Bork

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖

Let's go, bois.

Also, never forgetting this meme.



Archive Footage of Formation of Miami Platforms

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 (Cyberpunk, Lore-Rich, Political Intrigue and Action)

@OppositionJ

What about the state of genetic engineering/wet-ware in this setting? Are we allowed to do anything with that or should that be considered a part of Cyberware as well?

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 (Cyberpunk, Lore-Rich, Political Intrigue and Action)

1. New York Seaboard
2. Great DC
3. The Derelict City
4. The Detroit Stacks
5. Metrochicago
6. The Bastion
7. The Miami Platforms
8. Neo Orleans
9. The Texas Sprawl
10. The Vegas Triangle
11. South City “The City of Angels”
12. The Bay
13. Portland
14. Seattle

@OppositionJ

ARCHIVE FOOTAGE OF MIAMI PLATFORMS FORMATION



(All jokes aside, working on the basis for a 'driver' character right now.)

Bork Lazer's Storage Bunker

---

>://OVER_DRIVER

Crusin' at the speed of neon, Cruisin' at the speed of fun

29.5 mph | MALE DRIVER | 6'0 seats| HIGH O- CTANE BLOOD

General Information/Specifications

NAME: Mackwell Fordwell Sloane

ALIASES // TITLES

- The Stacked Over-Driver/Over-Driver

- MacTruck

SEX: Male

AGE: 29 Years, 6 Months, 4 Days, 13 hours, 12 seconds ticking.....

APPEARANCE

Mack’s weathered and towering figure bears the typical popular adornment of the average citizen of the Reclaim Zone, which is a fashionable veil of neon griminess and dilapidation, except instead of a dour frown, you get a brown-toothed smile besmirched with crumbs of cheap re-hydrated ice-cream sandwiches. Mack radiates happiness and it's rare to see a frown on his face only for it to become a smile once more. However, there's an un-mistakable twitch, a blink, a momentary passing sign of pain in his positivism that demands to be reaped upon. Every corner of his body is covered in the unmistakable down-trodden scent of South City’s underbelly. His dirty blonde hair, flecked with motor oil and the nauseous scent of engine coolant, is cut in a slick, short comb with shaven chops on each side of his skull, moving slightly as if being blown by some invisible wind. Underneath his mop of hairs lies his sunken green eyes that have a ever-constant look of electrical optimism and peppy happiness. Rows of sleepless bags hang like curtains underneath his eye-lids, fueled by hours of coffee consumption. Mac often hides his sugar-fueled insomnia with a pair of horn-rimmed smart-glasses that are chipped at the sides.

Unlike most individuals in South City, Mack does not display his cybernetic augmentations outwardly as a badge of modernity, resorting to means to hide it such as cheap two-dollar replaceable dermal kera-patches or pharmaceutical cyte-lotion. Other than that, Mack bears a light-tattoo in the shape of a stylized bar-code on the left side of his neck and several relay lines that jut out from the right side of his head in an intricate pattern.

Mack isn’t a fashionista nor extremely picky in his choice of apparel, preferring to blend in with the crowd rather than stand out. He isn’t one to keep up with the latest Reclaim Zone chics of the current month but he isn’t an individual who lives under a rock as well. He usually prefers to wear the latest tacky Reclaimer garb, a sucker for cheap holo-movie merchandise combined with high-collared street jackets and jeans along with fingerless gloves on both of his hands. When he’s officially driving as Campbell’s Driver, Mack dresses in his Prism Helmet and his Trench-Vest Gear, a reminder from his days as the Detroit Over_Rider.

OCCUPATION: Underpaid Taxi Driver TURBO-BLAZER

CAMPAIGN TEAM POSITION

January 13th, 2064

Mr Mack Fordwell Sloane - LA1907335992
48th Floor, Hab 10, Tower 9
Babel Holdings, South City
Free Economic Zone of Los Angeles

The Campbell Campaign Office is pleased to offer you the position of Personal Chaffeur. Thorough review of your prior distinguished experience and employment records by our Campaign Manager has indicated that you would be the most suitable candidate for this position. Employment with Campbell’s Campaign Office will officially end during the completion of South City’s mayoral election procedure. Note that your employment with Campbell’s Campaign Office is “at will”, meaning that the Campbell Campaign Office may terminate your employment at any time and for any reason, with or without cause.

As we previously discussed, the starting date for your position will be May 12th, 2064. The starting salary is $105,459 per year and will be paid in weekly installments. Please consult with our Campaign Treasurer for any financial assistance regarding depositing of salary.

Although your following reponsibilities as Head Chaffeur will change over time as Campell's Campaign Office personal and private policies are liable to change, please note that your following responsibilities as Head Chaffeur will include as of now:
- Transportation and transfer of Dexter Campbell and campaign staff members from and to locations within the South City Free Economic Zone.
- Evacuation and protection of Dexter Campbell and campaign staff members from hostile areas and individuals within the South City Free Economic Zone.
- Helping and escorting passengers off and onto personal vehicle
- Manual maintenance and optimal repair of your vehicle.
- Opening doors for passengers.
- Ensuring that vehicle is equipped with appropriate faculties in order to alleviate stress of Campaign Staff Members.

If you choose to accept this job offer, please complete the bio-voc verification sub-program attached to this e-message and send a copy of this e-message with your e-signature before April 24th, 2064.

When your confirmation has been received, the Campbell Campaign Office will provide you with further instructions.

Sincerely,

The Campbell Campaign Office

Psychological Profile/General Performance

Tenacious | Dare-Devil | Grieving | Proud | Unflappable | Cheerful

PERSONAL GOAL

“ People have been always trying to wrangle that turbo-blazer in my DNA for their own use. I'm certain
of that. One other thing's certain, though. I'm tired of being a plain ol' taxi driver all the time.”

Mack own personal agenda for still living within the wrecked remains of South City is to gain back enough money to repair Monica, his car, and to seek some remnants of his former glory and excitement that is missing in his current life by taking the most dangerous and high-risk jobs available to him as a taxi driver within the crime-ridden streets of the Reclaim Zone. All that matters to him is the next big paycheck or the next big job that is able to cough up some cash - enough cash for him to repair Monica and legitimize himself in the eyes of his former street-racing family in the Detroit Stacks. Or so he tries to convince himself.

Truthfully, Mack has seeked out employment in South City in hopes of being able to find a high-risk job so absurd and dangerous that it will finally result in his permanent death. Hopefully, Campbell might be able to fulfill that wish. However, his own personal agendas have recently included securing his bodily and personal freedom from the Reclaimer Gang who have forced him through non-consensual augmentation and blackmail to work for them as a means of influencing Campbell’s campaign in secret.

CAMPAIGN GOAL (Why did you link up with Campbell? What are you trying to do for his platform?)

“ Bad men foster in this city, not good. That’s why the city needs to change; not the people. And it starts with Campbell.”

Mack original purposes for linking up and signing up as Campbell’s driver was a manner of both monetary gain and the fact that Campbell’s controversial views on changing the geopolitical game of South City attract a lot of eyes and therefore, a hefty amount of high-profile danger. The thought of getting the chance to drive around a politician attracts some measure of danger and Mack believes that acting as Campbell’s driver will be the key to finding some semblance of purpose in his shattered life of his and a escape from constantly having to drive dangerous routes in the Reclaim Zone with little to no pay. Besides, if Campbell promises release and respite from the corporate gang-filled hell of the Reclaim Zone and promising further change at the governmental level, how can a man who’s had his entire life trodden on by corporations and gangsters not be tempted by those promises?

While Mack has no concerns for Campbell’s platform other than driving him safely through the roads of the Reclaim Zone and making sure that he doesn't ally with any corporate scum-bags, the Reclaimer Gang seeks to use Campbell as a means of influencing the mayoral process for their own needs, using Mack as a proxy for their own agenda…...

PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY (Who are you really? What morally defines you? What drives you?)

