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2 mos ago
Current I do that too but nobody seems to appreciate it
4 likes
4 mos ago
happy birthday to freedom
2 likes
5 mos ago
Come on down to Myriad Reality and celebrate Pride month with us! The Bible tells us gays are icky! YAY
5 mos ago
"Please, no homosexual relationships or activities of the sort. It'd be easier for all of us if it's not mentioned at all without creating a huge ordeal" That's gonna be an OMEGA-YIKES from me dawg
13 likes
5 mos ago
why isn't the status bar exclusively used for sing alongs of Nickelback songs? we're really under-utilizing the technology we were gifted, folks
3 likes

Most Recent Posts


:: Streets of Thorinn // Thorinn ::


"Look who finally decided to show back up." Graves spun around on his heel, his annoyance plain to see. The last thing he'd been looking to do when he dragged his hungover ass out of bed was to stumble around the city streets, asking random strangers where one of his party members had run off to- it taking so long was just the shit icing on top of an already shitty cake.

He looked back at the motley crew they'd acquired by sheer coincidence, shrugging his shoulders at her 'some extras' comment. "Might be we can get some use outta them." He lowered his voice somewhat, glancing at the passersby as if they could be planning to steal his brilliant plan. "Tess n' I might'a come up with a way to feed ourselves 'till the game's fixed. Was mostly my idea, but she helped too. And before you so rudely decided to run off, we were 'bout to tell ya."

He'd been mulling it over since leaving the tavern, but the more he thought on it the more he realized Tessa was right. They'd been stuck in Pariah Online for over a week now without any word from the dev team. Whatever was going on in the real world, he couldn't guess, but he knew they couldn't keep to a holding pattern forever. Eventually their reward money from the first dungeon would run out, and they wouldn't have any means to sustain themselves. The whole...'risking going brain-dead thing' wasn't great, but starving to death in a video game sounded equally shit to him.

Graves spun around and began to speak louder, addressing the whole band of brigands. "How'd you all feel 'bout joinin' in on a business venture?"


Location: New York City, New York -- City Streets


A tiny black dot appeared in the smoke-choked sky, beginning its rapid approach toward the embattled street. A high pitched whistling followed behind the missile as it began to grow and morph the closer it drew. What was once a dot became a basketball, then a beach ball, and continued to balloon until limbs were furling off of it and the whistle had become a deafening roar.

Not a moment later it slammed into the asphalt with an ear-splitting crack, sending debris spraying in all directions. Bits of concrete and dirt fell from the air like drops of rain. A figure rose out of the newly formed crater, steam obscuring much of his form. All that was really visible was the object fluttering behind him in the wind and the bright red S on his chest.

Kon-El tripped as he tried to climb out of his self-made hole, the tattered remains of his jacket clinging to his shoulders and back. 'Wind resistant, huh? Yeah right.' He let out an annoyed huff, tearing the material off of him and letting it fall into the dust as he clambered back to his feet. He took a moment to shake off the failed landing and surveyed the chaos before him, doing his best to ignore the overwhelming stimuli assaulting his senses.

A building was on fire, lit up by a dozen chemical accelerants, all of 'em with their own unique, terrible scent that he couldn't place. Cars, trucks and a passenger bus were scattered across the roadway, likely tossed by whatever explosion had destroyed that building and set its ruins ablaze. There were people, too. Some hurt, some dead, the rest in various stages of panic.

Then there were the aliens.

Reptilians of some kind. Giant, lipless lizards with bodies like gorillas and eyes burning with otherworldly hate. They towered over Kon and were covered in armored scales that could stop bullets like a brick wall stops a breeze. Those spears they carried- or staves, maybe- were firing beams of energy of some kind. Nasty things, whatever they were, and they looked like they were doing a number on the girl. The...orange-skinned girl.

"I'm gonna guess ya'll aren't from around here!" The Kryptonian boy boomed as he started toward the fight at a walk. "So consider this your one and only chance to get outta here before I-"

Something hit his chest. Hard.

He felt his feet leave the ground, then his back hit it once, twice, and again before he finally came to a skidding halt against an overturned semi-truck.

"Ouch." Kon-El muttered, rubbing the back of his head where it had dented the truck's undercarriage behind him. He noticed the reptile standing over him just long enough to flinch before it wrapped its gargantuan claws around his neck and lifted him into the air.

His feet were dangling underneath him. In the distance, just behind the monster's head, he could see the alien girl continuing her desperate fight against the mass of reptiles. There had to be eight of 'em, at least. A tiny sliver of blood traced its way down from Conner's nose, and, despite himself, he grinned. "Have it your way."
Time didn't exist in places like this- that was the first thing Norman Osborn had learned in SHIELD's rehabilitation facility. Without clocks or a window to watch the sun cross the sky, it became increasingly difficult to track the days. Counting out the hours as he sat in his cell had worked, for a time, but after about the sixteenth day it all started to blend together. After that it was all a guessing game, really. By his estimation it'd been anywhere from a month to three, though for all he knew things like space and time operated differently here.

