Izurich
Yankee
rush99999Final Round: Heaven or Hell, Let's Rock!
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I guess my comfort zone is "eccentric side character."
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Naseraph Sana and Bak Tsarevna
(Special Guests Samoth Maskono and Aram Secrue puppeted with his permission)
(Special Guests Samoth Maskono and Aram Secrue puppeted with his permission)
The Demon copy didn't stand still because it was in Nasearph's grasp. Its momentary inaction was only out of surprise, a surprise that was broken by Nasearph's shout. Even as Aram began to move it relived that its arms were not bound, and it raised them up. Magic seals traced themselves into the air in front of its palms and from them shot two white hot beams of heat. Naseraph wrenched back, digging his knee into the small of her back and pulling her wings, and though there was a crack as the demon was pulled off course the circles hung in the air where they had originally formed.
But as they flew at Aram they suddenly stopped in mid-air, held up by something invisible. Samoth was there, moving in Aram's shadow. By the time the beam hard burned through the psychic shield Aram had already moved, sidestepping the shield and coming into range of the demons exposed belly. He knelt and swung, the blade slicing through the air and across the hellspawns stomach, opening up a clean hole.
BING
He turned, beginning to swing the sword it a decapitating arc, but before the mighty BONG could ring out that was instead a disquieting sound like someone digging through a bag filled with grease. Aram let the sword drop to his side and just observed what was happening. Samoth either hadn't anticipated a second strike from Aram or hadn't wanted to waste time waiting for it. He had aimed for the hole and just shoved his arm all the way up inside its guts. Or, at least, what would have been its guts. It was strangely hollow inside this creature, solid all the way through and yet it felt like you were grasping at nothing. It was still hot though, brutally hot to the touch, and so distinctly wrong. Sick. It was like sticking your hand in a tub of fresh vomit.
Then the hellspawn, this copy of magic, fell to ash around his arm leaving only a pile of sooty dust and a smell of surfer in its wake. Though his arm was totally unblemished by the experience the wrongness pervaded it. It felt like it was going to take a while before it was clean again.
As the demon dissolved Naseraph fell with it, then without missing a beat turned back to gaze across the roof at the battle against the true demon.
The only demon left in the fight was getting battered, by bullets and explosions and void energy, but was holding fast. It would take more than toy guns and pop rocks to budge it, and though she could feel the energy of the void seeping into her arm and eating away at her defenses she knew no human could harness that power for very long. She would whether this storm, let them wear themselves out, and then when they thought her weak she would rise in fiery vengeance and gouge the fleeting hope from their hearts. Writhing in agony mere inches from their goal was the only proper way for a human to die.
That's what she thought before suffering the indignity of being attacked with one of her own duplicates, the force of the impact and the unexpected direction it came from surprising her enough that it broke her guard and sent her stumbling. She could faintly catch, through projectile storm that continued to pelt her, the figure that had thrust such an indignity upon her. A figure wreathed in flame. An antithesis. A rejection of her very being. Something that she could not abide.
With a snarl of rage she grabbed up the copy that had been tossed at her like garbage and dashed across the roof, out of the storm, toward her seal, and shoved the body into it. The seal accepted such a sacrifice and as the flames consumed the body they warped and twisted, coiling around one another and her arm. She pulled herself from the fire, and what came with her was a roiling mass of flame the size of a small car that blacked and deformed the arm that held it into near uselessness. She turned at the flaming figure and threw the entire thing.
As this mass of flaming evil spun toward her like the core of the Earth itself, Katherine could perceive its nature with a clarity that came from the depths of her soul. Faced with such absolute contrast there was no way for her not to see that there was a difference. A difference between this fire and hers. Hers was a fragment of the fire that burned at the heart of creation. Fire that burned for mankind. Fire could be unruly, this was true, but it could be used by humans when tamed. It provided them with hot food, warmed them against the cold, lit the night to reveal their dark enemies. It was a gift from on high, a tool for humans to use to fight back the night and thrive in the darkness. Even the flame that now pulsed through her being had welled up in order to protect someone she loved.