Whenever you're by yourself, walking on the side of the street out in this shit-hole of a world, you feel small. But when you're behind a wheel, you feel like you can take on the world.

Mack is an individual who believes that staying still is a route towards becoming extinct like the dodo on the road of life and suffers from a major inferiority complex when he’s not behind the wheel of a car. He takes full measure of every opportunity to enjoy himself as best as he can and is extremely sociable as a result, acting extremely exuberant in every situation, even when he’s a driver. He is a adrenaline-junkie at heart and ,no matter how much he tries to deny it, can’t resist the alluring temptation of high-speed chases or races because without any sense of thrill, he’s left lost in the wind and forced to acknowledge the sheer nauseating nature of the dark and decaying future around him or in this case, reality. Though he tries and deny it, he’s attracted to the danger of high-risk situations as he believes it’s the only way to prove himself and his worth to others.

Therefore, due to this life-style and his experiences as a racer, Mack’s moral code involves a apathetic sense of desensitization to the violence around him, possessing no strong moral sense of justice whatsoever and is only willing to look out for himself and his own car. Mack generally only helps other people if there’s the promise of a high-speed chase or if they’re a street-racer like he was once. Mack does however possess a sense of sympathy for those who have lived in poverty or have been screwed over by a corporation, mainly using them as a scapegoat for all his current problems and the state of the Reclaim Zone.

What drives Mack is his desire to repair Monica and his dream to officially enter the Metro Prix as a racer as he once nearly did back then, even though, he is at wills with his inner desire to return to the streets and duel as the Over_Driver again.

POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY: (What are your views on the world? While a partisan identity would be nice to include, feel free to define yourself outside of the five parties. This is important as Campbell will eventually have to choose a party to represent.)

Politics are like traffic jams in South City.

Whilst Mack’s foray into the world of politics is about as much as a fish venturing into dry land (Impossible, since most fish these days are nearly extinct), most of Mack’s own views on the current contemporary state of American politics can be stated to ascribe to a updated model of socio-liberalism.

Mack believes that individuals are possessive of civil rights and that there should exist a general state of equality for every single citizen of the United States of America, which is however undercut by his cynicism in his lack of faith in government institutions, particularly relating to regulation of law and the fact that governments have mainly de-evolved into a corporatocracy or otherwise,‘a ventriloquist's dummy’. Mack generally views the current state of American politics as under the threat of homogenization and industrialization by mega-corporations that are culpable in the destruction of America as a whole.

As a former street racer and a inhabitant of the urban sprawls of Detroit, Mack possesses great amounts of enmity towards megacorporations and the upper class of society, believing it to be unfair that they are the dominant class of society in terms of economic and social power parity relative to the working class.

SECRETS: (What are you hiding? What would it cost you if someone found out what’s behind the veil?)

Airing my dirty laundry scares me more than any car crash or stunt gone wrong will.

When a group of booster-gang vagabonds have implanted a torture device in your sternum and black-mail you, it’s not in your best interests to disclose that information. It’s nearly impossible for Mack to reveal the fact that he’s collaborating with the Reclaimers, without suddenly suffering a massive bout of debilitating paralysis when he least expects it. Safe to say, if Mack’s secret came out, the Reclaimers would find out and kill him in a secluded spot.

Whilst it’s not as sensitive compared to his secret of forceful collaboration with the Reclaimers, Mack’s former identity as the OverDriver has been kept relatively secret to the public eye as it’s mainly passed by word of mouth around by the racing community and glitchy video recordings of a few races in the Detroit Stacks. Needless to say, Mackwell doesn’t want at all to reap the reputation of the OverDriver in his identity as a taxi driver and prefers to keep his OverDriver identity secret lest he gets hunted by every street-racer and gang within South City. So far, only the Reclaimers know about his true identity as the OverDriver.

FEARS: (What keeps you up at night? What makes you freeze up in the moment? What do you avoid at all costs?)

Car's all I got. Car's all I am. Without a car, my whole world goes still.

Mack’s biggest fear is notably centered around the condition and future of his Victory Ultra, Monica, who he has fought tooth and nail for him to win it in his possession. It’s his most treasured vehicle, his source of employment and by far, the only real reason for why he still continues to live. Ultimately, Monica’s condition is the biggest factor that contends with his reckless desires of attaining that high-speed adrenaline rush as he doesn’t wish to damage her further. One can be assured that stealing or threatening to destroy Monica will put him in a state of distress.

Mack’s next biggest fear of all is ironically his biggest strength. It’s the fear of his past as the OverDriver, of living up to what he once was and becoming forgotten in name. It’s a fear that he tries to avoid and quashes down deep within him but Due to the presence of the Gleipnir implant in his body, Mack is also fearful of pissing off the Reclaimers and generally tries to acquiesce to their demands as much as possible. The Gleipnir augmentation (if it can be even called an augmentation) serves as an antithesis to Mack’s own personal modus operandi of being constantly in motion as the thought of being fully paralysed is something that gives him continual nightmares whenever he sleeps. Mack also generally tries to avoid violent confrontations that don’t involve him behind a steering wheel and a carbon-alloy wheeled chassis and his opponent in another car or more preferably, not in one.

REPUTATION: (How does the world view you? What are you known for? How do your people act around you?)

I never asked for the name, but somehow, it stuck with me. And pretty soon, the whole world decided that it would stick forever.

Mack’s reputation as the infamous OverRider of Detroit, renowned driver of the international community, has become little more than an online boogey-tale that drivers tell each other to scare. The reputation of Mackwell Sloane is equivalent to that of a random schlub across the streets but the reputation of the OverRider is equivalent to a god in the racing circle. As the OverRider, Mack is known for his infamous driving skills in Detroit and in South City and the signature combination of his Prism and Trench-Vest before the accident which irreversibly damaged Monica and put him out of commission as a street-racer. Due to his legacy and innovations within the art of combat racing as a whole, Mack has a lot of admirers and a lot of great imitators who attempt to follow behind on his footsteps or rather his wheelmarks with some measure of success or utter failure. Needless to say, the world knows more about the OverRider rather than the meagre taxi driver that is Mackwell Sloane.

In terms of being a taxi driver, Mackwell Sloane is known in South City as the only driver insane and willing enough to drive around the crime-ridden areas of the Reclaim Zone for any client willing enough to cough up enough credits. Most of his passengers notably treat him with a sizable amount of disinterest and lack of gratitude. Whatever genial interaction is few and far between as Mack never receives a call twice due to the high mortality rate within the Reclaim Zone.

LIKES

- Pre-pack Candy
- Combat Racing
- Drifting
- Electronic Music
- Sushi

DISLIKES: (Same as above)

- Pre-pack Candy
- Alcohol
- Bad customers
- Poor etiquette
- Pop Music
- Corporate A-Holes
- Repairing his car

QUIRKS

Most of Mack's eccentricities mainly relate to the intense neural mutation of his internal brain organs caused by his neural-ware. He's never found without something sweet in his mouth- whether that be chewing gum, cheap Singaporean hard candy, dehydrated fruit or a plastic-wrapped bar full of unsaturated fats or something of the like. Otherwise, he's got a preference for playing a large menagerie of music tracks whenever he drives in Monica, justifying it as sort of a lucky charm or 'his tune.'

---

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Background Information/Inspection Record

" I don't run away from my problems. I drive towards my problems.”

Born in the urban sprawling land of the Detroit Slacks in 2035, Mackwell Fordwell Sloane, 3rd oldest child, was born to a pair of salvagers and scrappers like so many in the city of MotorLane. His family struggled to feast and survive off the great junkyards, searching for valuable e-waste, broken down cyberware, rain-washed appliances and old gear that would only amount to a day’s meal at most if sold on the prominent underground black-market. All in all, it was a pretty sordid existence in MotorLane, maintaining his family’s stall with a pair of rubber gloves and a bottle of solvent cleanser.

