crouchingbacon

B l e a k C e n t a u r i

@Aeolian Thanks for the idea! Maybe Marcus could have a VIP status at Vogel's bar on account of his frequent visits. Vogel enjoys making new drinks for the man and likes his honest feedback. What do you think?

B l e a k C e n t a u r i

@Aeolian Perhaps one of the elder Funérailles did the ritual for Vogel's father and our characters know each other in passing mention only?

THE OUSAMA GAME | a Short-Term Horror

@Karisma sleeping beauty's got a beauty mark now ahahaha

THE OUSAMA GAME | a Short-Term Horror

There were now six people, all in all, and none of them seemed to know the other. Orwell took stock of those who emerged. Everyone looked younger than he did, and one particular upstart irked him. Riley Velskaya, she - or he, Orwell could hear a distinctly masculine tinge in the person's voice - proceeded to take charge of the situation, telling people to calm down like some first responder, then immediately destroyed that sensible and authoritative persona he just tried to create by licking the red, unknown substance on the wall. Orwell decided to keep his distance from the idiot.

Compared to Riley, everyone else exhibited normal behavior, given the situation. The young man he first saw appeared to be the chattiest of the bunch, quickly interacting with two other girls and making sensible observations on how they might have been dragged here. Orwell turned to glance at both girls the man was talking to, one quite disheveled and the other who still seemed surprisingly put together despite the ordeal she has just gone through. Neither of them seemed happy about the situation, which was not surprising, at all.

Another girl stood in front of the "rules", staying away from the rest of the group. It was not an unwise decision, given that they were all strangers in a ominous, and possibly life-threatening situation. He approached the wall she was looking at and proceeded quietly read the rules as well, committing them to memory. Apparently they were all 'players', which meant that this was a game - implying that there would be winners and losers. Even worse, there was a King, and this King reigned supreme. Given the circumstances of their awakening, the coffins were a blatant threat to those who would dare to disobey.

His thoughts were interrupted by a persistent tap coming from one of the wooden boxes.

Orwell was about to approach the offending coffin, when a loud, metallic screech rang out from the dumbwaiter. He laughed to himself, thinking about a movie with a similar premise that ended badly for everyone in it. The first to approach the metal box was the young man, revealing that his curiosity - or was it a misplaced sense of chivalry - was stronger than his fear of the unknown. That warranted a degree of respect, and Orwell decided, for now, that he would make a useful ally in this grim situation.

He pulled out two cards and what seemed to be a glass shard, but not before cutting himself on the sharp blade. On on of the cards was a rule, which only served to strengthen Orwell's suspicions that they were playing for their lives - if the King was telling the truth about letting the winner live. All the same, Orwell already decided that he didn't want to die here.

No, he wanted to die, old and by the beach, with a cold mai tai in his right hand and a half-burnt cigarette in his left.

His vision of blissful retirement was interrupted as the young man read the words on the second card out loud. He clenched his wounded hand and went over to pick up the glass shard, leaving the cards on the floor.

"Four, huh? I'm lucky number seven." Orwell nodded at the man, as if to say hello, then paced around the rest of the room, glancing at their hands. None of them had the number he was looking for.

Only one box was left unopened, and again, he noticed the incessant tap-tap-tap of something against wood. After taking a deep breath to ready himself for whatever horrors he might find, he put the shard in his pocket and pushed the cover aside.

Inside the coffin was a boy with closed eyes, body stiff and stationary as a stone, save for his foot. Orwell swiftly took the shard once more and drew it against the boy's already wounded hand, creating a superficial, yet bleeding cut then drew quickly back while pocketing the weapon once more, in case the boy darted for his throat out of fear and surprise.

"Sorry, kid, King's orders. It's time to wake up... unless you want to sleep forever right away."

THE OUSAMA GAME | a Short-Term Horror

@baraquiel "termites holding hands" made me laugh harder than it should have

THE OUSAMA GAME | a Short-Term Horror

@Yankee Hi! I have a question about the three hour time limit of carrying out orders. Is this real time or is there a different way of keeping time? I'm GMT +8 and I wouldn't want to miss an order while sleeping, haha.