The ball that now filled her vision was not any of that. You couldn't use this to cook, or warm yourself, or light your way. The fire would eat your meal itself, the scalding heat would always find a way to burn you, the leaping flames would always find a way to escape and take everything you hold dear. This was fire stripped of its compassion, stripped of all things that impeded its ability to consume, destroy, and grow from it. It was only meant to destroy. It was fire that burned to destroy mankind, and had discarding its compassion for the sake of burning hotter and leaping higher to scorch the feet of the gods. It would consume Katherine, everything she was, down to the immortal soul and the spark of the divine that had been nestled within it.
Or at least it might have were it not for her sisters actions.
The cold wind whirled around Christine, growing stronger and stronger, battering the hellfire dome Clara and the others were trapped in, and as she prayed she felt something. A hand, cold. No, not cold. It was pleasant. Pleasantly cool, like the underside of a pillow. She felt another one, both of them resting on her shoulders, and somehow she felt a smile on a face she could not see and yet intimately knew. The wind whipped faster, grew colder, as she felt power pour into her. Frost formed on the concrete, melting and refreezing again as it battled with the evil heat, until an expanding layer of ice crawled across the roof and fell into the cracks and scars left by the battle.
But still it wasn't enough. She could feel herself approaching her absolute limit, cold flowing from her like it never had before, but that limit wasn't high enough. Her strength wasn't sufficient to channel enough cold to do anything but make the HellFire Seal waver in the wind. Her fervent prayer, however, to save even someone like Clara in the face of this hellspawn was enough to prompt at least a small miracle.
There was a cracking sound across the roof. The ice and the cold had nestled up to the hot stones of the roof, which had gotten progressively hotter as they absorbed the heat given off by the Seal. The ice that had filled in the wounds in the roof continued to melt and then re-freeze, growing larger and larger and putting more and more pressure on. Then, suddenly, with one last definitive shutter, the roof gave way. Centered on the Seal the room collapsed inward, opening up a sinkhole that rapidly spread out and dumped everyone onto the floor below, Katherine being carried out of the way of the fireball as it passed overhead and flew over the edge of the roof. The only places left standing from the destruction were Aram's extremely well fortified bunker, the door to the stairwell, and the area surrounding the two. Samoth, Aram, and Naseraph were left standing at the edge of a crater, looking down on the flattened floor below. Above them the Hellfire Seal still hung like the sun in the sky, held in place by its magic and shining its evil light onto the combatants below.
The floor they had landed in had been completely flattened by the rain of debris. Uneven rubble and ice where everywhere, which only heightened the glare of that horrid artificial sun by reflecting it. Kicked up dust and the mist of melting ice mixed together to shroud the area in a bloom of fog. Bak Tsarevna groggily pushed herself up of the ground, fortunate to have landed on her stomach this time. She was sick and tired of falling today, that was for sure. The air was hot in here, a result of the orb sitting on the roof heating the floor underneath it no doubt, and now thick with the sort of humidity that made you feel grimy. She looked around. Rurik and Yuuto were still near enough to see, and she could definitely make out the blazing form of Katherine. Then, she saw only because the movement was so fast as to leave a trail in the mist, she saw the demon making a mad sprint toward Katherine.
"Look out prisoner!" Bak screamed, popping open her missile pod and firing a full volley at where she thought the charging demon was. Again though, as though it could feel them coming, it back-dashed away from the missile as they came for it. The missiles tried to course correct but the turn they had to make was two tight. They sailed around the demon and impacted the far wall, exploding, One, TWO, THREE! Wait, three?
Bak grimaced in a panic as one of her own missiles, snatched out of the air as it tried to turn, tumbled out of the fog at her and, by extension, Yuuto and Rurik. The demon, for its part, had not even turned to look. It had thrown the missile as though discarding a piece of unwanted trash and resumed its charge as though it hadn't even broken stride. It wanted Katherine dead.
On his way up the building Gilliam had to stop and marvel as gigantic fireball sailed from the top of the building. He let go with one hand so he could turn and follow its descent down into the parking lot, where it dropped directly onto a limousine. There was a massive explosion as the car went up in flames that shot high into the sky and seemed, to him, to eye the world hungrily. Then they descended and set about consuming the limousine in ts entirety.
He watched, bemused, as the other limo observed this for a moment or two then as calmly as possible reversed out of the apartment parking lot and drove backwards all the way into the basketball court across the street.
"Better pick up the pace." he said to himself, redoubling his efforts.