Until he discovered the glories of street-racing. All hope seem lost until Mackwell got caught up in the local street-racing scene in Detroit. He was virtually entranced by it and immedietely signed up to participate in one of the local competitions in a jury-rigged Fury HeavyTech Pursuer he found in the junkyard. Mackwell began his career of street racing in the pits of the Shadow-Rails, an old abandoned series of industrial rail-tracks that once belonged to a bankrupt corporation that had been swallowed up by the rapid urban growth of the Detroit Stacks . It was aptly named due to the shadows that the towering stacks would cast downwards upon the abandoned railway, leaving it permanently dark forever and secure from the notice of the authorities. He slowly rose through the echelons, racing race after race, beating competitor after competitor, pushing himself further and further through a series of bracketed local tournaments. It wasn't until the final round that Mackwell somehow entered the final race with a Victory Ultra in his possession. How it exactly arrived in his possession is a folk-tale in the Detroit Stacks. Some say that he found it in an abandoned Daedalus factory. Some say that it was a shipment that got lost in the flow. Some say that he built it out of the junkyards himself. Nevertheless, with the Victory Ultra by his side, Mackwell beat his fellow racers in the final round and was proclaimed the racing champion of the Detroit Stacks. The chantings of Overlord soon transformed into the OverDriver, a permanent fixture, a legend that was carved into his very identity and one that would stick with him until the day that he would die. It seemed like he was invincible.

Well, right until the Metro Prix. The OverDriver signed up for the largest combat motor-sports competition on the East Coast in secret, his ambition and need for speed driving him forward to greater lengths. As the OverDriver, Mackwell received a great many number of sponsorship deals that he accepted but unfortunately, during a sponsor meeting, he declined a request to drive in one of Fury HeavyTech's newest prototypical vehicles for the competition. He didn't realize the folly of his decision until on the day of the Grand Metro Prix, where he and a 101 other competitors from all across the states took off on a 10 kilometer track located in the waste-lands. During the final lap, Mackwell's Velocity was hi-jacked with a deadly computer virus that completely destablised his systems, proving all the more deadly as he was still directly tele-pathed with his Velocity. He skidded out of control and burnt out as they say, only 100 meters away from the finishing line.

Several years later, picking himself up from the accident and emotionally destroyed, Mackwell drove away from the Detroit Stacks with tears in his eyes to a dangerous new life in South City, signing up to be a driver for the South City Taxi Association. All of his other co-workers knew him as a loose cannon, a suicidal maniac who took on the most riskiest clients who wanted to be driven to the Reclaim Zone. Mackwell, meanwhile, focused on accumulating enough money to fix his car, his source of pride, and to seek death in the Reclaim Zone. Until he saw one of Campbell's advertisements. Seeking a recommendation from his boss, who was sympathic and grateful for him as being one of the only drivers willing enough to go into the Reclaim Zone, Mackwell managed to successfully become Campbell's Driver.

During one night, however, after driving Campbell home safely after an campaign speech, Mackwell was knocked out during a drive back to his apartment and found himself in a darkly dim-lit room with bandages around his torso and the boss of the Reclaimers in front of him, Lou "Lieutenant" Lazlo. Lou explained the nature of his situation, the fact that he knew Mackwell was the OverDriver and what he'd put inside Mackwell's body much to his growing horror. Mackwell was to act as Lazlo's chief informant in the Campbell campaign and to serve as a means to influence South City's geopolitics well enough so that it would be beneficial for the Reclaimer's operations.

Mack continues to work as Campbell's driver, albeit with a literal heavy heart and the threat of death following him with every moment he pushes the pedal....

Operative Information/Market Value

AUGMENTATIONS

//Noo-Solutions Kasparovian Variable Neural OverClocker Model V

Finding the responsibilities of modern cybernetic life hard to handle? Don’t worry! With NooSolutions newly upgraded line of Neural Overclockers, thinking becomes a breeze! It’s all thanks to our proprietary nano silk arrays which increase neural transmission speeds to over 200 times faster than normal base-lines and with our innovative new inhibition matrix chipware, you don’t have to worry about over-loading your higher brain functions when using NooSolutions Neural Overclocker. Remember all your items on your yearly summer catalogue, finish your tax forms in no time flat and watch as bullets become slow as bubbles! Buy now for 2,500 ||C||.

With the advent of faster motorspeeds and racing courses that were essentially death traps, street-racers and turbo-blazers alike flocked towards the utility of neuralware and boosterware to help them coordinate and react to the intense speeds that their automobiles were zooming at. While NooSolutions may have been bought out by APEX Industries in the field of cybernetic augmentations like so many other smaller corporations that specialised in the industry, the Kasparovian Overclocker serves as a final eternal swan-song to NooSolutions ingenuity that still finds itself in relative ubiquitous usage across most of Central America.

The Variable Kasparovian Neural Overclocker Mark V consists of two pieces of cybernetic hardware: an external cybernetic optic and the internal chip-ware laced at the user’s cerebellum to the bottom of their spine which are linked to one another wirelessly. The cybernetic optic mainly records and monitors the user’s visual surroundings and provides a user interface in which the user is able to see at what level of speed their chip is running at. The internal chipware mainly bestows upon the user variable rates of neural processing speed that range from a level of 1-5. The first level is at the level of allowing users to amuse themselves by watching people talk in slow-motion whereas the final level allows users to theoretically catch bullets mid-air. The chipware activates and deactivates in response to perceived hostile stimuli from the cybernetic optic, thereby removing the need for the user to think consciously in prior models to activate the neuralware. Whilst this option can be altered with choice, it is almost always preferred as it affords the user a measure of reactive reflexive maneuvering without being caught by surprise.

Lest, there are some caveats. Overclocking extends massive amounts of mental strain on the user, meaning that extensive usage of the Kasparovian Neural Overclocker, especially at the highest level, will suffer risk of general nausea, aneurysms, seizures and, worst case scenario, total brain failure. The Kasparovian Neural Overclocker requires the cybernetic optic to be cleansed once a time daily to remove any foreign occlusions within the socket. NooSolutions never managed to fix the bug where the nano-silk arrays impinged onto the user’s hypothalamus, thereby causing extreme hormonal mood-swings during over-usage of the chip-ware. For Mack, overuse of the neural overclocker causes an extreme amount of hunger for sugary products.

//APEX Nodeless Tactile Smart-Link v5.5 - Civilian Edition

Tele-paths. Forging a deeper bond between man and machine. Buy now at APEX. Making you your best.

Tele-Paths or short for Telecommunicative Smart Path allows for the translation of wireless electrical signals from any wireless device to neural code; essentially allowing the user to control any device through direct mental control through the use of an extensive miniaturized transponder stored either within a limb or within their brain.

The Interactive Vehicular Co-Processor Tele-Path created by APEX Industries allows a user to interact with and take control of the functions of a single vehicle only. The 5.5 version has been updated to allow the user to have full mental remote control of their personal vehicle or another smart vehicles, whether land-based or aerial with a nearly instantaneous transmission speed of This allows the user to control all available systems linked through the computer. The Vehicular Tele-Path affords a greater degree of control and precision than most other drivers, being able to control the most minute sub-systems of their vehicle with their mind.

There are several prerequisites in order to properly use the Tele-Path. The vehicle in question must be considered a vehicle that has had their systems replaced with a computerised system in order to be mentally controlled. The user must be within close-range of the vehicle in order to control, which in case of the 5.5, must be at least within 20 meters of the vehicle. The user also is unable to access any smart vehicle that is biometrically or password locked and must provide proper identification before accessing it.

There are also several drawbacks to using the Tele-Path. Any damage received to the vehicle while linked will result in pain being transmitted to the user. Enough shock and damage to the systems of the vehicle may permanently put the user in a coma if they are still linked to the vehicle. Tele-Paths also are measured to have a slight 5.5% risk of causing severe schizophrenia, particularly in regards to giving anthromorphic characteristics to the linked machine.

