Bork Lazer

(NOW CLOSED:) Marvel RE: Imagine - A Marvel Comics Roleplay

@ErsatzEmpress I’m dealing with serious IRL shit at the moment right now which is why I’m rescinding my position for Doctor Strange after one post. I know this is sudden but I cannot delve into another one of these comic book RPs at the moment.

(NOW CLOSED:) Marvel RE: Imagine - A Marvel Comics Roleplay

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volume 1: hanged tree

chapter 1.1

the cell is dark, beyond light, beyond the realm

in its stygian iron bars a hermit lingers

meditating in ennui

rust creaks

sun enters, seeking truth

and a tale is spun

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So, finally, you've come. If you are here to extract the truth, then, you shall find it long and protracted. Ah, so quick to anger with that old hex. Let me remind you of your superior's punishment and consider weighing that against the barb of my tongue. I see you have found your wits.

Now, sit. Pacing around the room angrily like an angry mule is unbecoming of any practitioner of the Mystic Arts, even one as foul and deluded as yourself. Sit like me. No, don't cross your legs like that. Breathe in past your diaphragm and concentrate on your first chakra. Your stomach. The one - Are you telling me a well-funded organization like yourself can afford to bind me to this godforsaken rock and yet, fail to teach its pupils the basics of meditation? Ah, where is the Dread One to soothe the aches of incompetence I see before me? Do so again and - it is like a poker on your belly. Concentrate, yes. Now, temper it so you don't give yourself an aortic aneurysm. There. You see, this should give you enough patience to bear my tale.

No, why would I give the last piece of the puzzle to you? Regale me with torture if you must but your master won't give you the pleasure of seeing me die nor will he let me live a free man. Frankly, torture would be entertaining from the likes of you. I have survived tangling with the facets of Shuma-Gorath, face death from the likes of the Dread One, fend off the Nightmare from the aether and fought in the War of the Vishanti. Your imagination is puerile and gauche in the face of their boredom and honestly, your ineptitude would frighten me more.

So, let us start at the beginning of all things.

It begins with a mother.

Her name for me was Stephen Vincent Strange. My father was Bartholomew Strange, a tax consultant serving multiple clients in the New York Exchange. Roxxon, Hammer, Stark, all were at his beck and call. He burned books with a single-minded drive of an automaton and could never leave one number out of place. My mother was Rebecca Brandt, an overworked night-call nurse who lived on a diet of over-processed vending machine food and caffeine overdoses trying to compensate for the schedules of burnt-out nurses. They were both atheists at heart, although, they would never announce it on the census. I am and still hold to their -

You jeer at me but I still remain faithless to this day because I find no God worthy of my undying fealty or worship. I call them allies or friends, yes, in the case of the Vishanti but most remain craven such as Shuma-Gorath or unpredictable like the Greek or Nordic pantheons. Others remain inscrutable. For the ones I have yet to name, is like trying to burn incense in favor of gravity or pray to the laws of molecular attraction. A man flings himself into a hurricane and calls it a sacrifice for his god. I call it what it is.

So, naturally, my mother gave me the drive to batter myself against the marble halls of medicine and my father honed my mind to a razor's edge. There was a time we were a family. I had a sister in case you didn't know. No one really knows. Her name was Rebecca. She was the first I failed to save. It was winter. We were young. We were ice-skating on a frozen lake. That is all I am willing to part with. My life progressed on and so, I earned my M.D at the age of 21 and earned two Noble prizes for groundbreaking surgical procedures that are still in use to this day. For 10 years, St Barnaby Presbytarian became my throne, the media my suitors and I, Ozymandias. It was the height of my career and I became de facto judge, jury and executioner, doling out ridiculous fees for patients that I thought 'were worth my time'.

Worth my time.

These are not proud moments of my life.

My temple collapsed on 2005. I was driving off the coast of Baja, a bottle of rum in my hand. My blood alcohol concentration after the accident was measured to be four times over the national limit. I crashed a 4 million dollar Rolls Royce into the rocks below. My body survived, my hands were crushed and my ego festered and rotted into a sickness. A sickness that, to my shame, led me into the follies that have led me here today.

In spite of all I have learnt, my hands still shake. Why I didn't cure them with magic, you'll have to wait.

So, let us skip forward then. I doubt you want to hear the rest of my journeys. Past my trials to reach the top of the Himalayas where the Vishanti awaited me on the summit. Past my first communion with Agamotto the Wise. Past my first invoking of the sacred principalities. Past my commiseration with the most infuriating and brilliant man I have ever met. Past my first friendship with my once greatest ally. Past my first entanglement with what shall be my one and only heart.

Let us delve into how I first killed for the title of Earth's Sorceror Supreme.

