inquisition
Confessed Procrastinator.
**I'm editing this to be my Grand Master Database. If you have been referred to this, or perhaps even stumbled across it, read only the parts you need. If you want to RP with me, I recommend reading the What to Expect From Me portion and at least part of my post example.***
Like, no kidding. I have a lot of paragraphs. You have no idea. No. Idea. Kudos if you read all this. Seriously, I'll give you a virtual hug. Maybe a virtual cookie, too.
So I used to be on here, and I tried to start a RP, but I fell away from the habit before it started and now I just want to start over. I more or less feel like someone who used to go to those alcoholic rehab meetings, stopped abruptly and relapsed for a long time, and then awkwardly crawled back--but tried to play the whole thing off like it never happened.
That's kind of how I feel.
Mhm... yeah. I'd kind of rather try to find a few literate peeps and then share my ideas with them, instead of just making a few threads for my ideas and waiting and hoping I find someone good. Let me tell you a bit about myself and what I hope for in a partner.
What to Expect From Me:
I said that I didn't do well with more action/description based writing, but that was *partially* a lie. I can do it. It's just harder. I have to think about it, you know? It takes longer. But, in the interest of well-roundedness, here's one of my description-based posts.
Characters:
If you Fall in love with one of them, let me know. I generally have plots in mind for specific characters. If not, or if they're already in a RP, I will probably be willing to discuss a plot with you and/or play the same character in multiple stories.
Jason
Zachariah. (God, Zachariah is... he's... not the most likable person ever...)
Gabriel
Significant Quotes:
"Why do you stay in prison when the door is so wide open?” (Jalal ad-Din)
“I’m not great at advice… may I interest you in a sarcastic comment?”
“I’d kill a thousand men before I let one make me his slave.”
“You have no idea how many times I’ve tried to tell you the truth through my jokes.”
“The flashbacks hurt…”
“Do not ask the price I paid. I must live with my quiet rage and tame the ghosts in my head that run wild and wish me dead.”
“You don’t understand how much I hate myself.”
“Hearing something that kills you inside and having to act like you don’t care.”
“Sooner or later I’m going to have to think about it and then I’m going to be a mess.”
“Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.”
“If by my life or death I can protect you, I will.” (J.R.R. Tolkien)
“The worst part about it all is that I have to go back there tomorrow and pretend everything’s fine.”
“The night is the hardest time to be alive and 4 a.m. knows all my secrets.”
“I’m fiercely independent, but I’m also terrified of being alone.” (Adam Levine)
“I closed my eyes and spoke to you in a thousand silent ways.”
“I spent this year as a ghost and I’m not sure where home is anymore.”
“I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.”
“The boy never cried again, and he never forgot that to love is to destroy and to be loved is to be destroyed.”
“I often miss this little girl… whose dreams had no barriers…. Who believed in a world where anything is possible with a heart that was full and unbroken.”
"FLASHBACKS. INSOMNIA. NIGHTMARES."
"I always tried to protect you, keep you safe. Dad didn't even have to tell me. This was always just my responsibility, you know? It's like I had one job. I had one job. And I screwed it up. I blew it. And for that I'm sorry."
Past Fragment:
“There will come a day when you realize that all I’ve said is true. You’ll notice the horror that awaits you up ahead, but you won’t be able to stop moving towards it. You’ll realize that there’s no escape for you, no backspace, no detours, and though it may be fate that you kill me here, it is also fate that I get my revenge on you. Even the kingdoms of gods are just playthings for other gods, and even though I’ve died here, I’ll be painting your fate one universe above you… Heh… be sure to take good care of my daughter, boy.”
He was always afraid of words. They were such careless things, so easily made, but they had power over people. They have power over him. That’s why he wasn’t one for talking. When he was quiet, he could almost forget it all. He only had to suffer at night when his soul cursed him in dreams for keeping his agony so close to his heart. He only had to suffer when the darkness smothered out all distractions and left him in an empty room with nothing to do but wait for his insides to leak out. That’s the only time he had to suffer if he could just shut up for the rest of his life. But it was never that easy. He couldn’t be silent, so even the day tormented him. Because of her, the vampires could creep just as flawlessly in day as night. Just looking at her inspired fear. She had power over him. Just like words. It’s true he wouldn’t mind that much if she’d just asked him for actions—he could surrender actions in the day just fine; they were distractions, and he needed and liked distractions—but he knew it was words she wanted. Every day, every goddamned day, he’d watch her—wondering if today was the day she’d ask him to cut out his soul and present it to her on one of their shattered serving plates. It wouldn’t even be a whole one, he knew, because she wouldn’t understand his fragmented words and the shards would pierce both her hands for touching the subject and his heart for revealing itself in the unforgiving air. Living like this was starting to destroy him. He now understood why her father had ordained this as his punishment. At night he was cursed with insomnia and nightmares. In the day he lived in fear and flashbacks. He couldn’t escape from it anymore. It was a hideous, primal monster that chased him day and night without rest. He was going to break. His emotion was bound to slip out eventually. Then she would know. They would all know. And his promise would be broken.