//Gleipnir Skeletal Maiden

You disobey me again, you'll never step foot in a car again or step foot anywhere for that manner.

The brainchild of the most notorious of Ripper Docs by a man only known in the underworld as ‘Proxy’, the Cardiac Maiden is rumoured to have been the product of a failed illegal corporate experiment done on the the Miami Platforms. Whether or not it was a test or a success, the augmentation - or rather - diminution is a hideous piece of experimental bio-mechanical engineering that serves as a rather effective means of cruel and unusual torture.

This devious little torture device is a series of nano-chips directly implanted into the joints of the user. With activation, the nano-chips release a chemical cocktail that inhibits movements of all the joints of the victim, essentially locking them into place and being trapped within their own body, unable to move. The nano-chips can also be activated to release a chemical inhibitor that neutralizes the chemical and allow the joints to return back to their normal state. The activation of the implant can be controlled via a remote which is currently in the possession of his partner/generous host/hostage taker, Lieutenant Lazlo, leader of the Reclaimers.

EQUIPMENT

//Secedo Armoury A.B.C Model 5AS

Remember, when you want to first shoot, you gotta learn your A.B.Cs! Well, that’s what Secedo is offering with its newest selection of premium A.B.C Model 5 line. Call 4-445-9143 now and get three free Model 4A’s to go along.

You gotta be a real pussy to use a A.B.C.

Seriously, who uses an A.B.C? It’s the wet dog of all modern weapons, the anorexic cat, the limp pre-packaged spam. Are you telling me you couldn’t have gotten something better, you che-

Ugh, fine.

The A.B.C line, colloquially known as the Alphabet Gun, Ass Bullet Crapper, Always Buy China, A.B.C.Dead, is the most ubiquitous line of mass-produced civilian defense weapons in the U.S.A shipped from the Republic of China. Socedo is known for their horrifically sub-par construction compared to other military tech corporations. A.B.C is an anagram that stands for Additive. Binding. Carbopolymerisation which refers to the 3-D printing process that is used to produce this line of weapons en-masse. The cheap carbon-polymer is derived from leftover materials from recycling plants that are mulched and synthesized into an easily moldable macromolecule that is shaped and heated into a gun using online blueprints. The A.B.C is designed first and foremost as a American’s first gun and is marketed as a safe, easily usable weapon for public consumer markets. The gun’s value comes at its nearly unlimited ubiquity, light-weight and cheap pricing, not its quality. The A.B.C line is a weapon for the cheapest of cheapskates.

The Model 5AS is a compact submachine gun that fires 5mm flechettes at a rate of 1250 rounds per minute with a drum magazine of 100 rounds. Due to the nature of its production, the Model 5AS is able to be easily dis-assembled in a moment like a puzzle piece and assembled back with no loss to its function. The Model 5AS is intended mostly for soft targets and you better hold your breathe if you think it can even penetrate the most basic of body armor in one shot. Mack mainly uses the Model 5AS as a hold-out weapon of the last resort and doesn't hold much faith in it as a reliable gun. Mack mainly uses the Model 5AS out of sentimental value and due to the fact that its light-weight nature and ambidextrous grip allows him to fire it from his vehicle if he's caught in a free-way spat.

Which he should.

Because all A.B.C's suck ass.

//Armalance Mk 5.0 Street-Shredder CAS Model S

Armalance. Providing top-of-the-line American Protection since 2020.

Armalance is considered to be the old conservative of every good gun corporation. Sure, they may not do much in the way of revolutionary advancements such as the tactical smart-gun innovations of Fury Vehemetech or the demented suit-breacher rounds of Takakura Security but what they lack in simplicity, they make up in sheer reliable fire-power. The type that makes a booster-thug think twice before they approach someone with one of their products.

One of the maxims of Armalance is ensuring that you only need to shoot once to ensure that's someone dead and that's what they've focused in their Mk5 Street-Shredder. The Street-Sweeper is a break-action single-breeched hi-tech shotgun that's capable of both anti-personnel and anti-vehicular applications. The main reason for its destructive power is the integrated electromagnetic coils in the barrel, that when combined with the custom-forged depleted uranium 10 Gauge 'SoulKraft' shells, is just downright hazardous to the health of anyone pointed down its barrel. The Model S Street Shredder is a scaled-down pistol-sized version of the Model L Street-Sweeper that some gun users may find lacking in close-quarters stability but in no way sacrifices the firepower. It's only got one round but that one round is all you need, sometimes.

//Monica - Modified 2050 Dadaelus-Motorworks Victory Ultra GSX4000

Offering you Victory. One drive at a time.

Daedalus Motorworks may be officially dead in the world of auto-mobile, supplanted by FuryTech, HiSpeed and Pegason Inc but the mythical 2050 Victory Ultra is spoken in hushed words around the circles of the racing industry. Some say it never made it out of the prototypical RnD phase. Some believe it to be a hoax, a mere corporate conspiracy while street-racers and all fellow turbo-blazers believe that it is indeed real. One person is rumoured to have access to one of the very few existing models, the Over_Driver.

Sleek, swift and sexy. It’s venerable. It’s a dream item in any retro car collector’s museum. The 2050 Victory Ultra GSX4000 is the epitome of high-speed urban transportation equipped with the most state of the art revolutionary technology. top theoretical speed of 600 mph, an buttery acceleration of 0-80 mph in 1.1 seconds with titanium alloyed mag-level wheels that completely reduce friction to a non-existent variable all in an astonishing aerodynamic shell comprised of a light-weight machined carbon-aluminium ceramic alloy. It’s powered by a hybrid fusion engine powered by both carbon lattice electro-supercapacitors and high-octane ethanol that measures to about 1750 hp. Every part of it was made with attention to detail and perfection to create the most dynamic and revolutionary urban vehicle in existence. One wonders whether or not it was proposed and designed by some secret speed-freak in Dadaelus Motorworks.

Well, it would have lived up to the hype. Once. The Victory Ultra's systems have been core completely destroyed , mangled and repaired to the point where they are less effective than they once were. No matter how much credits that Mack fishes out, Monica will never be the same car that she once was again. It's top speed has declined to a piddling speed of 250 mph with an acceleration of 0-60 mph in 1.9 seconds. Most of the aerodynamic shell has been replaced with low quality ceramic-titanium shielding. The engine is prone to rare malfunctions, the head-lights sometimes don't turn on and the entire shell is covered in a thin layer of rust. One of the prototypical mag-lev wheels has been replaced with a gyroscopic all-terrain high performance tire. Well, at least, the computerized systems would have

The most innovative quality of the vehicle is its computerized systems which are specifically designed to promote the use of Tele-Path cyberware, allowing for the user to synchronise with the Victory Ultra’s quantum processing chip, combining both machine-like speed and the adaptability of the human brain into one single directive. The consciousness of the user is melded with the onboard camera systems, allowing users to have a 360 degree view of their entire enviroment. Every part of the Victory Ultra GSX5000 can be controlled with stunning precision through the user’s mental control, to inhuman degrees, allowing users to make hairpin turns through the most tightest of roads, stand just millimeters away from bumping with another car and move through the most complex of courses without making a scratch.

However, the Victory Ultra GSX5000 is still a prototype and even prototype are reknown for having glitches, something that Mack has tried to solve over the past decade of having owned Monica. The computer integrated systems of Monica, whilst revolutionary, can impart significant psychological and mental toll on the user they more they continue to tele-path with the vehicle. Mack has managed to stave off the worse of the symptoms but it’s developed to the point where he has clear dissociative personality disorder. As it is a vehicle mainly running on electronic systems, the Victory Ultra is also susceptible to being infected by viruses or having its systems shut down by an EMP blast. The Victory Ultra also is unable to be driven by anyone who doesn’t have the proper cyber-ware to take advantage of its dizzying speed.

//Fury HeavyTech Interface Prism Helmet Mark 4.5

Fury HeavyTech Prism’s. The official Interface Helmet of the 33rd Metro Prix. Buy tickets now!

