed at his back when he would be least expecting it. The money it would take to finance an operation like this, though…...The former cop frowned. The client had promised 500 grand. Simple arithmetic brought the figure to 4 million asyuan in total, split between the 9 of them. The only people who could afford to burn that kind of money on the underground black market were the type whose shadows stretched across the canals, the kind of people you tended to avoid the footsteps of. CEOs,drug lords, federal executives, industrial magnates.

Who could throw that kind of money around without making a big splash in the pool?

He mulled on that for a second. And then another. Marcus shook his head, clearing away the doubts that were floating to the top of his mind like pond scum.

No time for regrets. He took the job and he’d deal with the newcomers, damn the consequences.

For the next couple of minutes, nothing happened other than the odd bit of chatter. Marcus thought about striking up a conversation with Del Rosa and decided against it. Marcus sighed and then, unclipped a thermos from a magnetic strip on his belt. The silence of the waiting hall was broken by a pressurised hiss followed by the sound of an 80 year old throat slurping down spoonfuls of something that smelt like mouldy socks.

“ Look at you. ” Marcus stopped drinking and looked up to see who had spoken to him. The cocky little shit across from him, the one with the longcoat, was lounging on his chair, legs crossed together. The edges of his lips were curled in contempt, the toothpick tucked in between waving back and forth. He then leaned forward and glanced at him in amusement. “ I mean, what’s an old guy like you doing in a place like this? No offense but the nearest retirement home is three blocks from here. I can take you there if you want, hell, call a cab for you given your…” Marcus noticed his eyes flickering down at his prosthetics. “ condition.”

“ I needed rent.”

“ Well -” The merc guffawed. “ Never heard of a hab block that cost 500,000 to stay in.”

Marcus was beginning to hate him already. He merely shrugged his shoulders and continued to sip his soup. The merc didn’t take a hint and proceeded to chatter on about crap that Marcus couldn’t care less about, his accolades, various jabs taken at how old he was and other things that the taste of ginseng soup helped him weather through. Eventually, the one-sided conversation reached the point where the merc drew back a sleeve of his jacket and revealed a sleek cybernetic arm that looked more like a teenage girl’s birthday gift fashionware.

“ Check this out.” The merc flexed his right arm and grinned at Marcus’s unimpressed face. “ Titanium alloy actuators. Custom inter-neural gel relays in the millisecond. High broadband Deep connectivity. Plus - “ He twisted the elbow to the right and a wicked barrel unfolded from under the palm of his arm. “ Don’t get me started on the integrated weapons systems. What about you?”

“ Couple of hip replacements.” Marcus paused, taking a sip. “ Vitamin supplements. Hearing aids. ” He patted the side of his leg and detached a part of the exoskeleton. “ Built in walking stick.”

The slick haired merc shook his head in mirth before his gaze darkened. “ The way I see it, we need the best for this job. Not some old geezer.” His hand then wandered towards the inside of his coat. “ How about we make the pay bigger for everyone?”

His eyes were still focused as he took a long draught from his thermos. It was only after he took a swallow that he realised his hand had moved towards his holster. The bastard had gotten under his skin. He then wiped an oily smear off the corner of his lips before speaking.

“ I’ve lived this long. Can’t say the same about you.”

There was only the industrial puff of air conditioning, the hallway growing more cramped and small by the second. He stared back calmly at the blonde haired punk while the merc grinned ,egging him on. For a moment, it looked like a gun fight would break out within the five star restaurant. The doors broke the din of silence as they opened, revealing a pale emaciated waiter. His cheeks were gaunt and he barely filled the black yukata that he wore. A large metal orb replaced his left eye, dancing around excitedly as it spastically twitched around whilst the other eye remained looking forward. He gave a cough and then, spoke quietly.

“ He’s waiting. “ He stepped to the right and bowed his head slightly. “If you would follow me, please.”

Marcus let the others go through first, sitting in his seat until he was the last one behind. The slick haired lan jiao, meanwhile, flicked his toothpick at him while he was passing by, bouncing off his cheek and onto the floor.

As he stood up and made his way behind the group, Marcus swore that he would ram the next toothpick he saw into the man’s uvula.