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It was the middle of Summer on Bleecker Street. It had been two months since I first received the post of Keeper of the New York Sanctum Sanctorum. I see you scoffing. How could I end up with such a menial post? You might remember it as an institutional relic from a bygone era of magic but the Sanctum Sanctorums were once key to the structural defense of Earth's reality. Built on continental ley-lines and inscribed in babylonian rune-script in the time of Agamotto, Earth was in a sense, shielded from the worst of otherwordly predators and beings. Think of it like a filter or a sieve.

The first rule of warding is that no magical barrier is wholly impenetrable. There is always a chink in the armor and in our case, the chink was magical entities small enough to escape our attention. Without the Sanctum Sanctorums forming a network of magical defense, we would return to the Yld Days when the Earth was no more than a nexus in a storm, when our ancestors pounded rocks together in fear of the sky-demons that conquered the clouds, when men was feasted upon.

And in return, we bit back.

But, I digress. You did not come for a history lesson. It had been two months and yes, I rejected the post of Sorceror Supreme. Before me, Baron Karl Mordo was the Sorceror Supreme. The shortest-lived Sorceror Supreme. The Ancient One, had died during our sojourn in the Wundagore Mountains. The details of how my master, teacher, friend and rank asshole of a magician died will come later into this story. For now, the magical world was still grieving. The Ancient One had lived for a good 599 years and had made indisputably important alliances, deep-forged bonds, between Earth and numerous other realms.

Asgard. The Greeks. The Purple Dimension. Weirdworld. The reverberations of his deeds can still be found to this day in the binding pacts he had made. Now, those pacts were to be tested and I, to my shame, couldn't support Mordo.

Perhaps, if.....Nevermind, reflecting in retrospection is a fool's way to trap one self in guilt.

Nevertheless, I found myself on that day sipping on a cup of jasmine tea Wong had brewed. He was out doing a deli run near Manaheim's. Wong came from a delegation of Masters from the east who sought to shore up the lacking defenses I suppose much of the weight he had gathered over that time was due to that disgusting szechaun meatball submarine he kept eating. I amused myself with the only television in the entire Sanctum Sanctorum, an old tube box from the 1980s that had been enchanted to work inside the ambient magic of the Sanctum Sanctorum. The current zeitgeist of the era was the tale of mutant rights.

Mutants.

If there was one reason to explain why magic hadn't gone mainstream, mutants were the answer. Again, that shaking of the head. I know. We could have spread the use of magic into the general populous. Magic was teachable, not inheritable. There was no abberation in human purity you needed to cast a simple enchantment. Could you imagine how S.H.I.E.L.D, the F.B.I, the C.I.A, the very public itself would react? My boy, we would see something far worse than the Salem Witch Trials.

However, magic hadn't been revealed to its fullest extent to the world, yet. No, the world was concerned with mutants and the mutants were the centre of a new Cold War. Senator Kelly was at the forefront of national efforts to suppress the growing mutant population and he was one step away from goose-stepping into a pit of corpses. Charles Xavier, a room-mate of mine in college, was simultaneously the greatest enemy and ally of the Master of the Mystic Arts. The arcane signature of his telepathic abilities was probing our mental wards and he could already access the Astral Plane. Thankfully, a vote was closed on the Council of Masters to make an attempt to globally neuter telepathic mutants using a binding curse. That would be abominable.

Whilst musing on this newest development, a ghost burst through the air in front of me, the window of reality breaking apart into a hundred shards. I had raised my arms, forming the movements for a quick banishment of the enemy phantasm from the borders of the Sanctum Sanctorum when it spoke in an unmistakably terse tone of a human. It was Wong in his astral form. I lowered my hands and asked why he hadn't bothered to rift into the Sanctum.

" Strange. Come to the park. Disguised. Keep the Cloak on you."

And it was that day on Central Park that I found myself facing a stone girl with a stone sword skewered in her belly.

(NOW CLOSED:) Marvel RE: Imagine - A Marvel Comics Roleplay

@ErsatzEmpress

update on approval for Dr Strange?

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

The fields outlying Tie Shan Dam burned of brimstone and bullet smoke. The forces of the Heavenly Sword were like flies throwing themselves against a windshield in the hope of blinding a driver. To many in their small little platoon, it would have seemed a miracle that they had survived thus far but to Aroxy, it was textbook. The Heavenly Sword were guerilla fighters first and foremost and the bulk of their forces simply weren’t made for open-field engagements. Having two mechs on their side made it almost seems like child’s play.

The only problem that remained was their last-ditch tactic that reminded Aroxy of a chess player who flipped over the table instead of resigning in defeat. As much as Aroxy would have liked to wipe the Takka and Helma were working the Von Luckner’s auxiliary turrets, raining down suppresive fire, whilst Ansel had taken over the role of gunner. So far, there had been no need to fire any shells or their SRMs yet. To do so would be overkill and one didn’t expend their strength at first contact.