Every racing driver needs a proper helmet. The Prism has been a popular stand-by of all legal racers who compete in the annual American Metro Prix held in MetroChicago and has been slowly growing in ubiquity into the informal international racing community. The Prism’s main function is protection and it comes in the form of a boron-nitride laminate outer shell combined with the thermo-plast inner shell dampens the effects of kinetic impact and provides a bullet-proof cranial shield. The Prism dampens the effects of inertia through its variable isostatic air pressure and its in-built rebreather allows it to control the user’s level of oxygen gas. The visor is able to be depolarized and repolarized at will.

As an interface helmet, the Prism HUD operates as a miniature data-slate, allowing the user to see information about their vehicle’s instrumentation in real-time (current fuel levels, speed, rpm, current wind levels) as well as being able to access the Net at will.

//Nemeus Fashion Incorporated Twilight Interface Trench-Vest

Nemeus. Fashion and Protection in Every Product You Wear.

Shipped out straight out of Europe, Nemeus Fashion blends high-value protection and presentability in The Twilight Trench-Vest using their innovations in tetra-weave technology and reactive materials. The Twilight-Trench Vest consists of a high-brimmed collared jacket and a form-fitting body suit that electrostatically moulds itself around the user’s body. The tetra-weave in the Twilight Trench Vest consists of an outer epoxide laminate nano-weave for general ablative protection, a liquid-crystalline layer of reactive gel for shock absorption, a series of ceramic-titanium composite alloy plating for ballistic protection and an circuit-laced elasto-fabric for interfacing with any cybernetic augmentations the user might have on hand. Seeing as Mack has none, this provides no advantage whatsoever. The right arm of the suit displays a holo bio-monitor that fully monitors the user’s heart-beat, their rate of breathing and their other vital activities that can be turned off and on. The brim of the collar can be altered to electrostatically latch onto the user’s neck. The overall apperance of the Twilight Trench-Vest mimics the track suits used by racers in the 2010s.

SKILLS (Feel free to list a few and elaborate a bit.)

//A Grand-Master of Locomotion

“ I’m the Overlord of the Wheel. That’s why they call me the OverDriver.”

In the world of drivers, to achieve the name of OverDriver means that you are one hell of a driver amongst cybernetically enhanced turbo-blazers, drug-injecting bokozotsu and street-racers pimped out with barely legal automobiles. Mack is one of the best drivers in the entire world - a world that whispers his name in fear but doesn’t know who he truly is. He can perform feats at over 100 miles per hour such as inertia drifting, power-sliding, hairpin turning, driving in the rain and dark with his headlights turned off, driving whilst blindfolded, powering through a traffic jam at 100 mph without scuffing, timing like clockwork anyone, it’s easier to say what he can’t do and anything that he does seems to defy the laws of physics. If you’re in a race with him, it’s already confirmed that you’re going to lose, no matter what vehicle is in, whether it’s a electro-cycle, an ATV, a muscle car or a friggin’ bicycle. Combined with his encyclopedic knowledge of everything automobile to the intricacies of racing makes him a dangerous opponent for anyone who wishes to take him on with a wheel. Combined with his Kasparovian Booster-Ware and his Tele-Path increases his already supernatural driving skills to those of a god.

Don't under-estimate the Over_Driver in his territory because once you do, you're already roadkill.

//Automobile Surgeon

“ A car is not a tool. It’s your friend. It’s your baby. You best know how to take care of your friend.”

Mack is generally educated on how to properly maintain and repair his vehicle and any other automobiles similar to his own, although not to the same extent nor expertise as Ripper-Docs would have in their craft. In fact, it’s a frustration of his that his skills are unable to restore Monica back to her former glory. Most of his skills are derived from his early childhood working in the pits of the Detroit Stacks and generally picking up tips and tricks from other better-skilled auto-mechanics over the years. He’s generally able to identify the simplest solutions for the most annoying of malfunctions and knows his way around a wrench or a welding tool. Just don’t expect him to give your car a massive makeover or fashion a new one from scratch.

FLAWS

//KEEP ON MOVING AND NEVER STOP

" THAT'S IT! One on one, no booster-ware, no headlights, Tartarus Pass, right now!"

Though, the soul of the Turbo-Blazer has dimmed within him over the past few years spent in the ennui of a Taxi Driver, it can sometimes flare up if he receives a challenge or whether his pride on the road is challenged. Whenever Mack is behind the wheel, it's to be expected that he'll take the most adrenaline-pumping and dangerous courses to go through rather than through the safe ones, justifying to himself that it was a necessary action. Mack often risks himself and his passengers rather unnecessarily in his choices, even if they make it out alive. It's clear that he can't keep walking on the edge of death forever and one wonders when his bravery will soon be the end of him.

//Greenhorn

Mack is extremely lacking in close-quarter combat skills and long-range combat skills, essentially being rendered ineffective without something to drive. His aim with any weapon is so horrendously bad and shaky that the target has to be at point-blank range in order to land, perhaps, a decent hit that will kill him. He barely knows his way around a punch, a kick and any confrontation with any adequately trained individual is likely to become a lop-sided battle that will end up becoming a slaughter.

//A-addiction? W-what addiction?

After years of tele-pathing with Monica, Mack's Kasparovian Over-Clocker has irrevocably altered his hypothalamus, thereby causing him to have an extreme craving for anything sugary and high-content in saccharine substances. This has become a full-blown addiction where Mack can't survive without chewing or gnawing on a candy bar or something sweet for 15 minutes. Without his supply of candy, Mack is liable to become extremely angsty and jittery to the point where it cripples his train of rational thought.

//Filthy Corpo Scum

Mack has had a long history with corporations and needless to say, he's ultimately wary of them. He possesses a pre-disposed bias towards any corporate representative, especially one of the dominant Mega-Corporations, and will act towards them in a manner that one might consider rude. Though he doesn't possess a hatred of them so much so that it could be considered vengeful, it's a hatred that's been fostered through years of corporate repression and living in abject relative poverty in the Stacks.

//The Car Talks

Due to prolonged tele-pathing with the computerised systems of the Velocity , Mack now suffers from a relatively benign form of SPECS that manifests as auditory hallucinations where he believes his car is talking to him. These hallucinations come in short painful bouts, particularly when he tele-paths with Monica for long periods of time, and can hamper his train of thought. This may soon develop into full-blown dementia or severe bi-polar personality disorder if Mack doesn’t recognise the nature of his mental condition.

---

Don't you see my condition, my fiction has gone running again. Can't you see now, illusions right into your mind...

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 (Cyberpunk, Lore-Rich, Political Intrigue and Action)

Count me tentatively interested....

Santa Celia: Coast to Coast

---

MOSES MULLER - THE LAST ARTISTONANCER.

---

I see colours. Hundreds of colours. Thousands. Pouring, flowing, boiling ,drowning. Drowning. Drowning me slowly. Purple. Green. Vermillion. Cerulean. Crimson. Orange. A rainbow. A kaleidoscope. A turbulent ocean of fresh palettes. Every wave a picture. Every tide a collage boiling. A tsunami of lost and empty muses that ebb and bob aimlessly.

I bleed black and white. Red and blue. Green and yellow. Rivers of colours that disappears into the abyss. Tributaries of pigments that branch out from my mind. The colours of my arteries, my veins, my heart, my soul that flow into the swirling basin of grief. Blood that can be used to paint both achievements and failures.

Something begins to pull me out. Someone. Throwing me a life-vest, a buoy, something to hold onto in this cursed sea. They pull me out. They tell me to wake up. They wash away the colours. They tell me what I am. They can’t tell me who I am.

Who am I?

---

He wakes up as a beam of sunlight crosses his face. His eyebrows flit suddenly as he wakes up to the sight of his room once more. The familiar briny smell of Rook Harbour fills his lungs as he slowly stands up. He notices that something has gone wrong entirely by the time he’s on his two feet. He peels open the curtains, hoping to see Santa Celia.

