Howler

There Are No Heroes [Revamp]

Sorry, I'm actually still alive and was just waiting for a moment to get a solid post out. Either way, got something up.

There Are No Heroes [Revamp]

It was the usual casual chaos in Michelle's shoe-box apartment, Slipknot blaring at a soothing billion-and-a-half decibels from a pair of surprisingly powerful external speakers. Ancient things by now, they were some of Michelle's most prized possessions--she fell in love with them at Value Village a little after realizing the speakers weren't actually blown out and bought them on the spot for $10 a pair. They weren't much good for hauling around, but they were big enough and bad enough to fill her apartment with enough noise to drown out the rusty-bed fucking or bad-relationship grudge matches that seemed to plague the rest of the semi-transient members of her apartment building. It was exactly that kind of thing that set her teeth on edge and exactly that kind of thing that kept her rent as fucking pathetic as it was, so the ability to counter it all with a wall of anarchic rage was highly valued. If Before I Forget couldn't kick the shit out of whatever noise was going on, not much else would. Michelle's den needed a biblical kind of cleaning, and she was half tempted to build herself an ark, turn on the water and let the flood wash it all out to...well, more Utah. Not exactly a lot of sea around. Her den--she couldn't keep herself from calling it that--was dark and warm and cluttered, the living room really just a place for a couch outside of the kitchen and bedroom-bathroom. A few years ago Michelle would have been surprised that people paid money for a place like this--the drain in the kitchen sink didn't work and it had been a week since the last maintenance submission, the wallpaper smelled like cigarettes and the walls underneath it were paper thin. It was, as her friend described it, The kind of shit-hole roach motel that doesn't ask questions and takes cash. So, you know. Perfect for you. "Fucker." She commented idly at the thought, looking to the cherry of her dying spliff before stubbing it out on her overflowing ash-tray. A spliff is a half-joint, half-cigarette abomination that Marko had recently turned her on to, and she had to admit she was fan. It helped maintain an upkeep level of inebriation, the sort of functional high that junkies talk about needing to get through the day. At the same time, most junkies didn't have a half ton of slavering monster trying to crawl its way through your skin and eat your next door neighbor, so they could go to rehab and she could try and keep her fucking blood down, thank-you-very-much. Besides, today had been a good day--she'd booked through more patient files than she thought she would, she hadn't blown out her speakers turning them up over Punch and Judy down the hall, and when she checked her account she'd gotten paid. And she hadn't felt Big Bad--as she called him-it-her in her head--rumbling for a little while now through the haze, which meant life was about as good as it was going to get. She was, she decided, even going to risk going out. Flicking through her widely varied selection of heavy black hoodies, she threw on one of her favorites, slipped on a pair of tights and stuck her feet into some heavy boots on her way for the door. It wasn't that she cared didn't care that she looked like some highschool emo-goth poser so much as she didn't fucking care what she looked like anymore period. What was she going to do, go out and meet someone? Hi, my name is Michelle, let's grab some coffee and hope I don't eat you sometime? She barked a laugh tussled what was left of her hair for kicks on her way out the door. ...aaand almost ran into Mr. Schumaker, who was about to pound on her door. One fist raised in the air, mouth open to shout, they both of them stared at each other for a moment. All the blaring rock in the world couldn't have broken the white noise that went on in Michelle's brain for a second, that instant of something unexpected and unpleasant enough to skyrocket her pulse. Her fingers started twitching, the nails starting to itch, but thank God the elderly immigrant took a step back and coughed into his raised fist. Either he'd seen something in the way she ground to a halt or he wasn't quite as willing to shout at her face the way he was through her floor, because he just jerked towards the apartment on he inside. "Music." "What?" "Your music. Turn it off, when you leave. It keeps up my dog." "You don't have a--" "Turn music off!" "Okay! Okay! Turn music off!" She muttered, throwing her hands up, stomping back into her apartment to flick the laptop shut and close her eyes. She breathed, heavily, trying to focus on that pleasant marijuana-tingling-fog instead of the heartbeat that felt like it would punch through her ribcage and tell Mr. Shchumaker where exactly he could put his invisible dog. A year ago she'd have kicked his ass for talking to her like that, and she'd have had-- No. This was better. Keep your head down. Focus. Swallow. Breathe. Good night. The music cut off a second later as the laptop went to sleep and she made her way for the door, plastering on some pretty-in-pink smile that didn't reach her eyes as she closed the door shut behind her and locked its trio of locks. The old kraut watched her the whole time, sweat-stained wife-beater clinging to later-sixties flab and sweatpants while his beady little eyes burned holes in her back. She turned and started down the hallway for the door with a little wave over her shoulder, trying to ignore the way the muscles in her hands were starting to cramp, new strands visible crawling up towards her knuckles and fingers. "Music off! Go away, Mr. Schmucker!" She called over her shoulder without looking, heading down the stairs in a rapid descent before gulping in the warm night air, swallowing new scents and fresh breeze down to try and get the smell of stale sweat and age out of her nose. She could practically taste him, and she had no interest in making it literally as she tried to reinforce her flagging good mood and head down the road. Thank God it was walking distance. ----- The trick to sneaking into bars when you're underage is knowing how to abuse liquor laws. As long as you've got a drink in your hand once the server shows up, it's in their best interest not to card you in case they gave it to you. And since almost every bar served Coors Light, and on the rare occasions she had company over she had them bring her some, she just made sure she stashed one in her kangaroo pocket and slipped in the back past the kitchen and off she was, partying in adult-land. It was a rare excursion for her but she'd done it more than once--some of the servers were starting to know her enough to be conversant, and she hoped that one of these days she wouldn't have to trick them like this just to get a damn beer that wasn't yellow and fizzy. But either way, as she settled herself in a booth in the corner and watched the band start to set up on stage and sipped her body-heat Coors with distaste, she could feel herself starting to wind down. She might want another cigarette, and she might remember a moment where she had almost taken off Mr. Schumacker's jaw, but she was having a beer in a bar like a normal girl and even starting to relax a bit. Maybe nothing more would go wrong tonight. After all, what was the worst that could happen.

