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super duper boy
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Lol
Location: Laughing Worg Tavern -- City-State of Thorinn, Aetheria
Graves was quiet for a few moments as he chewed on the protests from the others. Artemis wondered if these disappearances weren’t connected as Seele and Alex’s investigation made them out to be. It was possible, he agreed; the world had changed rapidly beneath them and they still hadn’t caught their footing. If dungeons could spawn under a place like Thorinn then was anything really off the table?
He sighed, rubbing his temple with his knuckle. No, this wasn’t the work of some new monster or unknown anomaly. This was a familiar sort of violence that had followed them to Pariah from the old world: wicked men who preyed on the vulnerable for their own gain. He could feel it in the depths of his gut, in the goosebumps on his arms, and in the hairs on his neck. He was rarely so sure of anything anymore as he was of this.
And then there was the issue Siegfried raised. His reservations were sensible, of course. Graves found himself nodding gently along with his objections despite giving his blessing to Seele just moments ago. If anything went wrong- anything at all- she could get hurt, or worse. Using live bait was risky business yet he couldn’t see any way out of it. Whoever it was that was taking these mages hadn’t been caught yet; hell, the authorities didn’t even know anything was going on, as far as Graves knew. These people, whoever they were, weren’t going to be caught easily.
“There’s no other way.” He looked to Sig, jaw set and eyes narrowed. “It’s a shitty hand but it’s the one we’ve gotta play. I don’t like puttin’ Seele in danger any more’n you do.”
Graves did his best to repress the memory of Enos, Atlas, and Aaginim’s final resting place. He hadn’t been there when they died; he’d be there this time. It’d be different. He was sure of it.
He turned then to meet Seele’s gaze. He couldn’t conjure the strength to match her smile; not with so much at stake. “We’ll stay outta sight but we’ll keep close enough to reach you if anything goes wrong. You’ll be alright. You have my word on that.”
Location: Laughing Worg Tavern -- City-State of Thorinn, Aetheria
Graves wasn't much of a thinker, even if he'd never admit it. Seele spoke in an excited rush, days worth of careful research and pondering pouring out like a flood. She was shuffling through stacks upon stacks of documents featuring all sorts of information: missing wayfarers, a map of the city, a second map of the city, then a third and a fourth. It would've been difficult to keep up with her even if Graves wasn't halfway through a sizeable tankard of ale. Still, he did his best to follow her line of thought. People were being taken in some kinda pattern. Certain places in Thorinn where it was easier to nab folks in the dead of night, he figured, were hotspots for these kidnappings. And they were targeted, too, not just at players but specifically mages from Drox. Why would they go after the hippies of all things? Every Drox guildie he'd ever met was obnoxiously nice and obsessively helpful.
'These guys've gotta be real bastards if these are the people they're huntin'.'
Cowards, too, if the only wayfarers they were willing to fight were supports and healers. They'd be easy pickings for somebody like him, if only they could actually find them.
But it seemed Seele had a plan for that, too, as she drew a vial from her robes. A cold prickle climbed up the back of his neck at the sight of blood. His heart beat just a little bit faster, and he had to fight the urge to reach out and snatch it off the table.
He opened his mouth to speak only for the words to catch in his throat, his attention drawn elsewhere. Something was on his arm. He glanced down at it, and even on seeing Artemis's hand gripping his he couldn't quite comprehend what was happening. The idea that someone would dare to touch him seemed so outrageous that his first instinct was to dismiss it out of hand. His eyes were playing tricks on him. Or it was an accident, maybe.
Graves looked up to give Artemis a puzzled look as she released her grip, mumbling out an apology about a lack of sleep. The gears in his head turned hard enough to send smoke trailing out of his ears, but he finally got it. "Oh," he muttered, blood rushing to his cheeks. "No, no! You're, uh, you're okay. Its totally cool. We're cool." Graves assured her everything was okay with a pat on the arm and a thumbs up.
He quickly turned away from her. "You don't have to do that. You're not doing that, actually. We ain't lettin' you out of our sight. Besides," he grabbed the blood vial Seele had placed in front of them, holding it up. He gave Seele a long look, trying to read the intention behind her eyes as he spoke. "Seele already went to all the trouble of drawing this. You sure you're up to this, Missy?"