@Hammerman@KillamriX88@Bartimaeus@rawkhawk64@RoflsMazoy@6slyboy6@Crowvette
@6slyboy6@Hammerman@Bartimaeus@KillamriX88@rawkhawk64@RoflsMazoy
Seeing as how the last of the clones are close to being donezo I'd like to go ahead and ask everyone how we want to handle the demon? What do you want to do? What do you think would be the most cool? I'd like for everyone to get their own shot in if possible for when we put this thing to bed.
Seeing as how the last of the clones are close to being donezo I'd like to go ahead and ask everyone how we want to handle the demon? What do you want to do? What do you think would be the most cool? I'd like for everyone to get their own shot in if possible for when we put this thing to bed.
Slice didn't have to go to the meeting room.
Slice was already in the meeting room.
Slice had been hard at work in the meeting room for four hours.
He slid one of the chairs noisily across the floor into the far corners of the room, standing back and appraising it like a fine antiques dealer looking for the flaws in what he knows is a forgery. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a palm sized red book, flipping it open and studying what was on a specific page for a few moments, then he reached out cautiously and nudged the chair slightly off kilter with the tip of his boot. He stuck out his arm in front of the chair, nodded sagely, moved to another spot and did the same, nodded again, and hastily scrawled some notes in his little red book.
All the chairs were in similar situations as this, scattered around the room like guests at an awkward party. Hardly any of them were facing one another, a few were facing directly at the wall, a few had potted plants sitting in them that he bought yesterday. Some of them had pieces of paper taped to them bearing the names of his squad mates. It was a jumbled mess but, according to the principles of "Feng shui" as he understood them, the room now had the optimal flow of luck. He tore a little page out of his book, wrote "Andrew" on it, and pinned it to the chair he had just been fiddling with.
Not a moment too soon, as he suddenly received the message to head to the meeting room. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation and sat backwards on the chair he'd marked for himself, resting his chin on the back of it. This would be good. Every single chair that was meant to be sat in was at a fulcrum of good luck. In addition, every plant sat at a fulcrum of bad luck. That way no one would be sitting in them, and he'd know he'd done it right if any of those plants died.
It was better than testing in on people, even people he disliked. He already had enough ghosts after, him he didn't need more. Hopefully what he'd done here would mean that this mission wouldn't go as tits up as the last one.
Slice was already in the meeting room.
Slice had been hard at work in the meeting room for four hours.
He slid one of the chairs noisily across the floor into the far corners of the room, standing back and appraising it like a fine antiques dealer looking for the flaws in what he knows is a forgery. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a palm sized red book, flipping it open and studying what was on a specific page for a few moments, then he reached out cautiously and nudged the chair slightly off kilter with the tip of his boot. He stuck out his arm in front of the chair, nodded sagely, moved to another spot and did the same, nodded again, and hastily scrawled some notes in his little red book.
All the chairs were in similar situations as this, scattered around the room like guests at an awkward party. Hardly any of them were facing one another, a few were facing directly at the wall, a few had potted plants sitting in them that he bought yesterday. Some of them had pieces of paper taped to them bearing the names of his squad mates. It was a jumbled mess but, according to the principles of "Feng shui" as he understood them, the room now had the optimal flow of luck. He tore a little page out of his book, wrote "Andrew" on it, and pinned it to the chair he had just been fiddling with.
Not a moment too soon, as he suddenly received the message to head to the meeting room. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation and sat backwards on the chair he'd marked for himself, resting his chin on the back of it. This would be good. Every single chair that was meant to be sat in was at a fulcrum of good luck. In addition, every plant sat at a fulcrum of bad luck. That way no one would be sitting in them, and he'd know he'd done it right if any of those plants died.
It was better than testing in on people, even people he disliked. He already had enough ghosts after, him he didn't need more. Hopefully what he'd done here would mean that this mission wouldn't go as tits up as the last one.
Naseraph Sana
Nasaraph sat there in shock for a second, just trying to wash he sick feeling of the demons energy from his mind, before finally noticing that Brutus had at some point come to occupy the bunker with him. Well hallelujah, that was one problem solved wasn't it? He wasn't surprised, that lightning feeling had to have come from somewhere. He would normally put on his relieved face at this point but at this point he wasn't in the mood for playing pretend anymore. There was to much going on to worry much about his facade. "Brutus, did you tag her?" He asked, not even looking at him. No, he must have. He would have tried again by now if h had missed, and Naseraph had only absorbed the excess of one lightning attack. "Use everything you can muster. Strike her with the lightning the gods themselves hesitate to send, for this creature intendeds to kill us all." With that he rose and stepped out of the bunker without another word.
