Avatar of Ducksworth

Status

Recent Statuses

2 mos ago
Current Have you ever had a dream that you um you had your you could you’ll do you wants you you could do so you’ll do you could you you want you want them to do you so much you could do anything?
7 likes
5 mos ago
I've just come out of an existential eldritch hysteria induced nap and running on 6,000 years of sleep
5 likes
11 mos ago
I tap refresh and wait and see, a flashing note, a reply for me. No new posts, just the same old screen, yet still I hope for what might've been.
7 likes
11 mos ago
"He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness."
2 likes
11 mos ago
Looking for a few people to help create a shared sci-fi universe. If that sounds fun, drop me a PM!
1 like

Bio

Hadn't updated this in a WHILE so I deleted it. I'm Ducksworth, or Duck, or Duckie. PM if you wanna know more, yeah?

Most Recent Posts

Max Carter

It wasn’t that Max wasn’t paying any attention to the meeting, but it certainly would have seemed that way. Relegated to the back, tucked away, with his jumpsuit unzipped and tied around his waist, a loose white-grey t-shirt covered in yesterday's grease stains where his nametag should have been. He watched as Gillmore demonstrated all the equipment, shuddering at the thought of strapping himself to anything with that much electricity ‘contained’ within it. No, his attention was drawn to the trap which flew much like a drone, albeit a clumsy, clunky one. He couldn’t help but wonder when he’d be able to get his hands on it and test it out while the others risked death by anti-matter.

As the demonstration continued, Max took a look at the ‘spirit guide’ given to him. Flicking through a few pages, he couldn't help but realize he sure did have a lot of studying ahead of him. The guide was thick with illustrations, diagrams, and scribbled notes that seemed to speak of a thousand ghostly encounters. As Gillmore and Rochester took their leave, Max threw open his workbook and started tapping his pencil against the desk in a rhythmic pattern, one that someone with any musical inclination might recognize as Scorpions’ ‘Rock You Like a Hurricane.’ He hummed along quietly to himself, the melody a small escape from the daunting task ahead.

As the meeting wrapped up, Max noticed one person moving over to the table of equipment. A pang of resentment flickered through him as they started messing with the trap-drone he had a keen interest in.

“Is anyone gonna be sharing the answers?” he spoke abruptly, breaking the silence, “I thought I was just about done with tests..” letting out a long, exasperated sigh.
I was about to start writing my first post but @enmuni makes a very good point. Is this meeting in English or French as I highly doubt my character would have learnt any French as a working class Londoner @Olive Fontaine
Deleted.
I would love to join this, if it's still being run? lemme know what you think to my slimy one.
Zoan Dewdrop



For the first time, Jet was thankful for Aellyn’s ulterior motives. The sudden entrance of another ship, a freighter, and the pressure it put on Abilene meant this situation, albeit one that got Fel shot, shouldn’t get any worse. He watched as the ship landed, squinting through the dust and debris kicked up by its repulsorlifts. The freighter's engines roared, but the sounds of conflict and tension were now silenced, leaving only the hum of the engines and the soft rustling of the wind. Once the dust had settled, he glanced at Fel, who responded with the universal, or perhaps uniquely Fel, ‘I’m good’ look. Jet let the man stand on his own two feet and, although a little unsteady, he seemed well enough for the time being.

He moved off, and Fel watched his partner with his peripheral, his eyes never leaving Abilene’s. “You shot me.” The old lady was cold as ice, the thaw only just touching the corner of her eyes. “You’re damn lucky you’re still breathin’, boy. Aught to put you down, for what you done.” There was a sneer, a scowl on her face that said she meant every word. “Hurts, you being in my pocket like this, don’t it?” Fel was not rubbing salt in the wound of being out-gunned by a second ships’ arrival, but was legitimately apologetic about her luck, as if he almost understood and wished she’d had her vengeance.