Peering through the Von-Luckner’s periscope, Aroxy noticed a black dot hovering around the Heavenly Sword’s land-train. He switched the focus, lens compensating for him to see 12 men leaping from the side of an APC onto the train track. Aroxy wondered what ploy Command was pulling with the dirty bomb. A few minutes later, his question was answered.

"Green Knights. The boys need some time to work. Thirty seconds to put the brakes on this train, three-zero and counting!"

“ Let’s position ourselves a little closer, Helma,” The female driver quickly moved back to the driver’s seat and shifted the gear forward. The Von Luckner trampled soil and grass into a smooth expanse under its weight. Everything was reduced to mulch under its treads as the poor whimpering soul six feet of its chassis was beginning to find out. Gripping his cut-open belly, he barely had time to scream before he became a red smear under the tank’s treads. The only indication the crew had of his existence was a slight jolt in the crew compartments.

“ What the hell was that?,” Ansel asked.

“ Just a little speedbump,” Helma continued to drive the tank forward, stopping on a little mound. The land-train was 3 quarters of a klick away from them. Well within range of their turret and close enough to ensure that neither wind or gravity could make them miss their mark.

“ Load a HEAP in there and start fucking up the treads. I want them spaced out nice and even. We don’t want to hit our own men, got it?”

“ Yes, sir.” Takka mumbled dissapointedly at the thought of being unable to cause a nuclear explosion. The turret of the Von Luckner began following the journey of the land train, angling slightly forward to adjust for its speed before firing its payload downrange. The shells tore apart the massive wheels of the land train like butter one by one, crippling its pace to a visible slug’s crawl. Aroxy could only hope that it would be enough to give the infantry time to disarm the dirty bomb.

(NOW CLOSED:) Marvel RE: Imagine - A Marvel Comics Roleplay

Stranger in a Strange Land

Character Concept

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Once a brilliant neurosurgeon, Stephen Strange's arrogance proved to be his undoing in an untimely automobile accident that rendered his hands damaged beyond repair. Spending an obscene amount of his wealth on searching a cure, Stephen resorted to traversing to the far reaches of the Himalayas in search of the Masters of the Mystic Arts, a collective of individuals who supposedly could cure any ailment with sorcery. Under the tutelage of the Ancient One, Stephen Strange devoted himself to the study of the supernatural and arcane and became a fellow defender of the

During a routine inspection of the Wundagore Mountains alongside his teacher and fellow friend, Baron Karl Mordo, a resulting series of unfortunate events led to the death of the Ancient One. Out of guilt and shame for his self-perceived role in the death of his master, Stephen declined the post of Sorcerer Supreme, leaving Mordo to shoulder the mantle of becoming Earth's mightiest mortal. As adversaries of the Masters, supernatural foes, and otherworldy dangers seek to take advantage of the Order's vulnerability, Stephen must now become the newest steward of the New York Sanctum Sanctorum.

Wiz-biz. Wiz-biz. Wizards gonna bizards. This is mostly a worldbuilding exercise in magic featuring Stephen as the main character. He's not a neophyte hedge wizard nor is he the vincent price looking god-fucking motherfucker yet. He's what I call a 'Year Two' Strange. I'm primarily drawing from the old Kirby runs, a lil bit of MCU, a lil bit of Dresden Files, a lil bit of Hellboy and every piece of urban fantasy out there alongside Jed McKay's newest run to create an updated version of Marvel's Sorceror Supreme.

Key Notes

Tenants of the Sanctum Sanctorum

Doctor Stephen Strange M.D - A relatively young (40 is considered to be a teenager in wizard years) master of the mystic arts who was considered by many in the council to be the natural successor for the post of Sorceror Supreme should the Ancient One face an untimely death. He has become somewhat of a black sheep in the wake of the chaos that followed his master's death as many practitioners and disciples viewed his rejection of the post as a deliberate insult to their entire order. Considered by many masters to be a loose cannon with a penchant for breaking magical law to suit their own needs.

Wong - Chef, chemist, assassin, thamaturgist, butler, cleaner, Wong is what Wong is. Having served as an archivist for over two centuries in the Order of the Mystic Arts, he is Strange’s sole confidant.

Bats - The spectre of an NYPD basset hound who died under Strange’s care after saving his former master’s life from a bullet. Now, he has made the New York Sanctum Sanctorum his haunt and assists Strange with matters of mortal law enforcement.

Jericho Drumm - An young Haitian magician who specializes in the voodoo arts and is currently the disciple of Doctor Strange. His brother, Daniel Drumm, serves on the Council of Masters as a senior member.

Zelma Stanton - A college dropout with a burgeoning talent in the mystic arts who trains to be the next archivist of the New York Sanctum Sanctorum and an intern in the New York Public Library.

Masters of the Mystic Arts

Baron Karl Mordo, Sorcerer Supreme - Once Strange’s closest friend, they have become estranged in the wake of the Ancient One’s demise as Mordo struggles to bear the burden of the mantle of their former master.