They would have to kill it, he was sure, and they had to work together. This wasn't out of any sense of comradery, merely base self-preservation. It had seen them. If they left it, just ran away or let it escape, it would hunt down the lot of them and slaughter them one by one. That was the way its energy had tasted. While they were together there was still a chance. If they were to split apart and let it have its way they would only be delaying their own deaths.
He stepped out, squinting his eyes at the light of the miniature sun that sat in the middle of the roof that, shining brightly enough to blot out the few stars the existed in the night sky over the city. He was fortunate he hadn't been absorbing when she did that. That would have killed him outright, or worse.Still, the light it gave off perfectly reveled the demon that was flying at them. No, not flying exactly. Freefalling was more like it, as though it had been knocked across the roof. Wait, no, he was mistaken....
He felt his new stores of energy flow inward, moving through every muscles and nerves in his body, bolstering him. He sprinted out the doorway, past Aram and Samoth, and jumped into the air to meet the demon. As he closed the distance to it the creatures eyes suddenly snapped open. It flapped its wings to bring itself upright and lashed out with a claw. He had been right. It had been playing possum. It's fight path had been far to steady, it hadn't been tumbling or trying to right itself. It had probably seen where it was headed and intended top catch the boys over here by surprise.
Its claw caught only empty this cloak, tearing a large chunk out of the back. As it came for him Naseraph had spun with an inhuman grace, changing his momentum and trajectory enough to let him fly over the head of the creature. This mongrel monster, it had actually believed it could land an attack on one of his exalted race in mid air? The absolute conceit! To fight in the air was the domain of the ethereal Gods and those they truly favored. Even the smallest of chicks knew that.
He ended his spin by grabbing on to her wings and bringing them together with a wrench and a crack, causing her to plummet out of the sky her kind did not deserve. She landed om her feet in front of Aram and Samoth. "The sword!" Naseraph commanded.
@rawkhawk64@Bartimaeus
Naseraph Sana
Naseraph only faintly heard Brutus when he entered the wonderful little pillbox. The very second it had been completed he's sat crossed legged on the ground, eye closed, hands clasped in front of him. The muffled noise from outside vanished almost completely as he focused his mind and, one by one, snuffed out his senses. Hearing was nothing. Touch was nothing. Smell was nothing. Taste was nothing. Even sight, the plain black view of the back of his eyes, fell into nothing. He could be nothing. He opened a void in his senses, a hole into the cavernous emptiness inside, and into this void flowed all the orphaned power of the world.
He had never before experienced this sort of variety in the remnants of power he took into himself. Every energy had its own flavor, texture, feel, and like a good feast he sampled everyone one of that roof. He felt the rough touch crunchiness of impact, of all shapes and sizes from the boot on the ground to the big gulps of what felt like a car being skipped like a stone across the ground. He felt the remnants of explosions, still large and bold and like swallowing a watermelon whole, and along the edges of a few he could swear he felt the scattered remnants of something extraordinarily kind. He could feel the demons fire, hot and disgusting like fresh vomit, and the feeling of divine fire that pointed at his throat like a defiant sword even as it went down. He felt ice and the paradox energy that was used to create this absence, and a true void that was like absorbing inexplicably itself. There were the shattered remains of pure will that floated around this pillbox and the very energy left circling in the stone from where in changed shape. There was the sharp sting of two swords of light. The, finally, there was the small, jittery feeling of electricity.
Brutus through his tag at the Demon fighting King and it tagged her right in the back. It was a little thing. She didn't feel it coming. When it hit she felt it and for a moment was shocked. For just one fleeting moment her attention was not totally dedicated to King. For just one, small, infinitesimal moment, she wondered how she'd been so foolish as to allow an attack from some nobody to graze her skin.
In that moment King took her wing.