Wherever the hell here actually was, Osborn assumed he'd never know.

Somewhere in deep space was his first guess. The aliens in the crowd and the presence of impossibly advanced technology pointed to that fact. Yet, for some reason, nearly all of his captors appeared to be human. The Skrulls were more than capable of stealing a man's face, but this...this wasn't them. He couldn't be sure why, but he knew in his gut that this was different. This was something worse.

Thoughts of escape came and went on occasion. Those moments after a particularly successful day in the arena offered him hope enough to try and formulate some sort of plan. He'd spend days on each one, crafting them with the meticulous eye for detail he'd developed over the decades. Trying to track guards. Looking for even the smallest imperfections in his cell, or that damned, chaffing collar. He never found one. This place was flawless, designed with the utmost care by someone who very clearly knew what they were doing.

Mojo.

There was some tiny, twisted part of him that could appreciate the death games for what they were- enjoy them, even. It was that shard of violent delights that Norman could never seem to truly shake. It visited him, sometimes, when the despair set in. Did it know when Norman was most vulnerable? Or was it always there, and he only ever noticed it when he was at his lowest? It didn't matter. Even if he was damned to spend eternity in these halls, Osborn wouldn't indulge it. He couldn't, not so long as there remained even the tiniest sliver of a chance that he'd be free one day.

And there was always going to be that chance: because he was Norman Osborn. And Norman Osborn doesn't lose. He'd find his way out of here, eventually. Somehow. He was the greatest mind mankind had to offer, and he'd be damned if some alien freak was the one that conquered him. He had too much to accomplish to fail here. Failure was simply not an option.

The guard finally came for him, as it always did. Sometimes he wondered if it was always the same guard that came for him, or if they all shared that same, expressionless face. He'd tried asking it, once, but it hadn't much appreciated the question, so he hadn't bothered asking it anything else. He went through the painstaking process of dragging himself from his cot for the...sixth time, if he's been counting correctly, and allowed himself to be led down the twisting, dark halls of this strange prison.

Something changed along the way. They went down a new path, one Osborn didn't recognize. He became far more alert as they went, taking in all of the new information as he tried to understand why they'd taken a new direction. Part of him was curious, another part glad to have the monotony broken up, and still yet another that was afraid of what might await him.

It never showed. Norman always walked in long, confident strides, his head held high and his eyes as sharp as iron. Even without his armor to protect his aging body, the man had an aura of confidence about him so powerful and intoxicating that made him look nearly invincible. He couldn't rightly remember a time in his life when he didn't walk like this, only that he'd learned to perfect it when he rose to become one of America's premier arms dealers and businessmen.

A light appeared at the end of another hallway, temporarily blinding him as he was led straight into it. It took several moments for his eyes to adjust to it before he was able to see this new room he'd been brought to. It was far larger than anything he'd seen outside of the arena thus far, and filled with something else he hadn't expected to ever see again.

People.

Other prisoners, like him, if the collars were anything to go by- the first real proof he wasn't alone here. There were two of them, each led by a guard much like the one beside him and each utterly silent. The first was...a boy. A young one, perhaps twelve or thirteen, if he had to guess. He looked rather frightened to be there, and quite out of place. Osborn had only survived through the games by the skin of his teeth, burning through ammo and power far faster than he would like. For a child to make it through all that...?

Norman wasn't oft a man of sympathy, and his respect was hard-earned, but something told him an exception could be made for this odd little thing.

The other didn't get much more than a disdainful glare from him, however. An alien of unknown origin, towering above him and the guards. With skin like alabaster, eyes of pupil-less crimson, and a monstrously shaped skull, its appearance was bizarre and off-putting. Norman had stood against many of their kind before, but this one in particular felt wrong. He couldn't place it, but there was something about the way it looked at him that made his stomach churn in nervous discomfort.

He turned away from it and allowed himself to be escorted toward one of the chairs scattered about the room, remaining silent, as he knew well what the consequences for speaking up would be. Still, even as he fell into the seat, his mind raced to find potential answers to the countless questions all of this had raised. This was something new, unprecedented. A change in routine that could mean salvation; or, perhaps, a permanent sealing of his fate.

Osborn looked a madman as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the boy and the alien. Absorbing information through calculating yet none-too-stable eyes. Unkempt and grease-slicked auburn hair touched the bottoms of his ears, a sharp widow's peak and a few flecks of grey defining his age. Patches of hair had been stuck to his face, loosely connected by far thinner bits- it was rather obvious it didn't belong on his face. He'd be rid of it, sooner or later. Once he found his way out of here.