“What we done for you, it’s worth what we spoke about and then some. Here’s my read on it: for the goods, the heist on Lotho, getting back what was yours, you give me what you owe me. We’ve earned it. For the Kolto, sixty thou a crate would make it two hundred forty large. How be, you give us one hundred, and let Jet take what he needs from your hangar. Deal of a lifetime, Abilene…”

Jet made his way over to the emitter, still laden with the charges laid there before. It took but a moment to remove them;, after all, they were never a threat in the first place, but possibly one Abilene and co’ wouldn’t want regardless. Tucking the charges into his pants pouches, he hoisted the emitter and walked towards Abilene’s crew where two guys, clad in mismatched armor and sporting various haphazard decorations, had come to greet him and take it from him. Jet let the emitter drop from his shoulder and into their arms, making sure they took the full weight, with a little extra force from gravity. As they struggled to adjust to the unexpected burden and were about to voice their complaints, he gave them a slight smirk, tinged with controlled fury and confidence, his expression an unspoken warning not to test his patience. They gave Jet one look and scurried back into the masses with their salvation.

With Aellyn now leaving back into the ship, this was the opportunity to get their due. He made his way back to Fel, standing close enough that the spacer could use his shoulder again for support should he need it, though Jet didn't expect him to, of course. Fel had his ways, and Jet doubted that meant swaying back into vulnerability. The spacer's face was pale, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, but his eyes remained sharp, determined. Jet felt a surge of respect for his friend’s resilience, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

“You got yours, Abilene. Now give us ours.” His voice was calm, but the underlying edge was unmistakable. Jet's smirk returned, a calculated mixture of defiance and confidence, as he awaited her response, the tension palpable in the stilled air.

Fel was waiting, and now Jet had said his piece as well. The two stood side by side, staring her down. “What’s it gonna be, Mayor?” Abilene reached in a pocket, and Fel’s palm rested on his blaster for just a moment, before she drew out a data-disc, and tossed it to the spacer, who caught it mid-air. “It’s all there. The job, like I said. Legit.” Fel looked at the shiny sliver of tech, stuffed it in a pocket. “Seven figures?” She nodded. “And the coin?” She smiled at him, but her eyes were dead serious. “I assume you don’t want a cred’ chit…” Fel laughed. “Cash is king, Mayor. Fewer questions that way.” She nodded. “It’ll be ready when Jet comes down to rummage through our parts bin and fill his Jerry can.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, Abilene.”

Jet nodded slowly at the exchange of words. The tension in the air was finally beginning to dissipate, it was time to bring this tense moment to a close. His main priority now was getting Fel back on board so his partner's injury could be tended to.

The older lady whistled, a shrill, piercing noise, and speeders started up, breaking the otherwise silent scene — they had retrieved what they had come for. She mounted her horse, and turned the dapple to face back toward town, but called back over her shoulder at him. “Fel!” He was still watching her, and arched an eyebrow in reply. “One day, somebody’s gonna put you under the ground. You got it comin’.” She pointed at him, her index finger outstretched, her lips a grim line.

He nodded at the older woman solemnly, speaking quietly enough that only Jet would hear.

“Yeah.”

Are you still looking for players for this one? I'm loving the vibe and the tarot readings for stats is incredible
Archer “Griff” Griffin
Refugee Camp North of Manila - 12/3/2022, 10:53, UTC+8



Mikey sighed, then turned to one of her fellow Arms Masters putting their own dent in the pallet of rice and offered them the canteen. "Hydrate or die-drate," she chirped, trying to sound flippant.


Griff smirked as he took the canteen from Mikey, a flicker of humor lighting up his face. "Really? Die-drate?" he said with a soft laugh, shaking his head at the word. He twisted the cap off the canteen and raised it to his lips, taking a deep swig. The icy water stung his cheeks, sharp and refreshing, before sliding down his throat and spreading a cooling relief through his chest. He exhaled slowly, savoring the brief respite from the oppressive heat.