The first thing that was disconcerting to him were the glass walls, ceilings and floors that surrounded him as he followed the waiter. The tunnel branched off like an ant farm into several smaller rooms that were blocked off from view by smeared plexiglass. Cages of bleached coral hanged, multicolored schools of fish swimming in and out of them. If they could be called fish. They were more crude hybrids, caricatures of the time he went out fishing in the Andamans during his childhood. Tuna the size of pygmy whale sharks, the heads of freshwater fish stapled onto their saltwater relatives, crabs with more than a dozen claws. Out further past, he could barely make out the murky forest of high tension cables and struts that anchored New Malacca to the sea floor. As the waiter led them down a transparent staircase, the water darkened, looking more like a hungering void.

The group stopped at the furthest edge of the tunnel, where it led into a rocky outcrop. A pair of paper doors laid in front. Marcus could make out muffled shouts from the inside that made him slightly cautious, The waiter didn’t seem to mind, lifting his sickly hand out underneath a laser scanner. The machinery whirred before a needle protruded out of the wall. It pricked the palm,a tiny bead of red fading from sight. The paper doors shuddered and then parted, folding into the floor and ceiling.

The sound of rushing water greeted him. In contrast to the wooden makeup of the entrance, the sushi bar was downright industrial. The rock the bar was built in had been sheared, moulded, melted and polished into a perfectly square interior, free of cracks or jags. The walls weren’t stone, though. They were water, falling endlessly. The pools they rested in were bereft of life, of lily pads, of the koi fish you usually see in tourist places to invoke some cheap sense of orientalism. It just flowed and flowed, never resting in one place as the water reflowed back up.

Shame the scream broke the ambiance of zen the architect was trying to go for.

In the center of the room was a circular bar in the middle of the room with mounted stools surrounding it like the spokes of a wheel. From far back, Marcus could barely make out one man sitting on the stool flailing his arms around like an angry child while the other, standing in the centre, paid him no attention. He did manage to catch one part of the argument as the man sitting on the stool screamed out in harsh Cantonese.

“ - This was not part of the deal!”

Arguments were as common as oxygen in New Malacca. The man sitting on the stool was corpo, much of that evident from his Cheffron suit to the Malaccan Pewter watch on his right hand or the barely visible surgery lines on his head that spoke of next-gen cyberware, only available for those of top societal pedigree. However, corporate skin therapies couldn’t cover up the fact that he looked like he was a man on the run from the law. The top right quarter of his forehead looked as if it had been charbroiled. His clothes were tattered at the sleeves and ridden with dried sweat. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath stank of sake.

He stabbed a pudgy finger towards the chef in the centre. “ You think these are acceptable terms?”

The chef was the bigger of the two. Half of his stocky body was draped in a white yukata that was stained with blood, draped diagonally across his sternum. The other half was tattooed, an intricate drawing of Kali on his belly and a dragon skirting across his chest. Keeping in line with the fashion code of the establishment, his hair was tied in a bun on his back. The only thing cybernetic about him was the cybernetic arm that gripped the head of the fish by the gills, myomer fibers pulsing in the bicep, and those eyes. Well, what was left of them. They were replaced by red lenses surgically inserted into his skull, never blinking, constantly open. He didn’t seem to pay any attention to the man yelling at him, focused on the large flounder he was currently descaling.

“ You should have been more specific in the terms of your contract, Mister Chan.”

“ I’m the one paying you!”

That was the moment when the chef cut off the head of the flounder with a single stroke, gumming up the corpo’s mouth. He paused before speaking slowly.

“ You think gives you any authority here?” He set the knife down, wiping the grease of fish fat with a towel. “ You came to me. I didn’t come to you. I have resources that you require, contacts that only I can acquire and the mind to make your wishes reality. If you want our partnership to prosper, Mister Chan, I suggest you be more respectful.”

“ There will be time for introductions later.”

It was then they both noticed the band of mercenaries that had arrived in the midst of the argument. Marcus stayed quiet as he gave a bow of deference.