It was a clean cut, right from underneath as causal as culling a apple open for lunch, and she plummeted on the room. The strangest thing was, though, that every demon on the roof seemed to feel it. Every last one of them flinched, stopped. Christine's attack took the head clean off the clone that fighting Clara, scattering its skull in little red crystals across the roof. Alto used that moment to cleanly divide his opponent into six roughly equal pieces. The one winged demon, the real Greater Demon, landed on her feet on the roof and stared up, then around at all the students that had just so blindly stumbled onto its lair. The sheer killing intent that flowed off her body in waves felt like a guillotines blade dropping repeatedly toward your neck.
Naseraph opened his eyes and shuttered. "Someone did something." she said, breathlessly, his face white. The demon energy he had been absorbing had suddenly spiked and threatened to overwhelm him. An overcharge wasn't good at the best of times, but he didn't want to think about what would happen if he overcharged on that malicious shit. He was evil. He knew that. He was a murderer. He'd taken the lives of his entire family, there was nothing he could stand before the gods and say to justify what he had done and he was fine with it. But that thing out there...that was evil.
And it was building up to something.
@Hammerman@rawkhawk64@KillamriX88@6slyboy6@Bartimaeus@RoflsMazoy
Name: Pumpkin Slicer
Appearance:
Age:Early 30s
Personality: A paranoid and eccentric man, Slice believes that there is an underlying pattern to all things and if he can just find and correctly interpret the sighs and portents he can stay on the "golden" path through life. Unfortunately for him he sees signs and portents everywhere and has a list of false predictions a mile long, but that's just because he's still practicing, he'll get better, honest. He's also extremely superstitious, believes strongly in things like luck and magic, dosen't trust NCs, and is terrified of his own in particular because he thinks it's plotting to devour his soul. The only reason he keeps piloting it is because "it's an evil machine, and if I stop piloting it it will just find someone more pliable to sate its bloodlust with."
Backstory: No one really cared about prisoner #62487 or where he came from before he was selected for the Denver-Vegas games. Shoved into a mask, into a shoddy mech, and let loose to be hunted like an animal in the wilderness for the entertainment of the masses, his story was supposed to end in a sad and pathetic death. No one though he would do the unprecedented and actually manage to steal one of the Hunter NC's. No one thought he would have the knack for piloting in took to not only evade but actively hunt the hunting team that he was supposed to die pathetically to, nor the Corporate NCs that were sent in after he killed them all. No one thought he would be able to break through the containment around the game area. No one thought he'd be able to get out of Denver-Vegas territory. Somehow, though, history slipped off the rails and this nameless nobody managed to slip the noose that was tightening around his neck.
In the end George Allen couldn't even be that mad. It was incredible television. Still, the fugitive the public was now adoringly calling "Pumpkin Slicer" after his mask and weapon had made a fool of his company. That was something that couldn't stand. He had to be hunted down and killed, no matter where he went. Slice was forced to keep fighting, signing on to different Corp and merc squads just to get some protection from Denver-Vegas. The latest and most long lasting of these relationships is the Electrum Company.
Tactical Preferences and Skills: Slice doesn't prefer fighting at knife fight range, but he recognizes that's what he excels at and it's what his NC wants. He prefers stealth, ending fights with a surprise attack that the enemy never saw coming and breaking away if he can to hit them from another angle if the first strike fails. As for personal skills he calls himself a "fortune teller and medium" and claims to be able to perform "black magic." In practice this means he's familiar with all kinds of folklore, occultism, and ghost stories. More practical are his skills as a NC mechanic, with a intimate knowledge of their inner workings that could only come from a professional education on the subject and an uncanny ability to fine tune them in order to get maximum efficiency.
Notes:
- Only takes off his mask when alone and there's no chance at seeing his own reflection. This is to keep his NC from finding out what he looks like.
- On the personal Shit List of Denver-Vegas
------
NC Character Sheet:
Code-name: Black Magic
Appearance:
Body Type: Bipedal
Type of NC: Assault
Equipment & Armaments: The most notable piece of equipment Black Magic possesses is a powerful electron jammar that renders in effectively invisible to radar. It's primary weapon is its Crescent Moon Blade, a super heated blade whose sharp edge and weight enabled it to remove an enemy NCs limbs with a single strike. It's fallback weapons are a pair of "Stake Guns" it carries of its hips, sub-machine gun like weapons that fire super heated stakes. Thought the mech possesses great speed and agility, it is practically naked when it comes to NC armor meaning its only option when faced with a heavy weapon is to dodge and pray.