With a tired swipe of his forearm, Griff wiped the sweat from his brow. Despite the fan whirring faintly in the corner of the tent, the humidity clung to him, dense and stifling. Even the simplest tasks felt like an uphill battle. His arms ached from the repetitive motions, but Griff didn’t complain. Every movement, every effort felt worthwhile. What they were doing mattered—it gave him a sense of purpose, and he hoped it brought some relief to the refugees who relied on them.

Outside the tent, voices rose in heated tones as tensions built. The oppressive heat and long lines had worn everyone thin, and it seemed like tempers were about to boil over. Just as it looked like a confrontation might erupt, a crackle from the radio cut through the noise, drawing all attention.

“Breaking News! The Russian and North Korean Fleet has been sunk to the bottom of the sea—Admiral Yi Yeol of the South Korean and Japanese Combined Fleet has won the Battle of Tsushima Strait! Help. Is. Coming!”

The crowd outside erupted in cheers, their collective voices breaking through the heavy gloom of the day. The sound rolled into the tent, carrying a wave of hope that felt almost tangible. Griff paused, his fingers still wrapped around the canteen, and allowed a small, weary smile to cross his face. That message—the promise of reinforcements—was enough to reignite a flicker of determination. It reminded him why they endured the heat and fatigue. Sometimes, hope alone was enough to keep you moving forward.

And yet, the Director’s words lingered in Griff’s mind, heavy and unresolved. They stirred an unease he couldn’t quite shake, a reminder that the naval battle was drawing nearer with every passing day. While the announcement from the radio had given him a momentary spark of optimism, it also heightened his awareness of the challenge that lay ahead.

He couldn’t deny the importance of what he was doing now. It mattered—it was real, tangible good. But no matter how hard he tried to focus on the present, a nagging thought persisted. Though he’d undergone some training in preparation for what was to come, Griff couldn’t help but feel it wasn’t enough. His progress felt superficial, like he was still standing on the surface when he should have been diving deeper. The skills he’d gained so far might not be enough when the chaos of battle finally arrived.

The weight of this realization pressed on him, lingering in the quiet moments between tasks. He clenched his fists briefly, as if to summon resolve from the motion, but the feeling of inadequacy remained. The naval battle loomed closer—a relentless shadow on the horizon. Griff could only hope that the help on its way would be enough to give them a fighting chance. For now, all he could do was keep moving forward, one step at a time, channeling his energy into the work at hand while the storm ahead grew ever nearer.
Kaito Fujimoto | Mumeiki ( - "Nameless Machine")
░Λɴᴀʟʏꜱᴇ. ░Λꜱꜱɪᴍɪʟᴀᴛᴇ. ░Λᴄᴛᴜᴀᴛᴇ.
________________________________________________________________________________________________


Tsuki’s beckoning was unmistakable, and Mumeiki responded with the quiet precision that defined him. Stationed initially at the edge of the gathering, blending into the periphery as the others conferred. Yet, if Tsuki desired his presence closer, then that was where he belonged. Her word was unspoken law, and he had no reason to linger in the shadows when summoned.

Each of his movements was deliberate, neither hurried nor hesitant, he crossed the room. When he reached the group, he inserted himself seamlessly into their midst, remaining a part of the formation without seeking to become its focal point. His presence was palpable, and that was enough. Instead, his attention was drawn to the environment, his sensors attuned to the rhythm of the room.

The air carried an undertone of tension, punctuated by the ebb and flow of conversation. Strategies were dissected and reshaped while concerns, both spoken and unspoken, lingered in the atmosphere. Tsuki’s projection shimmered against the dim light, its fractured glow illuminating the faces of the group. The interface displayed critical data, yet the real weight of the moment lay in the people themselves. Every face was a canvas of emotion—anticipation marked in furrowed brows, frustration in clenched jaws, and calculated pragmatism in measured expressions. The collective energy was as tangible as the digital schematics that flickered in holographic form.