“ Irasshaimase. I apologise for the introduction of your client.” The corp moved to speak but was silenced by the pupiless glare of the chef. “ For now, please, relax. You all must be famished after travelling here. Please sit, we have much to discuss.”
Getting hemorrhaged by job applications and uni assignments atm. The progress bar is currently an astounding 25% for this IC post. I'll most likely get it out by the end of early next week if I don't procrastinate. Anyway, please ask any questions you may have.

Update: 75%, again. Sorry for the delay.
Hey, Stormflyx. This is a lovely thread you have here. I was looking back at my old character sheets and was wondering whether or not the concepts in them could be updated for newer RPs. Could you take a look at them, please?

Alright, then. Guess all the attention's on me right now. I will probably get a post out by the end of this week. Fingers crossed.
I love the recent uptick in posts. I'm aiming to probably get a second GM post out by the end of next week or the early week before. (At least, before my birthday) Nevertheless, I am very encouraged by the quality of the posts that have arrived so far. I'm just typing up the skeleton of my post at the moment.
Barnabum Yericksford

Once the Sky Maiden had eventually reached an altitude high enough for a blind man to see the stars, Barney gave a wistful sign. His analytical mind yammered away at the back of his mind, pointing how the specific names of star systems that he was seeing, the location of various nebulas that buffeted the blackness of the cosmos and the paths of various comets that streaked across the night sky like migratory birds. The skyport soon became a speck in the distance.

Stardust looked beautiful from a skyship rather than through the suffocating guise of a planetary atmosphere. Barney briefly remembered an elf sorcerer who tried to enchant his corneas for a university project. He ended up being blinded for the next semester until a nearby cleric could provide their services. He had to thank the benefits of gnomish darkvision, though.

The Skyship swayed a little as it ascended, a bobbing lurch like a feather floating about in a gale. It was imperceptible to most of the crew but Barney frowned. He double checked to make sure that the engines wouldn’t hiccup. It was his finest work yet. For a newly built engine to have a slight malfunction in the first few hours…….The gnome checked over his shoulders to make sure no one was following him before sneaking down towards the engine room. Perhaps, he’d tightened the bolts too much or -

Uh oh.

“ KILL IT! KILL THE STAR DRAGON!” The pixie pirate along with several others were banging the engine with pieces of lumbar and their swords, slashing away at the assembly with all the fury their tiny bodies could muster. The engine was belching smoke and coughing, several nicks in the pressurised valves and tubes that connected it to the thrusters. The pixies eyes were bloodshot and the room smelt heavily of smoked mushrooms.

“ Alright, that’s it, ya little blighters.” Barnabas was picking up the pixies one by one and tossing them out of the engine room but it was too late. He then stared in horror at the mangled mess of the engine and began to pull on the roots of his hair. Oh, he should have never given those damn flowerspawns his supply of mushrooms. What was he thinking? What would the captian do if she found out? Nevermind that, the whole crew would die once the engine self-dest-

He paused for a moment. Why did he need to tell her in the first place? The mushroom fumes gave the air an electric tingle as he breathed it in, wondrous ideas flashing in his mind. Oh yes, he could improve the engine. He could make it even better than it was before.

“ Well,” He strapped on his googles and took out his trusty wrench. “ What the captain doesn’t know won’t harm her.” He rubbed his hands eagerly together as he pulled out a cobweb tattered box from the corner. Blowing the dust off, he clicked open the lock and opened it, the room filling with a nauseous green glow.

“ Besides, I’ve always wanted to experiment with radioactive fuel.”

Before Petrukov could get in, the garage door slammed down. The rest followed, making him feel like a cornered mouse.

He should be afraid. That made sense.

So, why wasn’t he?

His muscles are tense, his stomach flutters, his skin trembles but it’s not due to fear. It’s the thrill. The excitement. The fear of being afraid that runs through his nervous system. He hates this. How the odds excite him more than they frighten him. The flutter of adrenaline in his chest. How his heart beats so fast that his rib cage feels like it might break. It’s as if everything before this was a hazy daydream.