Only it’s not Santa Celia. The skies had been washed in a pale shade of sepia blue, the alabaster clouds like glaring cosmic storms crafted from thick wax paint and the currents of the wind decorated in sequins and string like a kindergartener’s first drawing. The walls were hewn out of musty oil paints and the air dollar-store water-paint. It looked some sort of demented joint art project made out of the efforts of a thousand artists, scrambling together to find a singular direction.

“ Beautiful, isn’t it?”

He turns around to find the source of the voice, only to be met with a strange sight. Not a person but a constantly ever-shifting body of children, animals and men. It was not unlike the body of the distortion he faced earlier except his composition seemed to be at peace with one another. The colour of its hair, skin and eyes were constantly in a state of change, fluctuating wildly. Every blink came a new body and a new face. The entity’s form rippled and shifted in place for moments before it eventually stabilised into a reflection of himself.

Moses felt the inner muscles of his throat close up like an iron vice, as he struggled to murmur the question.

“ Are you my mural?”

“ Yes and no,” The entity - mural spoke back with an unnerving tic “The other murals have...moved on. Washed away by time’s tide and the silence of shock at your actions. We were the only one strong enough to survive by feasting on each of their essence so that we could hang onto the dredges of your subconscious.”

“ So, how many murals - “ Moses took a step back, his voice quavering as he softly murmured with a tinge of fear. “ did you exactly….kill?”

“ 34 murals.” The mural began to notice Moses growing fear and then, tried to assuage him. “ I wouldn’t say kill. More like consenting to euthanasia. We only feasted on those who permitted me to do so. They felt no pain throughout the process if that’s what you’re worried about. We are the amalgam of every mural in your soul. ”

“ You - you,” Moses stuttered, trying to control his growing level of horror towards this twisted reflection of himself. “

The mural then began to circle around him like an wolf - no, more like a cat - appraising him with every pass of his eyes.

“ We were waiting for the right time when you would break out of this self-imposed exile of yours, Moses. An Artistonancer shouldn’t shield himself away from his true abilities, just as a fish shouldn’t walk out of water. Burying it all up inside you - it can be unhealthy. Even Gerald Muller wouldn’t have wished this fate upon you. ”

“ Not as unhealthy as Artistonancy. Now, let me out of here,” Moses face darkened in anger when the entity mentioned his uncle’s name, shouldering past him and searching for a way out of the room.

“ Then, pray tell, answer me this. What happens if more distortions come out and find you?”

Moses froze in the middle of his motions and the entity capitalised on his doubt, the palpable fear that radiated off him like a lighthouse signal in a dark shore.

“ What happens if more people discover your abilities? What then, Moses Muller? You think burning our history would absolve you of your heritage? You truly have no idea what the mantle of an Aristonancer means, Moses Muller. You are still dwelling within the doldrums of your guilt.”

Moses crumpled onto himself like a scrunched ball of paper, leaning back against the mache walls of his home and curling upon himself like a tangled piece of hair. He looks at him - the murals - a mural with a gaze of isolation, walls that he’d built up for himself in the last 3 years crashing down upon him.

“ Then, I don’t want the mantle. I’m just an street artist. I didn’t ask for this.”

There’s a hitched breath of frustration and then, sympathy - no - empathy as his reflection begins to speak towards him once more, this time more careful with his words.

“ Leonardo Da Vinci never did. Pablo Picasso never did. Vincent Van Gogh never did. Andy Warhol never did. Bob Ross never did. Artistonancy is born in the most unlikely of souls, from the lowliest of peasants to the most royal of kings. Every artistonancer in the world was in the same position as you are right now, Moses. They experienced triumph, failure and regrets but it’s how you live with those experiences that marks the true test of an artist. Every artist was an amateur when they first began. ”

His reflection places a hand on his shoulder that feels like they’re placing the weight of the world on him. “ We’re not asking you to uphold the mantle, but to do something with it. Can you promise us that?”

Moses looks at the shifting hand on his shoulder, ever-constantly gripping tight and transforming between that of a young child, an old geriatric man and even a chimpanzee and then, at his own shaking hands. Hands that wrought, shaped and forged mistakes and miracles. He clenches them for a moment, his face a stormy cyclone of indecision, before looking upwards towards his reflection, resolute.

“ I can, but -, “ He hesitates “ I don’t know how to do it.”

His reflection chuckles.

“ That’s what murals are for.”

The room around him begins to disintegrate into a cliff-side, eroded limestone and granite being pounded by the gentle swathes of the tide, as he stands on the brink of an ocean of colour. He looks back with trepeditation, taking a few steps towards the edge before turning back towards his reflection, unsure of himself.

“ How can you - all of you - forgive me just like that? After everything that I’ve done?, “ he says as his reflection approaches him, splitting slowly into an entire crowd of Artistonancers with centuries of hands slowly pushing him over the edge. They all smile.

“ You never forgot. That’s enough.”

He falls, plunging into the depths below. No, rising into the depths above. He closes his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable -

---

He wakes up as a beam of sunlight crosses his face. His eyebrows flit suddenly as he wakes up to the sight of his room once more. The familiar briny smell of Rook Harbour fills his lungs as he slowly stands up. He notices that something has gone wrong entirely by the time he’s on his two feet. He peels open the curtains, hoping to see Santa Celia.

It’s Santa Celia in all of its unvarnished, dilapidated glory. The skies had been washed in a pale shade of sepia blue, the alabaster clouds like glaring cosmic storms crafted from thick wax paint and the currents of the wind decorated in sequins and string like a kindergartener’s first drawing. The walls were hewn out of musty oil paints and the air dollar-store water-paint. It looked some sort of demented joint art project made out of the efforts of a thousand artists, scrambling together to find a singular direction.

Just like his dream.

Moses then closes the window and looks at the shattered ruins of the room around him. He scratches his head for a moment, before looking at his tattoo with a solemn gaze. Wondering. Just maybe. He then presses his fingers deep into the pentagram of writing utensils, reaching deep into the faded ink that he applied himself all those years ago. His fingers burns with an fire, no, an raging cataclysm of ethereal energy that he invokes with every push that he makes. His lower abdomen contracts and feels on the edge of rupturing from the effort of it all, like an untrained lay-man trying to bench-press as an Olympic weightlifter. The pain stops and he opens his eyes. An indescribable feeling of thrill and excitement, a rush that he hasn't felt in what seems like almost decades, fills his nerves as he dances the trinket in between his hands, looking through the window as he does so.

In his hand, a simple pencil and Santa Celia, his canvas.

LET US BEGIN.

“ Could you please stop shouting? It’s getting really annoying.”

Sorry.

Santa Celia: Coast to Coast

---

Moses Muller

---

“Crap. Crap. Crap.”

Moses prayed under his breath, weaving, side-stepping and dodging like a drunkard as the distortion moved towards him like a living chainsaw, shredding all in its path. He took a moment to curse the Law of Life; that arbitrary limitation in his magic that had given birth to this monstrosity.

Moses continued his mad attempts to fight the distortion, using the pan in his hand as more of a shield rather than a sword. He wasn’t a fighter with 20 different degrees in a myriad of obscure martial arts. He was a twenty-year old street-artist, for crying out loud! A wild swipe elicited a yelp out of him as he awkwardly dodged it, raising his pan up to defend himself once more. Facing the distortion with a weapon was far more terrifying than facing him without one. It was lashing out wildly like a feral animal, contorting its body into a series of scorpion-like tentacles. Moses bit back a curse as one of its arms missed his head and instead, broke one of his canvas painting inwards.