The NC is also equipped with the most advanced recording hardware in the world. The recording suit in the head allows it to perfectly capture video and audio in a 360 degree area around the mech that is saved to a server inside as a VR movie that can be copied and played in any Denver-Vegas brand VR Entertainment system.
Appearance:
Age:Early 30s
Personality: A paranoid and eccentric man, Slice believes that there is an underlying pattern to all things and if he can just find and correctly interpret the sighs and portents he can stay on the "golden" path through life. Unfortunately for him he sees signs and portents everywhere and has a list of false predictions a mile long, but that's just because he's still practicing, he'll get better, honest. He's also extremely superstitious, believes strongly in things like luck and magic, dosen't trust NCs, and is terrified of his own in particular because he thinks it's plotting to devour his soul. The only reason he keeps piloting it is because "it's an evil machine, and if I stop piloting it it will just find someone more pliable to sate its bloodlust with."
Backstory: No one really cared about prisoner #62487 or where he came from before he was selected for the Denver-Vegas games. Shoved into a mask, into a shoddy mech, and let loose to be hunted like an animal in the wilderness for the entertainment of the masses, his story was supposed to end in a sad and pathetic death. No one though he would do the unprecedented and actually manage to steal one of the Hunter NC's. No one thought he would have the knack for piloting in took to not only evade but actively hunt the hunting team that he was supposed to die pathetically to, nor the Corporate NCs that were sent in after he killed them all. No one thought he would be able to break through the containment around the game area. No one thought he'd be able to get out of Denver-Vegas territory. Somehow, though, history slipped off the rails and this nameless nobody managed to slip the noose that was tightening around his neck.
In the end George Allen couldn't even be that mad. It was incredible television. Still, the fugitive the public was now adoringly calling "Pumpkin Slicer" after his mask and weapon had made a fool of his company. That was something that couldn't stand. He had to be hunted down and killed, no matter where he went. Slice was forced to keep fighting, signing on to different Corp and merc squads just to get some protection from Denver-Vegas. The latest and most long lasting of these relationships is the Electrum Company.
Tactical Preferences and Skills: Slice doesn't prefer fighting at knife fight range, but he recognizes that's what he excels at and it's what his NC wants. He prefers stealth, ending fights with a surprise attack that the enemy never saw coming and breaking away if he can to hit them from another angle if the first strike fails. As for personal skills he calls himself a "fortune teller and medium" and claims to be able to perform "black magic." In practice this means he's familiar with all kinds of folklore, occultism, and ghost stories. More practical are his skills as a NC mechanic, with a intimate knowledge of their inner workings that could only come from a professional education on the subject and an uncanny ability to fine tune them in order to get maximum efficiency.
Notes:
- Only takes off his mask when alone and there's no chance at seeing his own reflection. This is to keep his NC from finding out what he looks like.
- On the personal Shit List of Denver-Vegas
------
NC Character Sheet:
Code-name: Black Magic
Appearance:
Body Type: Bipedal
Type of NC: Assault
Equipment & Armaments: The most notable piece of equipment Black Magic possesses is a powerful electron jammar that renders in effectively invisible to radar. It's primary weapon is its Crescent Moon Blade, a super heated blade whose sharp edge and weight enabled it to remove an enemy NCs limbs with a single strike. It's fallback weapons are a pair of "Stake Guns" it carries of its hips, sub-machine gun like weapons that fire super heated stakes. Thought the mech possesses great speed and agility, it is practically naked when it comes to NC armor meaning its only option when faced with a heavy weapon is to dodge and pray.
The NC is also equipped with the most advanced recording hardware in the world. The recording suit in the head allows it to perfectly capture video and audio in a 360 degree area around the mech that is saved to a server inside as a VR movie that can be copied and played in any Denver-Vegas brand VR Entertainment system.
That's one of the way Bayonetta fights, so it is by definition very good.