The Council of Masters - A collection of 5 democratically voted Masters who delegate the affairs of the Order of the Mystic Arts and serve a check on the authority of the Sorceror Supreme. The current members of the 445th Council of Masters includes:

Clea - A 400 year old Faltine refugee from the Dark Dimension who is the niece of Dormammu and Umar. She originally held the post of Sorceror Supreme in the Dark Dimension before another eventual war between the Faltine warlords forced her to flee to Earth. Was romantically involved with Strange during his years as an initiate before circumstances concerning her parentage forced her to break up with him. In spite of this, she still harbors affection for Stephen.

Daniel Drumm - A Jamaican sorceror who specializes in Voodoo Magic. He is the youngest member of the Council and is considered the most inexperienced in matters of sorcery. Still, he has accomplished much for his age, establishing the first Sanctum Sanctorum in New Orleans and being the Council's primary delegate and contact with the Loa Pantheon. He is also the elder brother of Jericho Drumm and has entrusted Strange with tuition of his brother in the mystical arts.

Anthony Druid - An Celtic druid who traces back his history to the time of Avalon, when King Arthur ruled and enough magic suffused the air that even a peasant could pray and shit gold from his back.

Agatha Harkness - The First Witch and the only member of the council who has managed to read the Darkhold with their mind intact. They were the inspiration of folktales concerning witches worldwide and indulged in a few massacres during her first few centuries before becoming tired of it.

Kaecilius Orlo - A German railroad engineer who immigrated to Canada in the late 1800s. His family died in the Halifax explosion and his second family died yet again due to the Spanish Flu. He is the second-most youngest member of the council and is a close ally to Karl Mordo, being almost akin to a yes-man.

The Vishanti - A trio of elder cosmic deities consisting of Agamotto The Wise, Hoggoth the Hoary and Osthur the Lawful who have traditionally served as patron principalities of the Masters of the Mystic Arts. As of late, they have become mysteriously silent.

Otherwordly Forces

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Dormammu, the Dread Lord - Ruler of the Dark Dimension and arch-enemy of the Order of the Mystic Arts. He first stepped on our plane in the Neolithic Era and was beaten back by the First Wizard, Agamotto the Wise. Since then, he has considered Earth more trouble than it's worth but make no mistake, he is merely preparing to mount one grand invasion that will remove any hint of his former defeat by those pesky mortals.

Nightmare - Freddy Kreuger, eat your heart out. Every nightmare, every bad dream, every chill in the night is the fault of one singular individual. The underlord of the Dream Dimension who hopes to breach the barriers of the Astral Plane and enter the material realm to wreak eternal horror.

Chthon - The source of all Darkness on the mortal plane. Even though he is sealed away in the deepest, darkest world, the legacy of his work has left a festering scar on Earth since the dawn of the first morning. He is the author of the Darkhold, the scribe of Chaos Magic, the primogenitor of Black magic and has spawned unholy beings from Earth’s first virgin soil.

Mephisto - Though he has only held the post for 959 years since he tore out the heart of his predecessor, Beezlebub, Mephisto's vileness is no less cruel than any Arch-Lord of Hell. His greatest asset is not the legions of demons he commands but his quicksliver tongue and ability to make any deal fall in his favor.

Shuma-Gorath - He/She/It/They is known by many/multiple/hundreds of names, the Many-Angled One, the Never-Ending, The All-Growing. The ruler of a hundred dimensions/realms/realities, Shuma-Gorath has attempted multiple incursions/invasions/conquests of Earth and has been beaten back at terrible cost by the Masters of the Mystic Arts. It has been 9/nearly a decade/4 cosmic solstices since his last invasion and he only grows stronger each time.

(NOW CLOSED:) Marvel RE: Imagine - A Marvel Comics Roleplay

Sample Post: Paging For....

“ One long black for….,” The cashier pauses and looks at his name with squinted eyes. She won’t be the first or last today. Before the name exits her lips, he snatches the two steaming cardboard cups from the counter.

“ It’s a bit strange, I know,” He winks mischeviously and then, exits the cafe, shouldering past the line of cold New Yorkers in the November winter.

The streets aren’t full of snow but already, the city shivers. Both physically in the shrouded coats of every passerby walking to and fro around him and spiritually in the muted neon lights and the dwindling fires. He can hear within the fetid sewers and the lain boney corpses of a thousand seafarers within the foundations a lumbering heartbeat.

He sits down on a park bench and takes a sip of his coffee. He wipes the line of milk foam off his thin moustache and watches couples, children, old, young pass by, a hundred stories, a hundred tales waiting to end. Ever since his venture to the Himalayas, enjoying a simple cup of coffee now is a labour in of itself. The Himalayas. The cold breeze is but a shadow of his trek up those slopes. In the middle of another slip, the loud scream of a baby makes him forget to close his eyes and he Sees.