A jolt from the back knocks him out of his stupor. Damage readings, blinking inside his iconoclast, pop up and mark out a portion of the Jury Rigg as burning red. A quick glance makes him slightly worried. He’s built the chassis to take punishment but even carbon-laminated steel has its limits. There’s more dull thumps that follow, sparks combining with shrieks of metal to form a single drawn out sound that reminds him of a rope being pulled to its seams. The Jury Rigg’s audio receivers pick up the words of the Herald’s leader, who speaks about him casually as if he’s an animal in a slaughterhouse.

“ Aim for the wheels and we’ll drag him from out the back.”

Familiar words from long ago slither into his ears, above the belching groan of the exhaust. He remembers the cold chill of the Ni-Cola in his left hand. The feel of flesh sticking to metal. His car parked right next to OverDriver’s Monica. They’re both sharing crappy instant-ramen and then, out of nowhere, when Detroit just begins to set, he says the words.

“ There’s two endings for people like us in this world, Demon. Dying quick or dreaming quick. I’m not sure which one comes first.”

He thumbs the gear stick, fiddling with it, deciding his next course of action. As if he has a choice. Petrukov was trapped away from him. The Ark hated him. He was trapped within this shithole of a city trying to claw itself out from futility.

They wanted to drag him out? He’d let them drag the Demon out.

He shifts into reverse gear, ripping out the front of the Jury Rigg embedded in the garage door before chucking the stick left and swinging it into a high third. He sends it into a sweeping pendulum drift before pushing the gear forward into first and sending the Jury Rigg zooming forward in a blazing trail.

The first Herald slammed wetly into his windshield, cracking the right upper glass. The second became a road bump under his wheels. They’re just meat to him. Everything outside the car is a blur of gunfire and flailing bodies. Inside the air-conditioned filter-scrubbed interior is his world. His second body. He whips the wheel to the left and shatters a Herald’s spine from behind, sending the merc crawling on the ground like a newborn.

The brakes squeal, the extra momentum swinging his helmet right and left. He’s staring face to face with the leader. His Octadactyl grips the wheel tightly with its titanium paddings, leaving a shallow indentation in the carbo-olymer framework. There is only anger now, an ocean that fills his lungs and makes his head light and hot. There is no man in front of him. Only a target.

His boots slams down on the accelerator and the Jury Rigg burns forward, a half-ton blur of blood-spattered steel and eth-fumes.

50 kmh.

He closes his eyes.

100 kmh.

His heart beats in anticipation.

150 kmh.

“ Swim, Keah. Swim away”

He gasps, rising out from the tide of rage, and pushes on the brake, just barely managing to avoid the leader. The interior of the car begins to feel like summer, the roof above his head glowing like a hotplate. He turned to the right, the laser raking a trench across. Then, something that sounded like a wet balloon popping rang his eardrums as he could barely make out the shrill alerts from his helmet.


The Jury Rigg, for the first time, spins out of control, his grip of the wheel loose and slack. The ruined. Maneuvering with three wheels is easier than maneuvering with two. It feels like sailing in the Atlantic with only a lifebuoy and two spoons for paddles. He’s not sure whether or not he’s driving or a passenger along for the ride. His mind soon fills in the patterns for his vehicle’s drunken chaos as he slightly turns the wheel to the right, swerving past a trio of Heralds that blast at his bullet-riddled doors with wild abandon.

Keah doesn’t question his luck when the garage doors open again in unison. All he focuses on is Petrukov and Lovecraft standing out in the open, the Pirate Queen looking paler than ever. To his left, the Bannerlord was in the midst of the firefight. The bullets currently raining down on the both of them left him little choice. He brushed past a Herald, the sideswipe leaving the merc tumbling and clutching his hip in pain, thundering towards the shellshocked form of Petrukov and Lovecraft.

“Maám, get in. We can still get you out of here. The election matters more than a dea-” Keah’s head flinched as his right side mirror exploded into a puff of glass and metal. He was more worried about whether there would be a Jury Rigg left to repair rather than how much it would cost to repair his ride after Petrukov’s botched deal. The side door clicked open with a screeching whine, Keah waiting for both of them to get in.

“ Lovecraft, I only got three wheels left.” He pumped up the gearstick to first and squeezed the accelerator, the engine purring gently in response. “ Make sure it doesn’t get below that number.”
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