// Two Targets: Site A and Site B.
// Data retrieval, disruption, extraction where applicable.
// Method of approach: flexible.


The mission was one that demanded adaptability, a challenge to those who thrived on strict command structures, such as Mumeiki, whose operational framework thrived on precise, actionable instructions. The absence of rigid orders made the assignment inherently complex for him. Decisions for Site A or Site B were left open-ended, emphasizing individual initiative—a mode of operation he found difficult to reconcile with his own design and purpose.

His gaze shifted to the projection, studying the intricate details displayed. The diagrams of Site A and Site B highlighted routes, potential entry points, and zones of vulnerability. Both locations posed unique challenges and opportunities. Mumeiki felt no preference for either; logic dictated that both required neutral consideration. Ultimately, the mission parameters, not subjective inclinations, would govern the course of action.

As the conversation advanced, Frost’s measured tone broke through the room’s undercurrent of apprehension. Every word she spoke was weighted with the gravitas of lived experience. Her focus was razor-sharp, addressing variables such as risk, manpower, and enemy reinforcements with an ease that came from years of navigating life-or-death scenarios. Her words carried an aura of authority, cutting through doubt with unflinching practicality.

Ren spoke next, authoritative, as he delineated the team configurations. Mumeiki’s role became evident—a component of a three-person team targeting Site B, designated as The Stash House.

Mission parameters updated:
// Team Integration:
Be part of Ren's team and collaborate effectively.
// Command Compliance:
Follow all of Ren's commands precisely.
// Site B Assault:
Assault Site B—the Stash House—under Ren's direction.

His presence seamless and unassuming, he observed the interplay of strategies and decisions unfolding around him. His gaze flicked briefly to the shimmering projection, committing the details of Site B—the Stash House—to memory. The parameters were clear, his role defined with precision, leaving no ambiguity in his function. Mumeiki stood ready, prepared to fulfil his purpose.
Astloveran Hjoren Kilstaf

Interaction(s): Everyone Location: Greypeak


Astlo trudged along behind the excitable brutish one. Not that he saw the man's brutish appearance a negative thing but it was evident from how he carried himself and his sheer size that he wasn’t one to be stuck behind books like Astlo. In fact, he took the man's nature in a sort of reverence, a dedication to his body more so than the mind was not a negative thing at all but simply a different avenue than that Astlo had found himself on. Beyond that, he had met many people with differing intellects which still managed to teach Astlo a lesson or two on topics he was not by any means an expert.

Opposed to how Vincent had packed, he donned a robe of deep azure, shimmering like snow beneath the low sun's languid rays. His hood, drawn up, casting shadows over his face save for the strands of hair that framed it. A satchel hung from one shoulder resting on the opposing hip. Although it appeared as though it was by no means packed enough for such a daunting trail, it was in fact this bag that carried an assortment of items both vital and trivial. For this very bag was one Astlo himself had enchanted to be a few times larger than it was on the outside. Tomes on magic and survival nestled alongside novels for leisurely reading. A packed tent, a bedroll with a pillow, cooking implements, cutlery, and two empty waterskins—everything needed for such a trek, concealed within the unassuming bag.

The journey, arduous and relentless, was a harsh trial for one accustomed to the comforts of scholarly life. Astlo's most vigorous recent exertion had been a night of overindulgence in sweets, leading to an ill-fated attempt to retrieve a surfeit of books from a high shelf—a folly he did not wish to repeat. Yet, the enchanted bag, lightening the burden of his possessions, allowed him to maintain pace with Vincent, the latter bearing what seemed twice Astlo's weight.

"We can keep going for now," Astlo suggested, his voice roughened by the frigid air, "but we should find somewhere to rest soon. There is no urgency that justifies arriving spent and unable to fulfill our duty."
© 2007-2026
BBCode Cheatsheet