The beyond is all and it foments and festers around him like a petri dish. The sky is a cracked window and the clouds squirm and wriggle, intent on burrowing downwards onto the thousands of souls below. Schools of phantasms whip around in the sky and the soil teems with the forgotten ballads of kingdoms past. Shoals of phantasms huddle around each other, aimlessly living out the patterns of their mortal coils and daemons prey on the unwary souls like parasites.

His master would have called this balance. He believed it to be an infestation.

“ Spending too much time Seeing isn’t good for the soul,” The voice was like a gong. The world rewound back to normal, cracks glueing back themselves together. He blinked and he was back in the park. However, there were two things wrong. Firstly, the park had become mysteriously vacant in the span of a minute. The odor of incense clued him that wards, strong wards were in play. Secondly, his coffee however was missing from his hand. He heard a loud slurp to his right and immediately turned his neck, relaxing when he saw a portly bald man in linen robes. The lines on his face were gaunt and his complexion was a pale tanned brown. His lips curdled in disgust as he set the coffee cup on the bench.

“ I like the cafe down by Broadway more than this one.”

By Hoggoth’s hoary hosts, the man was hard to satisfy.

“ Well, perhaps, you shouldn’t rely on me to make coffee trips, Wong.” He retorted. Leaning back, he palmed his face and signed in dread of what was to come next. “Well. on with it, then. What do we have today?”

Wong snapped his fingers and a scroll of parchment bobbed over from the pile of documents. He deftly took it and unrolled to read it. “ An asura possession in lower Manhattan, two hereditary curses, an enochian summoning circle gone awry and a garden gnome dispute in northern Greenwich. This is just what’s come in this morning, Stephen.”

“ Well, then,-” Stephen said in a light sarcastic tone.. “ Sounds like a light day“. He snapped his fingers and the Cloak of Levitation unfurled out from the neck of his sweater, curling up around him protectively like a serpent. “ Reply to our clients in the next hour or so. Tell them Doctor Strange will be in to see them.”

COLD PLAGUE

“ Oh, jesus, oh fuck -” The thief blubbered out loud. Omar almost sympathized the man and then, it was quickly lost when he remembered how he ended up handcuffed in their patrol vehicle in the first place. He rocked back and forth, a terrified expression on his face. “ Please let this be a dream, please let this be a dream…”

Omar opened the back door without a word and grabbed the shaking thief roughly by the shoulders. The thief’s denim hoodie was no match for the downpour and became immediately soaked. It was then that Omar immediately realized how hard it was just to see in the rain. The relentless sheets of grey splattered down onto the roads and seemingly cloaked the shambling bodies towards him. The sound of Mira’s pistol echoed in the wind -

And then, for the second time today, something grabbed him by the ankle again. Omar looked down and gaped in horror as he saw the freckled face of Emma Hopkins. She was a rookie in the force like him. Now, her dimpled face snarled flecks of blue spittle, paddling herself on the wet road wit what remained of the rest of her limbs.

“Motherfuck-” Omar swore as he brought his foot down and slammed down on Emmas head. What remained of his fellow officer became little more than a stain on his boot as meaty chunks sprayed all over the asphalt. The thief looked deathly pale and heaved over in a dry gag.

“ Holy shit, man-” The thief’s eyes then perked up and pointed over Omar’s shoulder. “ Look out!”

It only took a moan from behind for Omar’s reflexes to kick in. He swung his baton behind in an arc, aiming for what he hoped was the face. It stopped as though lodged in a piece of wood. Clamped around it were the jaws of another body. An EMT, by the looks of it. Their uniform was stained brown and red, old and new blood. The former EMT wrenched his head away and to Omar’s horror, the baton began to crack.

Police batons were made out of high quality oak wood coated in Teflon polymer. He once saw an officer drop it into the department’s wood chipper and come out the other end unscathed.The EMT had now bitten off a piece and was now grinding it like taffy between his molars. His head then disappeared in a puff of blood followed by the sound of a shotgun being reracked. The headless body collapsed to the ground and behind him was a grizzled old man, white muttonchops on either side of his cheek, and a furred stetson on his head.

“ Omar, that you?”

“Jack, the hell’s going on?!,” The old officer didn’t bother replying and walked towards him, shotgun still in hand, before hissing and clutching his left wrist. He turned the other side of his palm and blood trickled from his wrist, dripping from several dented cuts in the shape of teeth.

“ We were just returning back from the..Gah!,” Jack waved his wrist and shook his head as though a bee stung him. “ - the hospital. Then, the morgues…..they started coming out of the fucking morgues, man.”

“ Where’s our reinforcements? What about the station?”