April 7th
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH A.M
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH A.M
Sakaguchi Kenzo tore across the front lot of Utsubyo High School atop his skateboard. Its old, battered frame bounced and jostled against the uneven pavement, threatening to toss Ken off its back at any moment. He gave its protests little mind. Bending his knees he kicked his back foot forward, letting its momentum build and build just before throwing it back into the ground, rocketing him forward even faster. This was about his top-speed on a flat surface, he waged. A ghost of a grin crept across his face. This was where the fun began.
Tossing the remaining chunk of taiyaki into his mouth, Ken lowered himself even closer to the ground- close enough he could trace his fingers against the asphalt. He moved his foot to the back end of the board. Kicking down, he jumped. Time slowed to a crawl. He bent his head toward the sky. It looked like there'd be rain today. He pondered how he felt about that as he hung in the air, instinct dragging his forward foot along the front right side of the board. Rain meant he'd have to spend the day indoors, which was a shame. But it could be so beautiful, too.
Ken hooked his foot underneath the lip of the board and flipped it. It wobbled in the air as it spun, rotating thrice before Ken brought his feet down atop it. It was nearly a perfect kickflip. Nearly. The skateboard's distracted rider tried to land a moment too soon, catching its side with the bottom of his feet and knocking him off balance. "Oh you've got to be-" Ken tumbled, flailing his arms in an effort to keep from eating complete shit on the pavement.
It worked, in the sense that Ken kept all his teeth as he smashed his face into the ground. A dull, ringing pain filled his head as he lay there, staring up at the gloomy sky. "What a bother," he sighed. The rain was definitely a bad thing, he decided. It was to blame for his misfortune more than anything else.
Unbeknownst to him, his skateboard had continued to skid across the lot, shooting off toward a group of ne'er-do-wells.
Tossing the remaining chunk of taiyaki into his mouth, Ken lowered himself even closer to the ground- close enough he could trace his fingers against the asphalt. He moved his foot to the back end of the board. Kicking down, he jumped. Time slowed to a crawl. He bent his head toward the sky. It looked like there'd be rain today. He pondered how he felt about that as he hung in the air, instinct dragging his forward foot along the front right side of the board. Rain meant he'd have to spend the day indoors, which was a shame. But it could be so beautiful, too.
Ken hooked his foot underneath the lip of the board and flipped it. It wobbled in the air as it spun, rotating thrice before Ken brought his feet down atop it. It was nearly a perfect kickflip. Nearly. The skateboard's distracted rider tried to land a moment too soon, catching its side with the bottom of his feet and knocking him off balance. "Oh you've got to be-" Ken tumbled, flailing his arms in an effort to keep from eating complete shit on the pavement.
It worked, in the sense that Ken kept all his teeth as he smashed his face into the ground. A dull, ringing pain filled his head as he lay there, staring up at the gloomy sky. "What a bother," he sighed. The rain was definitely a bad thing, he decided. It was to blame for his misfortune more than anything else.
Unbeknownst to him, his skateboard had continued to skid across the lot, shooting off toward a group of ne'er-do-wells.
Maxx did you just Kobayashi Maru your character
...no.
Mech Simulation Deck, Fortuna | In Transit
February 14th, 3061
It was late in the night yet the sky radiated with light. The city of Antaura, the so-called Jewel of Mars, burned. Flames flickered atop golden spires of phototropic glass. So soaring were these towers that whole networks of shuttle tunnels ran between them, snaking and twisting through the air like a floating highway. Tens of thousands of refugees surged through those tunnels. Packed shoulder to shoulder as far as the eye could see in either direction, the crowd was a flood- anyone who slowed or stumbled was sucked underneath the waves.
Outside, the nightmare continued. The tracers of solid projectiles and the beams of stray lasers lit up the atmosphere. The dark shapes of ships hung above the planet, thousands of smaller objects pouring from their bellies on a direct course for Mars. A meager fleet of fighters left the ground to engage them, though they stood no chance; there were a dozen hostile vessels for each one of theirs. Desperate battles waged across the planet from surface to stratosphere. Every Martian strong enough to lift a gun was expected to stand their ground for faith and nation. The Sol Union called this their Blackest Day scenario: when Theden forces pierced the Solar System and invaded the core worlds.