THE OUSAMA GAME | a Short-Term Horror

For the longest second, Orwell could not determine whether his eyes were closed or open. Eventually his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and picked up on a faint, green glow of the watch on his left wrist. There was a strange, sharp pain on the back of his right hand, leading him to believe a terrible accident had just happened - until he realized that he was surrounded by wood - rotting, based on the stale scent - and that the wood was in a strangely regular shape, reminiscent of a box. The faint sound of two voices - one male, the other female - as well as dull thuds rallied against the thick silence, though all were muffled by the space Orwell found himself barred in.

All he could think of was Corvus, and a cold bolt of fear shot through him. Was this it? He grit his teeth and thrashed about, fists and feet bashing against the wooden constraints, unwilling to accept the end without a fight. Cracks of light came through on the third kick, Orwell found himself kicking straight through the wood and into the air, then he pushed the remainder of the cover away to the side and leapt out of the box.

Only then did he realize, in the dim light, that the box was a coffin, and that the back of his hand bore a gristly wound in the crude, yet unmistakable shape of the number seven. In the midst of scattered splinters, a folded piece of thick paper, a ring, as well as a small key was among the debris on the floor. To avoid dirtying the items with his blood, he ripped a piece of cloth from the hem of his shirt and wrapped it around the dripping wound, before picking up the items and stashing them in his pocket.

He then looked around and finally saw the source of the voices he had heard. There was a dark-haired young man and a much younger girl standing within the vicinity of coffins similar to the one he had just broken out of. The blood-shot energy of fear and confusion darkened their ever-roving eyes and the similar wounds on their hands lead Orwell to surmise that they, too, were brought here, without their consent. His mind flew back to the items he had found and he turned away from the two to reach into his pocket.

Seeing the familiar smiles of the people in the picture drove Orwell's mind into a tailspin, the ache of the wound on his hand forgotten in the midst of this new, and awful discovery. He closed his eyes and steeled himself, placing the picture back in his pocket before turning to address those who had already made it out of their coffins.

"Something bad must have happened to us, to find ourselves here."

B l e a k C e n t a u r i

Ah yeah, anyone want to make pre-existing relationships with Vogel? The premise seemed to say that our characters knowing each other already is highly plausible.

B l e a k C e n t a u r i

Vogel

_{Vogel Pierce V
◄ 28 ▎ MALE ▎ 5'7 ►}

_{P R E S E N C E}

---

Ever since he was a little boy, Vogel thought he was going to become a soldier. His namesakes were all militia men, born and bred with fingers already twitching to pull all the triggers, and whose first cries were probably already marching orders, executing orders on behalf of the great corporation that is the Union. But as fate would have it, the young Pierce's father died before he was born. Primarily raised by his mother and in the company of his three younger sisters, he drifted away from the well-worn path tread by the Pierce clan and took after his mother's as soon as he finished the required military civilian training. Being a restorateur and cultural ambassador, his mother effortlessly taught her young son the basics of the culinary and hospitality arts, then decided to let the boy find his own way when he started showing signs of restlessness and an eagerness to make his name in the world.

Vogel enrolled in Oakridge's top culinary institution, then summarily graduated to the top of his class after starting three successful restaurant chains, as well as one peculiar, yet critically acclaimed bar. To broaden the menu selections and drink ingredients, as well as refine and educate his palate, Vogel traveled the three Unions frequently despite the threat of war. Vogel is generally uninterested but informed in military affairs, knowledgeable about politics, culture and trade and has used his connections and charm to further his own commercial agendas and has also used them to damn malicious rivals into financial ruin - perhaps even driving others to suicide out of despair.

He is often found at his bar, manning the counter himself, entertaining the customers and serving up drinks that have been said to refresh both the body and soul of those who imbibe - this has sparked rumors of strange, addictive and illegal substances being mixed into the drinks. Vogel neither confirms or denies the rumors, and the people come all the same, always hungry and thirsty for more.