The Road To Indigo (Pokemon RP: Chapter 1: Intros and Out We Goes!) (Open for Applications!)

Wasn' gonna say anythin', but yeah. If we're rockin' pseudos, you lemme know. 'cause. You know. Beldum.

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

<Snipped quote by Howler> 52nd?....May I ask what the 51st was?

@Deadnaut

Japan got itself annexed back in 2157. Anime became too precious a commodity to leave in outside hands.

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

Tbh, the Earth nationalities kinda felt anachronistic given the setting, but I kinda just went with it

@PrincessOfNothing

I don't know that they have to. Nationalities are one of those things that people hold on to beyond reasonable levels--even if they weren't the same, I can easily see them being an identity that people hold onto even as they progress through the 'verse. As much as countries would cease to be quite as meaningful, I think it's just as easy to imagine the world holding onto it stodgy views of nationality even as they became closer to statehood than anything else. And don't tell me you can't see the first Americans to set foot on Mars calling it the 52nd State. Similarly, English actually is one of the more flexible languages, which would support its continued existance. It isn't necessarily that it's spoken by the most people so much as that it's substantially more adaptive within its own patterns than a great many others and in easier to learn than quite a few others not in that it isn't complex and full of potholes but because, as a language, English is very forgiving of mistakes.

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

What, you don't want Ariana to birth some kind of crazy squid monster?

The Road To Indigo (Pokemon RP: Chapter 1: Intros and Out We Goes!) (Open for Applications!)