John Marshall had put thousands of flight hours into this exact scenario, to the point where he'd memorized every possible variable. He could rattle off the exact model, armament and I.D number of every exoframe he'd encounter. He knew which direction every hostile pilot favored when reacting to incoming projectiles. Knew the exact number of unpreventable casualties coded into the program. It was forty-eight thousand, three hundred and twelve: a massacre of unimaginable proportions. And that was just when he did everything right.
It was a textbook unwinnable scenario. Its purpose was to force exo-pilots to confront impossible situations and adapt to them as best as possible. They had to learn that not every fight was winnable; sometimes the best you could do was cut your losses and make as safe a retreat as possible.
The steady thrumming of the H-11 Carbine in the Ulysses's hands rocked the cockpit. John shuffled in his seat, finger twitching on the flight stick. He held it in a death grip with his left hand. Beads of sweat slid down his forehead. His heart palpitated in his chest. It always irritated him just how anxious he got in the pilot's seat. He'd put over a hundred days into this sim; how'd it still make him so goddamn nervous?
An H-11 had a variable fire rate of anywhere between six hundred and fifty rounds a minute to as high as eighteen hundred, depending on the specifications of the exact model and its settings. The Ulysses's H-11 was tuned to the highest possible rate for maximum killpower in close quarters. It could spit out more than thirty individual pulses of superheated energy every second- firing fast enough that it could be mistaken for a continuous beam, if not for the horrific skipping screech that accompanied the light show.
At that speed, Marshall could slag an exoframe before its pilot even noticed the blip approaching on their radar.
The Ulysses danced between broken towers with the odd, bouncy movement of a bumblebee. It was frighteningly fast; faster than any twenty tons of steel ought to be. Four, wing-like thrusters propelled it forward through the Martian city, carrying the exoframe along even as it turned to unleash a round of missiles from hidden racks in its limbs. Hornet seekers curved around the side of a building and out of sight, exploding against an exoframe Marshall only knew was lurking there from repetition. Its ambush always slowed him down by three seconds too many.
About half a click ahead lay was an intersection where the fighting was thicker than molasses. Heavy frame Sol Union mechs stood their ground against a veritable swarm of smaller yet far more numerous Theden light frames. The Union mechs had erected a makeshift barrier by piling up chunks of road and discarded vehicles, but it wouldn't buy them much time at all.
John kicked the exoframe into high gear, ignoring the warnings flashing across his deck about the inertial dampeners. If he slowed down at all, even for a quarter of a second, those men would die.
He pressed down on the trigger once he reached his effective range, and the carbine began to kick once more. It sang a horrible tune as it cut through hostile frame after hostile frame, shredding their shields until their exposed, metallic bodies could be delivered their fiery purification via a round of seeker missiles. It was rare to watch a pilot die in their cockpit. Most of the time they were lost in a flurry of lasers or the bright light of explosions. Sometimes, though, John would catch a glimpse: an arm here, a face there, something that may have been coolant fluid or human blood. Or maybe his mind was trying to trick him into feeling guilty.
A sudden, intolerable pressure slammed into his body. It crawled up along his spine, digging its fingers into his nerves and sinking its teeth into his blood. His vision swam. The world drained of its color. A heavy, invisible hand pressed down against his face, but he ignored it. Marshall fought to keep his finger on the trigger and his reticle pointed at the enemy. Ignore the Gs. Complete the mission.
The whole of his cockpit rocked with a sudden, hefty impact, and he felt his exoframe begin to tumble head over heel. A great, metal face dominated his primary viewscreen- there was another frame grappling with his. John blinked a hundred times as he tried to check his systems for damage. It looked like a foreign object had pierced Ulysses's lower right thigh. A knife, maybe, or an improvised weapon.
More warnings flashed, this time across every screen in the cockpit: emergency failures across multiple vital systems. Total loss of flight control. The Gs were pouring on and the Ulysses's inertia dampeners were refusing to compensate. John gasped for air in bursts, wheezing, begging for the pressure to lift from his chest for even a moment- just a moment to catch his breath.