Despite his financial status, Vogel rarely spends on luxury services and prefers living a simple and predictable life. He is also very protective and caring of his three younger sisters, all who, ironically, aim to be high-ranking military officers in the Union, and sends them food he made himself whenever he is able, as well as using his influence and charisma to speed up their promotion and increase their resources without their knowledge in an effort to minimize their contact with bloodshed.

Vogel hopes to use his status and knowledge to bring people together and help end the war, often making anonymous donations and visits to war victims, the neutrally aligned communities as well as bribing politicians on the brink of war to postpone their decisions or choose a lesser evil.

_{C H R O N I C L E}

---

Vogel gives his first customer of the evening a coaster as he prepares to make him a drink. The man smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling, and revealing his age.

"Are you the guy?"

Vogel nods and gets straight to work.

Soft music plays in the background, something ancient and jazzy, as he breaks ice the old way. Sharp chunks of crystal blue ice makes its way into a pristine whiskey glass, to which Vogel pours a bright green fluid, which hisses and glows as it flows down into the ice.

Then, with a well-practiced smile, he serves the beverage with a soft clunk on top of the coaster. The thin metal tray rattles on the bedside table with an unsettling clink, and pills of various sizes roll out of the way.

"Fairy, Number #08af2d."

The man admires the drink; Vogel can almost imagine the pictures he has taken with his eyes and scattered all over the network. Probably not as perfect as the professionals, but still publicity all the same.

"Hits the spot, guy," the man says, voice husky after a sip - not the smoothest drink in the bar. Blood blooms bright through his soiled bandages, and a rusty smell leaks out as the man shifts his mangled torso.

Vogel stood, watching the old soldier die with a grin on his face, and wondered if his father would have liked absinthe, too.

_{M E M O R I E S}

---

Vogel Pierce IV: The father Vogel never knew, except through second-hand accounts of family friends, his mother and the old commander's journals. He sometimes wishes he were as strong as his father, but is happy that the man's death enabled him to begin a new path without conflict.

Cybil Watanabe-Pierce: Vogel loves his mother dearly and maintains a warm relationship with her. They make frequent public appearances when opening new restaurants or visiting other Unions on official matters.

Beatrix Pierce: The eldest of the Pierce sisters. She is currently serving in the military as an intelligence agent and weapons AI designer, and is married to an engineer. Vogel respects her opinions greatly and often goes to her when he is having problems.

Iris Pierce: The middle Pierce sister. She works as a trainer in the military. Vogel is least close to her due to a difference in political opinion, but they still maintain a civility towards each other.

Tiffany Pierce: The youngest Pierce sister. She is still in university, but is planning to follow in the footsteps of Beatrix. Vogel likes to spoil her, and has been trying to convince her to try a different path in life.

Cornelius Yeung: Vogel's long-time friend and business partner. The two met in culinary school and have been inseparable since. Despite their difference in economic and social status, Cornelius treats Vogel with frankness and simplicity and does not let it get in the way of their friendship.

Marcus: A frequent client of Vogel's bar. Vogel has given the man a coveted VIP membership, despite his lack of connections to the elite, as he quite enjoys the honest feedback the man gives his concoctions. He also secretly enjoys seeing him cut in line past all the other more sharply dressed guests - perhaps a way of vicariously sticking it to the pretentious social climbers coming in to his bar just for the pretty pictures instead of enjoying the experience.

_{A E S I R}

---

Quezacotl

_{◄ E N C O U N T E R ►}

The people sneer at me, I can feel it. No doubt they only see the veneer of my wealth. That I am evil because I have more than they do. That I am a thing to be feared because I know more than they ever will, in this strife. They are right beside me, but their hearts and minds are far away.

"On behalf of the Union's rationing program, your power generators will be shut down-"

"We don't want the Union here!" An old man shouts from the back, but he is silenced by those who still have the sense to swallow their bitter anger.

"Rest assured, this endeavor will not influence the current neutrality of your territory. This is only a measure for-"

"That is a lie! You are like the fire. You burn and consume, and soon, there will be nothing left of the earth!"