Name: Arthur Montgomery Age: 14 Gender: Male Hometown: Blackthorn City Appearance: Arthur has all the potential of a very handsome man in a very awkward body. Just beginning the in-between stage, he's still growing into what will one day become powerful shoulders and a strong back but, as a teenage, simply accentuate his late-coming growth spurts. Slightly short even for his age, he wears the sour expression of a young brat. Favoring heavy, baggy clothes and a beanie over his lank white hair, he slouches and generally shuffles his way along with poor posture and attitude. He is rarely seen without his headphones pumping out some tinny, angry musing from around his neck, and he often seems to cover about as much of himself as he possibly can at any given time. He does, however, have large scar on his nose where his aunt's Gyarados lashed him with its tail as a child. He is sensitive about it. Personality: Arthur is curmudgeon. In general he is quick to be snarky and sarcastic, as much a performance of his obvious teenage angst as anything else. Just old enough to feel slighted by his place in the world and not quite old enough to give in to existential ennui, he instead contents himself with traipsing about like a thundercloud and generally being a dramatic and obnoxious teenager. He swears a lot because he can until people snap at him enough, where he reverts to monosyllables and glowers. As a trainer he's a hardass, pretending very much to be one of those people that only cares about how strong a pokemon is or how well it will shore up their team. Still, the truth of the matter is that Arthur is a good, intelligent guy who just wants to feel like he's special. He's got a heart of gold under his tough shell, and he's always ready to step in and save the day (even if he says it's just to steal the glory). Profession: Pokemon Trainer Talents: Arthur is very good at reading people, seeing them for who they are instead of who they pretend to be. He's also a fair hand at pretty much everything about being a Pokemon trainer--how to handle a pokemon, help it reach its potential, whip it into shape and judge its strength. What he's poor at are the basic things, setting up camp and cooking his own meals. Inventory: 10 Pokeballs, a very warm sleeping bag, a one person tent, a change of clothes, a high-end .Mp3 player with studio-quality headphones, several pairs of shoes, pokemon food and grooming supplies, personal food and grooming supplies, a utility knife, rain gear, multi-tool and flashlight all in a high-end hiker's backpack. He also has card access to a bank account with $500 currently available from his parents/winnings. Starter Pokemon: Lv. 5 Axew "Lancelot" Biography: Arthur was going to be anything but a pokemon trainer. Pokemon ran in his family's blood. Though his mother, sister to Blackthorn City's own Claire, was a successful accountant every single one of his family members--up to and including Uncle Lance--were some form of badass pokemon trainer or another, and most of them with Dragon-types no less. Dragon-types like Auntie Clair's Gyarados (who wasn't even a real Dragon, anyway!) that slapped him in the face when he was five and left a messy scar on his nose, which made all of them pokemon non grata in young Arthur's book. About the only pokemon he tolerated was his Axew, Lancelot. Even then he and the proud, snarky creature dealt with each other as tersely as one could imagine two best friends were able. But there was always so much pressure to fight--it was all about whether or not Lancelot could beat up Remy's Goldeen, or if he was going to have the lizard focus on on wallbreaking or Dragon Dancing. Everybody just assumed he'd be a trainer without ever asking him, and his contrary nature insisted that he would be a plain, boring accountant out of spite. Over several years of this behavior, people began to lose interest and move on to greener prospects. If he didn't want to be a trainer than he didn't have to, though they would all of them admit to being a little disappointed. Except Auntie Clair, who wouldn't give up the ghost. Closer to Arthur than any of his other relatives, his Aunt kept the torch burning for young Arthur's budding career as a trainer and needled him about it at every opportunity. It was she who brought him to Unova during a conference on Dragon-Types and allowed him to pick out his Axew, hoping having a different dragon would help him get over whatever this thing he had about pokemon training was. She was quick to point out how well the other boys were getting on, even without a proper Dragon to raise and how he was wasting his potential on something as menial as accounting (even around his mother, who politely agreed and also politely over-salted her dinner). It was only when she got around to insulting Lancelot ("He's so scrawny!) that Arthur finally had enough. After years of this he finally, at fourteen, slammed his hands down on the table and marched upstairs to pack. Claire, of course, beamed like she'd won the lottery, but she wouldn't be for long. He'd wipe that smug look off her face when Lancelot wiped the floor with her stupid gyarados and its slinky dragonaire buddies.

Black Cross, Red Beast: A Transylvanian Affair (OWoD VtDA)

Excellent characters that are up! I'll be reading over everyone's back stories and such tonight and synergizing/correcting/prodding as necessary. I'm shooting to have ducks properly in a row byby Saturday morning, with the IC (hopefully) up by Sunday evening. If I have trouble maintaining this schedule, feel free to spam my PM inbox with Gifs of how lame I am until I manage to be more accountable. At first glance, however, I have high hopes for the characters presented!

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

<Snipped quote by Howler> Only problem is. Wes' teeth are behind a sheet of bulletproof glass.

@Harbringer

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood. Wes didn't seem like the kind of man to let a little thing like bulletproof glass stop his manliest of faces. >:D

Falling Skies: 7th Mobile Armor Suit Team

I mean, Wes could probably just leave the GAW behind and get a new one. Command would piss on him about it, but what are they gonna do? Fire him?

@SirBeowulf

Leave the gun behind? Sounds like bitch talk to me. We has teeth, the gun has a handle. He's got this.