'...And perhaps these two will play some part in that.'

Location: Rushford, Ohio -- Jenkins' Diner


Cassidy Montoya was growing restless. Ever since the start of the apocalypse she'd developed a routine to ensure her own survival: daytime was spent either scavenging for supplies or staying on the move, trying to make her way out of town. Nighttime, when the Dead were obscured by the dark, was when she'd hunker down and get a few hours' rest. It was draining, of course, but Cass figured it was her best chance at staying alive.

Ever since she'd wrapped herself with these other survivors, though, things had changed.

They didn't travel for as long as she would've liked. Took a little too long whenever they stopped to scavenge. Spent too much time resting or strategizing. It made her anxious. Every second they spent sitting around in this diner felt like a risk. What happened when that broadcast ended and the dead descended on them? There were too many to fight off, and the building didn't have enough exits for Cass's liking- if those things managed to surround the group before they could scamper away, they'd be royally fucked.

There were strength in numbers, but...why'd she get stuck with these guys?

"How much longer do we got before that broadcast ends?" She spoke up suddenly, turning to look up at Karen as she started to make her way toward the kitchen. Cass had collapsed up against the diner's far wall when they first arrived, setting her overstuffed bag down beside her so she could use it as a makeshift pillow. Now that they were talking about actually picking through the supplies and moving out, though, Montoya was quick to get back to her feet.

"I don't like the idea of waitin' another hour fer the next one 'fore we get outta here. There's way too many'a those things right outside to risk it."

She glanced briefly at the other members of their little troupe, trying to calculate how the four of them would do if they ended up cornered. All of 'em were armed to some level, and at least appeared to be healthy and active; neither of those would matter much if they didn't have the stomach for a fight with, y'know, the living dead. Not that Montoya could really blame 'em or anything. She was still having trouble accepting that this wasn't a fucked up fever dream or a trip gone horribly wrong.

Sooner we get to that camp the better. We'll be able to wait this shitstorm out there, n' maybe...maybe Riley'll have made it out there too.
Gonna get a post up today, sorry for the wait duderinos.
I actually made them properly sized headers like four or six hours ago, @ComradeMaxx


You say properly sized, I say 'boringly similar.' My work is ARTFUL and ECCENTRIC.
DAMN YOU, GOWI.
<Snipped quote by ComradeMaxx>



Damn you, Canada Man
I made ya'll some quick and dirty headers because I'm shit at editing and couldn't do any better. Don't have to use 'em, tho, cuz its a free country and shit



Smith's Rest | HQ Tram Station
January 16th, 2677

Demetrius stood near the back of the group, his shoulders hunched and his head held low. The strap over his chest was digging uncomfortably into his skin, weighed down by the heavy bag resting around his lower back. One of his headphones had been brushed to the side so he could at least hear what was going on around him, though Solon obviously wasn't paying all that much attention. His eyes were down on his boots, tracing over their many flaws: stains in the dark leather, a patched over hole or two, a clump of some unknown material still stuck on the bottom that refused to be washed off. They'd seen better days, that much was certain.

'Guess we all have, though.' He silently mused. 'Some more than others.'

The voice of his new XO briefly drew Demi's attention back to the moment at hand, answering some question or other by another pilot. An explanation of what, precisely, New Anchorage was meant to be. A coalition of independent settlements was a novel concept. Not a unique one, he knew, but one that didn't tend to last all that long. Small communes could survive on their own fairly well by ducking under the radar of raiders, but they were little more than agrarian survivalist colonies. True settlements of any kind of size had to rely on corporations for trade and security- standing alone they'd either starve or get bulldozed over by marauders, or any of the other, innumerable threats that roamed the Wastelands.

He had heard stories of burgeoning micro-nations, however, in places like Afrika and Asia, where there was such a vast landmass that states could survive without making contact with corporations for decades. When they did make contact, though...they didn't tend to last a whole lot longer.

Clearing his throat, Demi spoke up, his curiosity getting the better of his desire to remain unnoticed. "What do ya mean by 'key threats?' Last I checked there was nothin' but snow and trees out here 'till ya hit the horizon."

His first thought was irradiated wildlife, or maybe a cabal of raiders or two. But that didn't quite line up with the facts. Anchorage had hired out at least six new NC pilots. That was a ridiculous amount of firepower by any standard, enough to go toe to toe with all but a professional military force. Graham mentioned that they'd been surviving by the 'skin of their teeth' before, so something prompted them to invest so heavily into security. Demi didn't know much about this commander, but he didn't look like the kinda idiot to waste resources.

'Just what the hell's out here that could spook these guys so bad?'
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