And that is the truth. We all know it. I am nothing but a mouthpiece for the monster that will devour the world, the monster in all of civilized society. To create by destroying, to give by taking - this is man's prodigious talent. This is the Union.

A drop of water wets my skin. It takes me a while to realize that it is raining.

The crowd begins to disperse, and I am thankful. Like an answered prayer, the rain pours harder. The podium is uncovered and I feel the wetness run down my skin. Then the sky rumbles. I know not why, but the sound of thunder brings me calm. And the rain, quenching the earth, washing away all the filth - it is as if the world has chosen, once more, to give us a fresh start.

Like the rain, I too, wish to be a part of hope. But why does it feel like I am doing everything wrong?

No.

I am not wrong.

It is this judgment that is wrong.

But-

What can I do?

A flood of despair runs through me; I am afraid, terrified, no - exhilarated! The hairs on the back of my neck rise in anticipation of something, I know not what. It is as if a bolt of pure energy is about to come crashing down on me, and for some reason, I cannot bring myself to move. Only my eyes are free, and in the corner, I spy a little girl. She, too, looks at me with disgust.

So I prayed. I prayed to whatever being was out there, above or below us, that I be struck dead by lightning. A fitting end to a flash in the pan that is my life.

There is a severe flash of light, and what sounded like a shriek or a roar - I close my eyes and feel a cold burn for one infinite second - then I hear the thunder.

When my eyes are open, the ground is scorched, the generators are brimming with power, and the girl, she's...

She's smiling at me.

_{T E C H N I Q U E S}

---

BEAM ★
ORB ★
VORTEX ★

THE OUSAMA GAME | a Short-Term Horror

#7

Name: Orwell Higgins

Age: 28

Male

Appearance:
Blond, athletic, and standing at a fairly statuesque six foot two, Orwell is a striking figure that easily makes heads turn. Although aware of this effect he has on people, he does not go out of his way to look more appealing to others, only caring to look professional and presentable as a pilot. He is often seen with a serious and pensive demeanor about him, rarely breaking into a smile.
Personality Traits:
Efficient | Knowledgable | Charismatic | Calm | Selfish | Self-Righteous | Argumentative | Proud
Relevant Info:
Orwell lives a spartan life despite his relatively high income; the most expensive things he owns are his watch and shoes. A silver earring on his left ear hints at the rebellious youth he once had.
James Higgins - Orwell's younger brother, currently working as an aircraft mechanic. They are estranged; Orwell beat his face into a pulp because of a drunken argument regarding the coordinates of some remote city in Peru. Orwell could not accept that his answer was wrong and subsequently destroyed his brother's facial features with a broken beer bottle. Orwell was put on a restraining order, but this did not affect his job as he has a good relationship with the top bosses.
Iris Dela Cruz - A flight attendant that is often assigned to flights with Orwell. They have a friends with benefits relationship, though Orwell once got her pregnant and pressured her into getting an abortion. He assumes she did as he asked, although he hears about her bringing a nephew to work occasionally, and people often remark how much the boy looks like Orwell.
Corvus - An individual who gives Orwell some odd transport or chartered flight jobs for wealthy clients. Orwell has never seen this person and has only ever communicated with Corvus through a phone. Corvus' voice sounds distorted, and Orwell is not certain if Corvus is male or female. It has been a while since Corvus has called, since Orwell botched his last transport job.
Felicity Yeoh - A major executive of the airline Orwell works for. She is perhaps the only person Orwell has ever cared for, and is his closest confidante. She is middle-aged and has three graduate degrees under her belt, and has three daughters and a husband she loves dearly. She treats Orwell as the son she never had.

D A R K - S E C R E T:

Hider

Orwell once flew a plane full of what he suspected were terrorists straight into the sea, after eavesdropping on their conversation. Somehow he survived, but he was responsible for the deaths of five wealthy weapons merchants. The remains of the crash has recently been discovered, and has made its way into regional news reports. It may only be a matter of time before his act of murder may be discovered, and Orwell fears that Corvus is out for his head. He is currently planning to change his identity and start a new life in a remote third world country.