Bak Tsarevna
It another situation Bak might have enjoyed the sensation of weightlessness she felt as she spun through the air. Perhaps this is what ballerinas felt like as pranced blithely along the ground on the very tippy tops of their toes? Unfortunately this was no time to be enjoying the experience. She'd been thrown by a demon and it was quite likely for her to fly off this open roof to an uncertain fate below, leaving all her friends up here to fight the demon without her. That's if the fall didn't kill her, which she couldn't be sure wouldn't happen. She'd never fallen from a height like this before.
Then, almost as suddenly as the spinning started it abruptly ceased. She was staring down at someone. Or, up at someone? They were upside down. The would wouldn't stop spinning, but it almost looked like Christine. No, wait, that was wrong. There was all that fire. The other one? The other one! The other one was holding her over her head, like nothing!
Why had Christine never told them her sister was so cool?
Then she reared back and started to spin, and Bak barely had time to think wha- before she was flying again. This time like a bullet, no spinning, just flying straight backwards. She couldn't see where she was going. Then she felt an impact ripple through her backpack as she plowed over something. This arrested her momentum enough that she started to drop, striking the ground and flipping over once to land with her back against the the top of the elevator shaft in the center of the roof.
She shook her head slowly, just letting herself sit for a moment to catch her breath and try to come to terms with the nonsense that had just occurred. She look down at the armor plate of her arm. There was a huge claw mark punctured straight throughout it, the armor folding in around it. Completely crushed and useless. She didn't enjoy the thought of having to grow it back, but at least the gun was okay. Losing that would mean a long, painful couple of weeks to get something like that back.
@KillamriX88@Hammerman@6slyboy6@RoflsMazoy
Name: Pumpkin Slicer
Appearance:
Age:Early 30s
Personality: A paranoid and eccentric man, Slice believes that there is an underlying pattern to all things and if he can just find and correctly interpret the sighs and portents he can stay on the "golden" path through life. Unfortunately for him he sees signs and portents everywhere and has a list of false predictions a mile long, but that's just because he's still practicing, he'll get better, honest. He's also extremely superstitious, believes strongly in things like luck and magic, dosen't trust NCs, and is terrified of his own in particular because he thinks it's plotting to devour his soul. The only reason he keeps piloting it is because "it's an evil machine, and if I stop piloting it it will just find someone more pliable to sate its bloodlust with."
Backstory: No one really cared about prisoner #62487 or where he came from before he was selected for the Denver-Vegas games. Shoved into a mask, into a shoddy mech, and let loose to be hunted like an animal in the wilderness for the entertainment of the masses, his story was supposed to end in a sad and pathetic death. No one though he would do the unprecedented and actually manage to steal one of the Hunter NC's. No one thought he would have the knack for piloting in took to not only evade but actively hunt the hunting team that he was supposed to die pathetically to, nor the Corporate NCs that were sent in after he killed them all. No one thought he would be able to break through the containment around the game area. No one thought he'd be able to get out of Denver-Vegas territory. Somehow, though, history slipped off the rails and this nameless nobody managed to slip the noose that was tightening around his neck.
In the end George Allen couldn't even be that mad. It was incredible television. Still, the fugitive the public was now adoringly calling "Pumpkin Slicer" after his mask and weapon had made a fool of his company. That was something that couldn't stand. He had to be hunted down and killed, no matter where he went. Slice was forced to keep fighting, signing on to different Corp and merc squads just to get some protection from Denver-Vegas. The latest and most long lasting of these relationships is the Electrum Company.
Tactical Preferences and Skills: Slice doesn't prefer fighting at knife fight range, but he recognizes that's what he excels at and it's what his NC wants. He prefers stealth, ending fights with a surprise attack that the enemy never saw coming and breaking away if he can to hit them from another angle if the first strike fails. As for personal skills he calls himself a "fortune teller and medium" and claims to be able to perform "black magic." In practice this means he's familiar with all kinds of folklore, occultism, and ghost stories. More practical are his skills as a NC mechanic, with a intimate knowledge of their inner workings that could only come from a professional education on the subject and an uncanny ability to fine tune them in order to get maximum efficiency.
Notes:
- Only takes off his mask when alone and there's no chance at seeing his own reflection. This is to keep his NC from finding out what he looks like.