“ Most of the station’s been infected. I’m…”Both of their eyes wavered towards the gouged cut on Jack’s wrist and then, locked onto each other again. “…..Listen, that’s not important right now. Last I heard, they’re calling the National Guard in for a quarantine.. You and Mira have to evacuate, leave the - “

Both Omar and Jack froze as they heard a loud-pitched chalk-like screech. It came at random intervals, scraping on the road like a careening automobile. The dark shadow lumbered out from behind a set of dumpsters near the station. Blue like claws dragged on the pavement like some demented ice skater. Its maw was a pit of icicles jutting out, some piercing through the cheek and sprouting from its chest. Somehow, even though its body was shredded beyond belief, it steadily treaded towards the trio of officers, gangly arms by its side.

“ Oh shit.”

A Roleplayer's Guide to The Wal

(TL;DR: Central repository for most of my thoughts and musings on my personal take on the Walmart Apocalypse setting. Feel free to gain inspiration from this as much as you like.

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“ - Reporting another successful fiscal year with a 13.5% rise - “

“ - Always Low Prices! - ”

“ - happy to announce that we have completed construction of the Eastern Seaboard Mega-Centre- “

This is the Wal. A land of endless aisles and shoplifters.

“- Hundreds arrested and executed for shoplifting - “

“ - Why did you kill them all? - “

“ Black Friday, man. Black Friday.”

How did the Wal come to? No one knows. But, then, we all know of the Fall.

“ - Clocks frozen at 11:59 -”

“ For we swear by the oath of our cardboard encrusted ancestors - “

“ - Damn Smilers. I told you not to let them in -!”

Now, there is only one truth I know.

“March, for today we shall Exit and enter the Gates of Sliding - “

“ Get ready for a drop into the Bargain Bin, boys.”

The Wal is All.

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Central Lore Primer

- Before the Fall, the world was run by Wal-Corp: a trans-national corporation which was the preeminent world leader in every industry and field imaginable. Agriculture, electronics, politics, genetics, electrical engineering, computing. Governments were replaced by branch management teams, internship academies took the place of universities and farms were replaced by vertical greenhouses the size of mountains. By the year, 2050, everyone became either an employee or customer of Wal-Corp.

- No one remembers when and how the Fall happened but there’s a few things we know. Long-term customers tell us stories of how an eternal eclipse fell across the land and the night grew teeth. They tell us of how the Parking Lots became full with the bodies of loyal customers attempting to seek shelter under the Wal. At first, life was peaceful under the Wal. Customers shopped. Employees worked. Wal-Corp reaped profits like never before. Then, came the Low Price Rebellion. Consisting of disaffected groups dissatisfied with the hypercapitalist screed of Wal-Corp, protests and riots erupted in the lower aisles. This eventually escalated into Bloody Friday, a chain of cyber attacks and thefts in an attempt to cripple and subvert Wal-Corp’s vaunted PA overseer systems. Instead; things took a turn for the worst as the Wal-Tomatons became berserk and turned on their former masters.

- There is no exit or entrance in the Wal. Legends tell of the Gates of Sliding where people attempt to checkout and leave the confines of the Wal. Many have tried escaping to no avail. The syncrete walls of the Wal are virtually impenetrable and few means exist to tunnel through them in time without alerting Security. Unholy leviathans past their expiry date dwell in the depths of the plumbing. Some have managed to eek out an meagre, sun-bleached existence of the Roofs but those who have managed to trek to the edge almost never survive the jump down.

- Almost everyone is a shoplifter and no one is a customer. Whatever went down on Bloody Friday revoked the status of everyone in the Wal into a bootleg version of hostis humanis generi. You cannot use free Wal-Corp health and safety auto-clinics because you are a shoplifter. You cannot legally buy any Wal-Corp product because you are a shoplifter. You are not officially allowed on the premises of Wal-Corp property because you are a shoplifter. All shoplifters will be punished appropriately according to Wal-Corp’s charter code with no quarter.

- Society is divided into departments who have embraced the madness of the Wal by adopting mad ideologies to survive. From the balkanized Free Sections of Grocery, the Stationary Shogunate, the Cleaning Crews and the roaming Brand Gangs, every inhabitant of the Wal is unique in their own way, carving out a unique philosophy suited to their section and their surrounding environment.
The employees are either dead or untrustworthy. The mass majority of employees including the Board of Directors died during Bloody Friday. There are rumours of hidden enclaves of employees biding their time or hiding amongst the general populous, disguised as customers.Becoming an employee is highly difficult with little to no reward and pray that Wal-Corp doesn’t find out that you haven’t been reporting to your manager….

- The Wal-Tomatons are inherently untrustworthy. Centuries of software erosion and a lack of essential firmware updates from Wal-Corp’s central systems have made them extremely prone to glitches. There is no rhyme or rhythm to their subroutines or directives, for they will singlemindedly seek fufillment of their tasks by whatever means necessary. Some individuals have claimed to be able to reprogram Wal-Tomatons but these measures are often always temporary as Wal-Corp’s electronic copyright countermeasures force a reversion back to factory mode…..