One thing was for certain, though. He shouldn’t have been able to fight like this for so long. His stick-thin, caffeine addicted, lay-man body was begging to be broken apart. He didn’t know why he felt like he was getting stronger the longer the fight went on. Being close to the pan was like the rush after having eaten a home-cooked meal. There was a little more bounce in his steps, a vigour that couldn’t be gained through a coffee binge. Moses sloppilly ducked a wild swing that cleaved a ceramic mug in twain, the edge of his pan skidding on top of the cheap plastic counter-top. With every growing second, the heat of the pan handle grew into an warm inferno that suffused every molecule in his body. Unnatural strength filled his veins as he stumbled, dodging a charge and slamming the pan down on the backside of the distortion.

He needed to find an opening soon. The distortion made another wild charge for him, Moses pressing his back against the wall before narrowly escaping certain death as it plowed straight into it like an angry rhino. Its head was momentarily embedded as the distortion tried to dislodge itself.

There!

Moses slammed the pan downwards on the creature with a untrained, shaky blow, waiting for the inevitable crunch of skull, bone, meat or whatever the hell the creature was made of, bracing for the wet impact…..

Except it never came.

The damn distortion had caught the pan in one of its multi-digited limbs, ignoring the fact that its limbs were searing and charring upon contact with the pan. It reminded him of burning kerosene as Moses choking on the odorous fumes. Hell, if he wasn’t mistaken, it almost seem to be enjoying the pain, given the fact that it was transfixed on his trinket like a toy.

“ Hmm, all of this pain is...exciting. It seems you do still possess your magics…..”

It began to insert the pan into its open maw, crushing it and chewing it apart like hard candy, even as its body continued to melt apart under the sheer heat that the trinket was emitting. Well, it was distracted. For the moment. Moses slowly walked backwards in horror before he bumped into a desk with a binder of white paper and several pencils. He looked between it and the distortion, the gears crunching in his head, as a determined look came over his face. He grabbed a pencil and began to speed-draw in practiced motions, his eyes fidgeting between his drawing and the distortion.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t be too slow….

The distortion had finished devouring his pan and rounded upon him, not minding the fact that half of its body was covered in emberous burns with ash flaking off its multi-coloured skin. It had a shivering look of pleasure on its face, not minding the hideous amount of wounds covering its body. It looked around for him in the darkly lit room, a dozen blinking irises protruding out of its head.

“ Now, what were we - “

Before it could even react, Moses ran towards it with a nervous expression on his face and grasping what seemed like a miniature pineapple. He was holding onto it like it was a hot potato, sweat beading on his left palm. He ripped the leafy fronds off with his teeth and spat it out before doing the unthinkable. The distortion was too late to stop Moses from ramming the trinket in its throat, pushing his elbow deep past its teeth. He pushed further before he yelled in pain and wrenched his hand out, nursing it.

The distortion immediately backed away from him, clawing at its throat and hacking like a one-lunged smoker. It stumbled on its legs as it tripped and fell backwards through Moses shattered window, never bothering to break its eternal stare at him. Moses ran toward the window, peering out as its body fell on top of a garbage bin and flattened it apart. There was a sudden flash of light, the sounds of paint splattering onto the walls and then, nothing. Moses lowered his arms which stopped him from being blinded and nearly vomited at the scene. The lower half of the distortion had been blown apart into smithereens, paint strewn out from a mangled body with several of its limbs strewn across the entire lower alley-way. A second later, a shockwave of wailing filled in the apartment block as windows lighted up. The light scent of pineapple cocktail strewn with oil paint poured out from the window with the warbling echoes of a screeching laugh.

He managed to breathe a sign of elation before buzzing began to fill his head.

“ YOUR MAGIC IS LIKE A MUSCLE, MULLER."

His heart thudded like a rusty engine. His feeet began to stumble.

" WHAT HAPPENS TO YOUR MUSCLES IF YOU DON’T USE THEM?”

Dark ants crawled over his vision as he fainted, unconscious even before he hit the ground.

" PERHAPS, THERE IS HOPE FOR YOU STILL."

Santa Celia: Coast to Coast

I’m coming to town next week with another post.

Santa Celia: Coast to Coast

MOSES MULLER

---

8th September, 2014 - Santa Celia Police Headquarters - CONFESSION IN-3458

MOSES MULLER: I don’t remember anything before Uncle Gerald died. I found his body by accident. End of story.

INTERROGATOR: Kid, your uncle didn’t just die. Five people died alongside your uncle that die and detectives spotted a trail of prints directly from your uncle’s classroom. Their bodies were half-incinerated, some looked like they got mauled by a grizzly. You mind explaining how that happened?

MOSES MULLER: I don’t know. Uncle Gerald died. I found his body by accident. I - I don’t remember anything. End of story.

INTERROGATOR: Kid, even a deaf bat can tell that you’re not telling the truth.

MOSES MULLER: I don’t know. Uncle Gerald died. I found his body by accident. End of story.

INTERROGATOR: Tell me the truth. Your uncle didn’t just die. Something else happened that day. I can see it in your eyes. That sweating brow of yours. You’re lying.

MOSES MULLER: I don’t know what happened. I swear to god, that -

INTERROGATOR: ‘Uncle Gerald died. I found his body by accident. End of story.’ You think people are just to take that for an answer -?

MOSES MULLER: I DON’T KNOW! What do you want me to say? That I killed him. It just happened so fast. There was blood everywhere and I tried to stop it in time and I tried to pull her off Uncle Gerald and next thing I know, I get knocked down to the ground. I wake up and the next thing I saw was fire around me. There wasn’t anything left of his fa-God.

It’s me.

I - Oh god - I should have saved him.

I killed him.

Oh god, I killed him.

Why?

INTERROGATOR 2: C’mon, get out here, Simon, you broke the poor kid. Look, Moses, you didn’t kill your Uncle, you didn’t kill your Uncle. Who was it? A woman - A man - Give me a name -

---

The pencil splintered in half, the top half of it bouncing off a linoleum seat to his right and onto the floor of the public bus. Mo’s hands still grasped the fragments of the broken pencil, moving and sketching a ghost drawing onto the notebook. He paused in his breathe, realising that everyone next to him was now looking at him as he put the notebook back into his rucksack. Well, only two people. That being, an old grandmother and a shifty man who was tucked back within the shadows of the truck, a pungent oil-like aroma sticking to his clothes. He massaged his right hand, taking out a loose splinter that was caught in between his index knuckles.

The bus rolled to a lurching stop, shuffling backwards and forwards before the hydraulic doors opened with a hiss. He stepped off and began to walk towards his flat, Rhombus’s pizza carefully stowed under the crook of his right elbow and his spray-painting supplies packed in his rucksack. Glenvale was located on the outskirts of the urban fringe of Santa Celia, near one of the main roads that led into the towering monolithic structure of Rook Bridge. It was a 5 story tall building that was squat and sheltered between the walls of two other apartment buildings like a scrawny kid shouldered between two jocks.

Moses began to walk towards the apartment doors, his mind still locked in thought while that same oily odour lingered around. Hell, if he thought about it - maybe, it was just the paint on his jacket. He sniffed the air once again, only to taste the familiar scent of sweat and pickled paint accrued after a long day at work. Giving a brief wave to the guard on duty, Moses entered the entrance and began to walk up at a brisk pace up towards his own room. A minute later of wondering why the concept of elevators hadn’t reached Glendale yet, Moses thumping footsteps, laden with fatigue, reached the front of his door. Number 105.

The door clicked and opened with a rusty whine. Moses waved his arms blindly in the darkness, feeling for the walls before managing to locate the small switch. He flipped it on and the low humming glow of incandescent light bulbs filled the apartment. It was more like a makeshift art studio. Unfinished sketches and paintings filled and crammed every corner of the room. There was a menagerie of pencil and marker sketches tacked to the right wall. A pile of overflowing scribbles choked the waste-bin. Moses signed as he palmed his paint-speckled face, dropping his rucksack and pizza onto his moth-eaten bed, ready to drop onto it and have a good night of sleep.