Two tangled exoframes slammed into the side of one of Mars's golden spires, shattering glass and snapping steel beams in twain. They tumbled for a few hundred feet before the floor gave out and they were falling again, surrounded by the broken remains of office furniture. John wasn't quite sure how many floors they fell. It could've been as few as two or as many as a hundred. Try as he might, he couldn't focus. Pain wracked his body, addled his mind, but he refused to lose consciousness.
But Blackest Day was a textbook unwinnable scenario, designed and programed to adapt to the user's every attempt to conquer it. The greatest pilots in the galaxy couldn't stop Antaura from burning.
John blacked out, and the simulation ended.
Outside, the nightmare continued. The tracers of solid projectiles and the beams of stray lasers lit up the atmosphere. The dark shapes of ships hung above the planet, thousands of smaller objects pouring from their bellies on a direct course for Mars. A meager fleet of fighters left the ground to engage them, though they stood no chance; there were a dozen hostile vessels for each one of theirs. Desperate battles waged across the planet from surface to stratosphere. Every Martian strong enough to lift a gun was expected to stand their ground for faith and nation. The Sol Union called this their Blackest Day scenario: when Theden forces pierced the Solar System and invaded the core worlds.
John Marshall had put thousands of flight hours into this exact scenario, to the point where he'd memorized every possible variable. He could rattle off the exact model, armament and I.D number of every exoframe he'd encounter. He knew which direction every hostile pilot favored when reacting to incoming projectiles. Knew the exact number of unpreventable casualties coded into the program. It was forty-eight thousand, three hundred and twelve: a massacre of unimaginable proportions. And that was just when he did everything right.
It was a textbook unwinnable scenario. Its purpose was to force exo-pilots to confront impossible situations and adapt to them as best as possible. They had to learn that not every fight was winnable; sometimes the best you could do was cut your losses and make as safe a retreat as possible.
The steady thrumming of the H-11 Carbine in the Ulysses's hands rocked the cockpit. John shuffled in his seat, finger twitching on the flight stick. He held it in a death grip with his left hand. Beads of sweat slid down his forehead. His heart palpitated in his chest. It always irritated him just how anxious he got in the pilot's seat. He'd put over a hundred days into this sim; how'd it still make him so goddamn nervous?
An H-11 had a variable fire rate of anywhere between six hundred and fifty rounds a minute to as high as eighteen hundred, depending on the specifications of the exact model and its settings. The Ulysses's H-11 was tuned to the highest possible rate for maximum killpower in close quarters. It could spit out more than thirty individual pulses of superheated energy every second- firing fast enough that it could be mistaken for a continuous beam, if not for the horrific skipping screech that accompanied the light show.
At that speed, Marshall could slag an exoframe before its pilot even noticed the blip approaching on their radar.
The Ulysses danced between broken towers with the odd, bouncy movement of a bumblebee. It was frighteningly fast; faster than any twenty tons of steel ought to be. Four, wing-like thrusters propelled it forward through the Martian city, carrying the exoframe along even as it turned to unleash a round of missiles from hidden racks in its limbs. Hornet seekers curved around the side of a building and out of sight, exploding against an exoframe Marshall only knew was lurking there from repetition. Its ambush always slowed him down by three seconds too many.
About half a click ahead lay was an intersection where the fighting was thicker than molasses. Heavy frame Sol Union mechs stood their ground against a veritable swarm of smaller yet far more numerous Theden light frames. The Union mechs had erected a makeshift barrier by piling up chunks of road and discarded vehicles, but it wouldn't buy them much time at all.
John kicked the exoframe into high gear, ignoring the warnings flashing across his deck about the inertial dampeners. If he slowed down at all, even for a quarter of a second, those men would die.
He pressed down on the trigger once he reached his effective range, and the carbine began to kick once more. It sang a horrible tune as it cut through hostile frame after hostile frame, shredding their shields until their exposed, metallic bodies could be delivered their fiery purification via a round of seeker missiles. It was rare to watch a pilot die in their cockpit. Most of the time they were lost in a flurry of lasers or the bright light of explosions. Sometimes, though, John would catch a glimpse: an arm here, a face there, something that may have been coolant fluid or human blood. Or maybe his mind was trying to trick him into feeling guilty.