- Technology is an anachronistic mix of jury rigged equipment and Wal-CorpTM products which are functionally indistinguishable from supernatural phenomenon. From special sale halloween masks that transform you into monsters, the highly addictive life-extending drug known as Age B Gone, mutagenic puppy chow and nano-assembling kitchen knives; each department has a monopoly on a certain piece of Wal-Tech.

-Everything has a price or capital to be more exact. The exchange of capital for goods is a time-honoured tradition in the Wal. Charity is viewed as an utmost sin.

- The world outside the Wal, for all intents and purposes, is a mystery. Were it not for the horrors of what lies outside, most of the Wal’s inhabitants would be wiped out by hordes of security automatons.

Guidelines To Making Your Own Version of The Wal

1)The tenets of obsequious hyper capitalism must be observed within the setting to a satirical extent but never to the extent where it glamourises without retrospection. The Wal as a setting is both deeply amusing and terrifying. It is a nightmarish manifestation of not just America’s but an increasingly global fetishesm for consumerism, materialism and corporate culture taken to dire extremes.

2)Make the mundane ludicrous. The Wal is a darwnistic hellhole that forces you to either adapt or die. That hypochondriac in the pharmacy section who spends it all on placebos pills? Make him into a mad witch doctor who attempts to experiment with bogus prescriptions on unwary passerbys? That uber-competitive soccer mom in the sports section? Make her into a cult-like figure who recruits orphans from all sections of the Wal and brainwashes them into child soldiers to do her bidding. That tacky ass under-age vaper near the checkout. Make them into a guru shaman who gets ‘visions’ from smoking flavored cigarettes. The only limit is your imagination.

3)The 10 tips above are general things that I consider central to any Wal-Canon but you can alter them as you see fit.

4)There should always be an undertone of horror with the Wal. When you play with the Wal, you can’t forget how deeply fucked up it is and attempt to romanticize the idea of all of humanity being trapped inside a death world like environment.

5)When considering brands or franchises, either play it ironically or play it straight to a satirical extent.
There is always a world outside the Wal and it is in ruin but aside from that, not much else is clear.

COLD PLAGUE

It was odd hearing Mira's voice being so stilted. As his superior, Omar looked at Mira as a steadfast rock throughout his time in Lambour. Now, he wasn't quite sure what to make of her. It was both humbling and frightening at the same time to see her locked in the same straits that he was. His hands trembled as the growing pools of blood on the tiled floor felt like they were drowning him in their crimson glow. The hand that had fired the pistol still felt leaden, numb. The gunfire still rang in his head like a bell.

Omar wordlessly nodded in response to Mira's command, heart still pounding and nerves still frayed from killing not just one but two people in the span of a day. His instructors told him that it was a statistical inevitability that he would have to take a life in his line of work. As soon as Mira walked out of the door, Omar felt as though a valve had been released. He hunched over onto his knees and his stomach somersaulted under the wave of nausea he had been forced to hold in. The sting of bile made him cough as he swallowed it down. His knees buckled under an immovable weight.

Then, the voice of a morbidly obese gas station owner broke him out of his self-induced reverie.

" Excuse me, senor. Would you like me to get you water -?"

" No, no," Omar waved his hand, coughing. He straightened his back and looked at the shopkeeper. " I'm fine. Just remember to follow my superior's instructions."

He then exits the shop, following closely behind Mira.

---

Manuel Francocci considered himself a humble man. He had been divorced twice after his wife discovered him ‘cheating’ with his neighbour and his last wife left him for some argentinian pig. His only son left him to die in a war overseas in some sandbox. He was late on his tax. He’d been forced to mortgage his house. And now, two people had died in his humble convenience store that he had sold all of his life savings to build.

Truly, this was the culmination of bad luck. One could only wonder whether there was some way for him to avoid all of this misery and nonsense.

As he took out a mop and dipped in a bucket of water, he failed to notice the still corpse, head blown up, slowly begin to rise back up. It jerked shakily, arms spasming, before pulling itself up with renewed vigour.

When Mr Francocci turned to look back at the corpse, all he saw was a pool of blood followed by a frostbitten mouth jutting out with jagged crystals of ice.

---

“I’ll take the wheel,” Omar said as he slammed the boot closed and sidled up in the driver’s seat. It was a voice that brokered no discussion and no debate. He adjusted the rear view mirror to take a good look at himself. Even wit the blood wiped off his face, he could still see it, still feel it. Something greasy crawled on his skin that made him want to scratch it off.

The drive was silent on the way to the station. The streets were emptier now and the rain had intensified into a downpour. The roof of the cruiser sounded as though it was being pounded by a foreman. In the rear view, Omar could see the perp being restless in his seat, leaning back and forth. He tugged against his handcuffs for a moment and then, limply gave up on his efforts. He shuffled forward and craned his neck towards the cage that separated him from Mira and Omar.