- On the personal Shit List of Denver-Vegas
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NC Character Sheet:
Code-name: Black Magic
Appearance:
Body Type: Bipedal
Type of NC: Assault
Equipment & Armaments: The most notable piece of equipment Black Magic possesses is a powerful electron jammar that renders in effectively invisible to radar. It's primary weapon is its Crescent Moon Blade, a super heated blade whose sharp edge and weight enabled it to remove an enemy NCs limbs with a single strike. It's fallback weapons are a pair of "Stake Guns" it carries of its hips, sub-machine gun like weapons that fire super heated stakes. Thought the mech possesses great speed and agility, it is practically naked when it comes to NC armor meaning its only option when faced with a heavy weapon is to dodge and pray.
The NC is also equipped with the most advanced recording hardware in the world. The recording suit in the head allows it to perfectly capture video and audio in a 360 degree area around the mech that is saved to a server inside as a VR movie that can be copied and played in any Denver-Vegas brand VR Entertainment system.
Appearance:
Age:Early 30s
Personality: A paranoid and eccentric man, Slice believes that there is an underlying pattern to all things and if he can just find and correctly interpret the sighs and portents he can stay on the "golden" path through life. Unfortunately for him he sees signs and portents everywhere and has a list of false predictions a mile long, but that's just because he's still practicing, he'll get better, honest. He's also extremely superstitious, believes strongly in things like luck and magic, dosen't trust NCs, and is terrified of his own in particular because he thinks it's plotting to devour his soul. The only reason he keeps piloting it is because "it's an evil machine, and if I stop piloting it it will just find someone more pliable to sate its bloodlust with."
Backstory: No one really cared about prisoner #62487 or where he came from before he was selected for the Denver-Vegas games. Shoved into a mask, into a shoddy mech, and let loose to be hunted like an animal in the wilderness for the entertainment of the masses, his story was supposed to end in a sad and pathetic death. No one though he would do the unprecedented and actually manage to steal one of the Hunter NC's. No one thought he would have the knack for piloting in took to not only evade but actively hunt the hunting team that he was supposed to die pathetically to, nor the Corporate NCs that were sent in after he killed them all. No one thought he would be able to break through the containment around the game area. No one thought he'd be able to get out of Denver-Vegas territory. Somehow, though, history slipped off the rails and this nameless nobody managed to slip the noose that was tightening around his neck.
In the end George Allen couldn't even be that mad. It was incredible television. Still, the fugitive the public was now adoringly calling "Pumpkin Slicer" after his mask and weapon had made a fool of his company. That was something that couldn't stand. He had to be hunted down and killed, no matter where he went. Slice was forced to keep fighting, signing on to different Corp and merc squads just to get some protection from Denver-Vegas. The latest and most long lasting of these relationships is the Electrum Company.
Tactical Preferences and Skills: Slice doesn't prefer fighting at knife fight range, but he recognizes that's what he excels at and it's what his NC wants. He prefers stealth, ending fights with a surprise attack that the enemy never saw coming and breaking away if he can to hit them from another angle if the first strike fails. As for personal skills he calls himself a "fortune teller and medium" and claims to be able to perform "black magic." In practice this means he's familiar with all kinds of folklore, occultism, and ghost stories. More practical are his skills as a NC mechanic, with a intimate knowledge of their inner workings that could only come from a professional education on the subject and an uncanny ability to fine tune them in order to get maximum efficiency.
Notes:
- Only takes off his mask when alone and there's no chance at seeing his own reflection. This is to keep his NC from finding out what he looks like.
- On the personal Shit List of Denver-Vegas
------
NC Character Sheet:
Code-name: Black Magic
Appearance:
Body Type: Bipedal
Type of NC: Assault
Equipment & Armaments: The most notable piece of equipment Black Magic possesses is a powerful electron jammar that renders in effectively invisible to radar. It's primary weapon is its Crescent Moon Blade, a super heated blade whose sharp edge and weight enabled it to remove an enemy NCs limbs with a single strike. It's fallback weapons are a pair of "Stake Guns" it carries of its hips, sub-machine gun like weapons that fire super heated stakes. Thought the mech possesses great speed and agility, it is practically naked when it comes to NC armor meaning its only option when faced with a heavy weapon is to dodge and pray.
The NC is also equipped with the most advanced recording hardware in the world. The recording suit in the head allows it to perfectly capture video and audio in a 360 degree area around the mech that is saved to a server inside as a VR movie that can be copied and played in any Denver-Vegas brand VR Entertainment system.
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