A sudden, intolerable pressure slammed into his body. It crawled up along his spine, digging its fingers into his nerves and sinking its teeth into his blood. His vision swam. The world drained of its color. A heavy, invisible hand pressed down against his face, but he ignored it. Marshall fought to keep his finger on the trigger and his reticle pointed at the enemy. Ignore the Gs. Complete the mission.
The whole of his cockpit rocked with a sudden, hefty impact, and he felt his exoframe begin to tumble head over heel. A great, metal face dominated his primary viewscreen- there was another frame grappling with his. John blinked a hundred times as he tried to check his systems for damage. It looked like a foreign object had pierced Ulysses's lower right thigh. A knife, maybe, or an improvised weapon.
More warnings flashed, this time across every screen in the cockpit: emergency failures across multiple vital systems. Total loss of flight control. The Gs were pouring on and the Ulysses's inertia dampeners were refusing to compensate. John gasped for air in bursts, wheezing, begging for the pressure to lift from his chest for even a moment- just a moment to catch his breath.
Two tangled exoframes slammed into the side of one of Mars's golden spires, shattering glass and snapping steel beams in twain. They tumbled for a few hundred feet before the floor gave out and they were falling again, surrounded by the broken remains of office furniture. John wasn't quite sure how many floors they fell. It could've been as few as two or as many as a hundred. Try as he might, he couldn't focus. Pain wracked his body, addled his mind, but he refused to lose consciousness.
But Blackest Day was a textbook unwinnable scenario, designed and programed to adapt to the user's every attempt to conquer it. The greatest pilots in the galaxy couldn't stop Antaura from burning.
John blacked out, and the simulation ended.
Location: Laughing Worg Tavern -- City-State of Thorinn, Aetheria
Graves gave a smug grin when the conversation changed gears, sure that meant he'd convinced them of his side of things. Even Rael- with a sigh of defeat on her lips- had to admit his plan was smart. It was nice to know he was more than just muscles and a pretty face. And it laid many of his worries to rest knowing that they'd try to help their fellow stranded players. For all his blustering about not giving a shit, there was some part of him that cared about what happened to them. They shouldn't have to suffer needlessly when changes could be made, so long as they weren't at the party's expense.
Alja made her way back to the table at Seele's beckoning, clearly in better spirits after taking a moment to cool off. She must've felt good if she was willing to make eyes so flagrantly at their new arrival. He was glad there weren't any hard feelings. He had shared some things with Kelly when they were stranded in the sewers that he hadn't told another soul; and she'd bared her soul to him in return. It embarrassed him how much he cared about how she thought of him.
Once everyone was back together the debrief began. Graves had heard rumors of recent disappearances but he had no idea the extent of the problem. It was almost an epidemic; there wasn't anyway they were unconnected. Back in Indiana kidnappings were relatively rare, except in areas known for having organized trafficking rings. He remembered a whole string of news stories about a major bust in South Bend. Could that he happening in Thorinn?
"I think I can help with this," he nodded, looking between Seele and Alex, who seemed to be taking the initiative this time around. "Back before the Glitch my main profession was bounty hunting. I'd track down all sorts of people and monsters. Got real good at it, too, if I say so myself. Even got magic that'll let me exactly where a person is- only issue bein' they gotta be within a thousand feet of me n' I gotta have access to their blood. Doubt any of the victims left a vial of that behind before they got snatched or else we could solve this thing right now."
It seemed like the best way he could use his time, seeing as how they were between major excursions. It wasn't like he could go smack metal around and make money off it like Siegfried or Alja.
He was considering what else he could add to the discussion when he noticed Kazuki's head getting lower and lower to the table, words slurring worse than a drunken racist in china town. "You okay there, little guy?"
The bard kept on going down until he'd slid right out of his chair and ended up on the floor, sprawled out like a rug and muttering in a language Graves didn't recognize. He stood up, unsure if he should be concerned or amused. "Kazy had, what, two drinks? Jesus, talk about a lightweight. We oughtta get him to bed."
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