“ Hey, what the hells’got you two so spooked. You were chatty - “

“ Do us both a favor,” Omar interrupted, leaning back to look at the perp. “ And shut the fuck up.”

Twenty minutes of near peaceful driving returned some warmth back into Omar’s hands. The sound of the round almost washed away his memories of killing two people today. In fact, all he could dread was the huge deluge of paperwork he would have to sift through to write the incident report.

When the station came into view, Omar noticed two things that were wrong.

Firstly, the western gate was left wide open. It was normally closed to prevent civilians from entering.

Secondly, a cruiser was parked at a slant angle to the entrance, the lights still flashing.

“ What the hell….,” Omar parked the car a few feet away from the cruiser. The rain briefly calmed and he could make out a figure dressed in a service coat behind the truck. They weren’t moving towards them or making any sort of motion whatsoever. They were just standing still.

“ Stay in the damn car,” Omar said to the perp. “ Mira, watch over him. I’ll check on what the hell’s going on.” He stepped out, blinded by the shower of rain. He parted his arms through the dense thick rain as he stepped closer. He squinted and he could make out a tuft of ginger hair in the weather.

“ Bromley? What’s going on. Bromley -,” The figure turned around and Omar swore out loud as he saw the same frigid blue eyes and gnashing teeth back at the gas station, only with a different face.

“ Fuck, Mira! He’s turned into one of those fucking things!”

COLD PLAGUE

Hands still shaking on the trigger, Omar shakily nodded as he holstered his Glock to go examine the body inside the freezer. His breath shuddered as he kneeled down to look at the still corpse more closely. Even in the dim light, he could still see the blood. It was easily the most gruesome sight that he had seen in his 10 years of work as a police officer. The flannel jacket was torn to shreds and everything down below his chest was a gaping well of guts and viscera that continually bled out a pool of red. The woman he killed had gobbled her way n to the spine where visible teeth-like indentations were strewn across the bone.. Omar switched on his flashlight to take a better look at the body. The checkered wounds on the open chest and the neck reminded him of roadkill that he’d seen driving over the interstate. Omar moved the light to his head.

The victim’s eye blinked.

Omar shouted out loud as the corpse became possesed, hands leaping out towards him. Omar pulled out his Glock immediately and aimed for the head. The relief he felt when he pulled the trigger was quickly replaced by dread as the gun clicked empty. The man, in the midst of his fumbling for a new magazine, managed to slip a blood-splattered hand over his ankle and a spike of frigid pain went up Omar’s spine.

“ Fuck!,” Omar instinctively recoiled back his foot and stamped down on the hand hard. He felt the hand, the bone under the sallow skin shatter into a thousand pieces under his sole. The man didn’t seem to notice it, still limply pawing at him. Omar took a step back, panting in pain. The dead man in front of him attempted to lift himself off the floor to walk towards Omar but the rules of human physiology, namely missing half of your lower torso, prevented him from doing so. The man realized this and so began to drag himself across the floor in a bloody trail. Omar quickly reloaded his Glock, pulling the slide back to check there was a bullet, before firing at the man’s skull.

The man’s skull exploded in a shower of blood and he became motionless. Omar prodded the corpse gently with his foot to see if it still moved and clasped his chest, heart still beating fast. He stumbled out of the freezer, absentmindedly walking past Mira. His finger wiped a speck of blood that was on his mask before looking at her with uncertainty.

“ The girl was sick. Do you think this is…,” Omar’s mind didn’t want to connect the thoughts. Surely, it couldn’t have been related to the outbreak. “- some sort of symptom? Maybe, we should contact EMS and see if there’s any similar - “

The sound of Blue Monday punctuated the air. Omar looked down towards his vest where his cell phone was stored. Nodding apologetically to Mira, Omar flipped open his vest pocket and spoke into the receiver.

“ This is Omar speaking. Who is this?”

“ Fucking finally!,”A panicked nasally voice with a country twang nearly defeaned Omar. “ I’ve been trying to reach you and Mira through comms for a minute now! We got multiple 10-34’s near Lambour General. We need reinforcements.”

“ Carl?,” Omar said, confused. Carl was supposed to be at the station today on desk duty. “ Relax. Give me a sit-rep.”
“ Fuck, Omar. I don’t know what’s happening in this crowd. The next moment, they’re complaining it’s too warm in the hospital. The next, they’re swarming out in droves. I- “ The phone suddenly became filled with static before returning back to the sound of audible screaming. “ Just get her as fast as you - KZZZTTTTT”

The call declines. Omar tries again and all he’s met with is his caller declining the call multiple times. Eventually, he throws up his hands and looks towards Mira for guidance.

“ Carl just called us. Apparently, there’s 10-34’s at Lambour General. Says he needs back-up. Do you think we should respond or get the perp back to the station?”

Somehow, the thought of dealing with a riot brought a sense of certainty into their current situation. Dealing with pissed off civilians was easier than the violation of natural laws that they were observing before them right now.