Then, something wet and sticky wrapped around his lower foot, causing to fall and face-plant onto the sodden wooden floorboards. He groaned as his body was slowly dragged and lifted up, choking at the smell of noxious fumes of burnt paint. He then felt coarse digits, thick as meat-shop sausages, wrapped around the edges of his jacket before his entire back was slammed against the wall with unnatural strength. He blinked for a second, taking a moment to put his senses together, before retching at the sight at what was in front of him.

The man’s features were contorted like some sort of obscure abstract painting by a psychopath, every orifice in his face in the wrong location yet still somehow talking. His clothes were made out of a combination of old art-room manila paper and crumpled newspaper. Droplets of wet thinning oil fell of its chin. There was a wet soggy path of paint that dripped behind him, leeching permanently into the surfaces of the room and seemingly fusing it with his entire painted body. It shouldn't have moved or existed yet it was animated with grotesque movements. Something stretched and cracked on its face to produce sound, as it spoke in the mixture of a high-pitched woman’s voice and the slurred masculine voice of a drunkard.

“ Never clean up your messes, do you, Aristonancer?”

Wha -

Moses didn’t have time to respond as the man threw him across the room, his body flailing around mid-air for a moment before crashing into a canvas bed and breaking it in half. He struggled to stand up, cringing at the pangs of broken ribs in his chest before he was once again grabbed by the neck and forced face to face with the entity.

“ Then, again, I guess you inherited it from Gerald.”

How? -

He was slammed again back towards the wall several times in a row savagely without any mercy whatsoever. The wind had been taken out of his lungs before the distortion began to choke him, placing both its melted fingers across his neck and pressing like a vice clamp. It whispered towards him, a playful cadence in its voice.

“ Come on, Moses, show me. Show me like you showed Gerald.”

It somehow knew his name. Dark spots began to dance in Moses vision as he gasped like a beached fish, his mouth open and begging for air but receiving nothing. He needed to get out of this situation. His arms wildly flopped around, searching for anything to use as a weapon. He could feel nothing except for the canvas, the paper, his paintings, all useless. He was nothing. He was going to die in this apartment, alone and -

FOOL, HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN YOUR PURPOSE?

No. That was impossi-

YOU KNOW THAT THERE IS ONLY ONE WAY TO BANISH THE DISTORTION.

Moses turned his head towards the right. A blurry white canvas. A half-finished painting. It would be better than nothing. He began to reach out towards the canvas slowly, his fingers crawling towards it for just one touch, the distortion slowly throttling him harder and harder and when he did touch it -

Nothing happened.

Before everything filled with colour.

An aurora of burning energy seared the nerves in his right hand as he sunk it into the painting. A kaleidoscope of radiant colours, like an rainbow atomic bomb going off in slow motion, filled his vision for a moment whilst he concentrated to wrestle the energy under his control. It was a sensation akin to finding a lost puzzle piece and inserting it into himself. His heart trembled with nervous excitement as he drew out the object. No, the trinket.

He felt the distortion’s grasp on him grew weak as it drew backwards, growling at the sight of the trinket in his hands. He coughed, his neck bright red from the pressure of the creature’s hold. He took a gander at his drawn trinket - the first one that he’d summoned in years - and then, frowned in frustration.

Seriously, a frying pan?

In his hands was a large metallic green pan that was folded like origami, hurting his mind the more he looked at it. He recognized where it came from. It was a art project that he’d kept out of nostalgia from Arido that was an attempt at imitating cubism. It glowed like melted glass, a soft candle-light suffusing the darkness of his flat. Its smooth grip had a waxy consistency to it. It was the complete opposite of 'intimidating'.

Well, there was no use complaining now.

He looked at the intricate cooking implement in his hand and then, at the monster in front of him. A second extended into an eternity of befuddled thoughts, nerve-wracking anxiety and trepeditation. The distortion craned its neck curiously before a pleasurable sign came out of its mouth, as if in anticipation.

“Finally.”

His grasp tightened onto his weapon - frying pan - as the distortion lunged towards him in a feral movement.

He raised the trinket with a gulp.

And then charged his past head on.

Bork Lazer's Storage Bunker

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CHARACTER CONCEPT#1/FANDOM:POKEMON

gritty-urban-supernatural-crime-thriller

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Turquoise Delton - Retired Criminal

Crime doesn't pay but you do pay with your soul.

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(=0=)

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Birth Name

Aloysius Leonardo Cunnington

Aliases

- Hans Ashton
- The Fool's Hand
- Temporary Agent
- Blank

Age

29

Appearance

Like the setting of the sun and the rise of the moon, Turq’s external appearances change throughout the day, shedding his skin constantly like a Kecleon to suit the local environment around him, shifting ever-constantly between a man of mundanity and a creature of criminality in plain sight. First impressions of Turq usually leave the curious satisfied and deter the insecure qualms of the suspicious with a single glance. Turq seemingly prospers within the aesthetic of contemporary life yet underneath that civilized facade of his lies the subtle hint of ethereal shackles that chain him to a past that clings onto his very body. However, despite his tendencies for his ever-changing looks, he carries an air of consummate professionalism about him, annoyingly immaculate in his overall adornment and toes the line between the stations of the upper and lower class.

Standing at a deceiving height of 5’9, Turq’s milquetoast features belies a imposing weathered muscular physique forged from years of strenuous exercise and exhilarating criminal escapades. His corded muscles are lined with a number of post-traumatic scars from head to toe, each of them a moral of his story, ranging from healed incisions from a Picharisu’s Hyper Fang, a sliced nail from a rogue Bisharp, a patch of will’o’wisp burns from a mischievous Litwick and a long scar delivered by an angered Cubchoo. The knuckles of his fists are coated in calloused white welts and thick blemishes that cover his palms. Whilst the erosion and decay of ennui has begun to set into his body noticeably over the past few years, he is still fit in build.

When one meets face to face with Turq for the first time, they almost immediately notice the heavy-set face that brags a family history of violence and intimidation. His ridged forehead, a flat angled nose and a rectangular face makes one assume that he’s of rural ethnicity, a brutish background so to speak. His cheeks have a tint of red to them with a row of sleepless dark bags underneath his black eyes. Surrounding his long chined demeanour is a shaved bush of autumn-red hair that’s browning at the fringes.

In terms of fashion, Turq’s collection of button-up shirts and long pants is pretty eclectic, ranging from the most epicurean in Kalosian fashion, or the most mundane in Kantonese apparel. During his normal day-to-day hours, Turq prefers to wear a mixture of formal suits in a palette of light colors. During his nightly sojourns, a trench-coat is his main form of apparel. Regardless, he is never seen without his signature wide-brimmed pork-pie hat that brings a shadow over his entire face.

Personality

Turq is an wizened individual, far more experienced than one should be at his age, who displays all of the most paradoxical traits of a career criminal: honourable but cunning, honest but deceiving, gentle yet brutal and irrational but pragmatic. He is a man of consummate professionalism and dislikes any behaviour that he deems to be unprofessional or unbefitting of the person’s position or stature. After spending the majority of his youth dwelling in the criminal underworld, Turq is wallowing. He takes no pleasure nor does he take in any sense of achievement in his criminal dealings, only seeing them as a means to an end.

Biography

Skills

//Black-Collar Criminal

//Underground Trainer

//Hustler

//School of Hard Knocks

//Master of Disguise

//The Iron Chef

//Cosmopolitan

//Web of Ears

Weaknesses

//Money, Money, Money

//Street Rules

//Infamous

//Red Ledger

//Chronic Gambler

//Scars of the Past

Equipment

Pokemon

<sub>//CROCHET | CHATOT | FEMALE |KEEN EYE | HASTY

//DOODLE | SMEARGLE | MALE | TECHNICIAN | SASSY

//VEIL | DITTO | MALE | IMPOSTER | IMPISH

//DYNAMO | ROTOM | MALE | LEVITATE | CALM

//PLUTARCH | PORYGONv2.3 | MALE | DOWNLOAD | MODEST

//GREMLIN | SABLEYE | FEMALE | PRANKSTER | IMPISH</sub>

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