He knew it was going to happen eventually. He followed her every order without fail until it did, resigning himself to objective recital that would hopefully spare him any outburst. But he couldn’t delete his emotions—as much as he hid them, they were still there. So when she finally called him in one night and looked him in the eyes and “Tell me why you killed my father” fell off her tongue, he couldn’t do it. Everything fell apart—just like the old man said it would—and he realized for the first time just how damned he was. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look her in the eyes and see all his shame shot back to him along with whatever hatred she mixed into the powder. For the first time she saw his weakness; she saw the suffering he tried so hard to restrain. And then his promises were broken. He’d cried in front of her and ran from his punishment. He broke his oath to always obey his master. And for the first time, everyone knew that he hadn’t been a dog chained and forced to do what he was told. They knew he’d been collarless this whole time. He did what they said by force of will. It was never because of some cursed mark bestowed on him by that damned old man he killed that night. They all knew it was true, now that he’d fled in tears instead of telling her what she wanted to know.
They all knew the secret, now. And he knew they’d want to know more. They’d want to know why he stayed and listened and why he ran and what happened that day and all the answers would just beget more questions and rather than face the wrath of all those words and memories that he only wanted to bury he would rather just die and face that damned old man that predicted it all. He had abandoned his pride long ago, but it still hurt to know that man was right about everything. It hurt to know that if he was right about all the pain that chased him up to this point, he was probably right about the monster that waited in ambush just ahead in the darkness. He was probably right when he said there was no escape.
After running that night, he ran for another two years. For two years he tried to outwit his fate. But in the end he knew. He was doomed. The old man was definitely watching him, and no form of recompense would save him from a dead God’s vengeance. So after running for two years and trying to postpone the inevitable for one, he returned to the door of his master and resigned himself to living without completely falling apart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It seemed her palace hadn’t changed much in the three years he’d spent as a stray—it was still cold and overbearing in its intimidating stone gown, steadfast as ever but not without some air of delicate beauty and flawless grace. He always thought it was a rather fitting abode for those who called themselves gods. Inviting and merciless at the same time. After all, it was with perfect allure that all evils beckoned their prey—promising good to all but only truly delivering to some—like carnivorous plants that boast oxygen to those larger and food to those smaller. Oh, did you think the plant would just sit there and let you eat at its expense? No, little fly—the food that was promised to you is yours—surely—but to attain it you must part with your life.
As he left the surrounding night for the innards of the palace, he dimly wondered where and when this sudden eloquence had broken into his soul. But it didn’t loiter around long enough for him to take any real notice. No pretty words could change the truth of the matter. Her palace was a prison. A pound for hopeless tramps and strays like him and an adventure for the obedient and trusting pedigrees like everyone else. It was a prison. But it was only his prison, and as such the bars were visible only to him. No one else really noticed how everything got darker the more steps you take inside. No one noticed how cold it was. How empty. How dark.
It was quite a long time before he reached the darkest place of all. No—it was the second darkest place. His room was the darkest. His empty room with nothing but bars and chains and airless darkness. Her room was the second darkest. That’s what he realized as he stared darkly at the door of her room. There weren’t any bars in her room, for some reason. Her room was the only place that wasn’t a prison. It took him a minute to remember why, but he regretted thinking about it when he did. Why wasn’t the second darkest room a prison cell? He knew why. It was an execution chamber. The place where god died. When he thought about it, staring at her door, he started to wonder if she knew that her father was killed there. If it was him, he wouldn’t want to lay in the same place someone else died. But then again, that’s exactly what he used to do.
He stared at the door for a few minutes before he started to realize how stupid it was. No one else saw this place as he did—the darkness was only reflected in his eyes. And because of that he was more afraid of the door than actually facing what he’d done. So he decided he didn’t have to go through the door. He didn’t even have to touch it. Well, maybe he had to touch it. The old man would want him to suffer for running off for three years, and touching the door seemed like a good way to do that. Maybe if he started his own suffering it wouldn’t be as bad. And maybe Alexandria wasn’t even in there. It’d been three years, after all. Maybe he could just lean against the door and start talking and do what he should’ve done then, and be rewarded with a clean conscience without all the trouble of facing her again. Maybe he could slip out before morning and no one would ever know. Maybe there was some god out there that loved him.
“I… um… you asked me… why I killed your old man…,” he whispered, stalking the door to lean a fist and a forehead on it. As he continued, he couldn’t quite keep his voice at a steady volume. It fluctuated somewhere between a breath and a low, strained murmur. Like he couldn’t quite decide if he should be a man about it—quietly, of course; there was no need to wake anyone else in the palace—in case she wasn’t there or do everything in his power not to be heard if she was. “…Three years ago… well, three years and twenty-two days…uh, not that I counted or anything… or kept track from the beginning... damn it. I, uh… I have to answer you sooner or later… since I… well, ran away in tears like a little… you know what, let’s just start this over. I’m sure you’re sleeping anyway… in a room… that isn’t this one… God… Why didn’t I… why the hell didn’t I practice this shit? God damn it… I had three years… I shoulda practiced…”
He fell silent for a moment, listening to the air behind the door, trying to judge if she was there or not. It probably wasn’t too late to run again. He’d done it once right in front of her, so what was the shame of doing it again like this? She might not even be there.
But the old man was. It was a scary thought—one that he hadn’t fully grasped before. Her dad already had it coming to him for running—he knew that much—so to even think about running again was just… man… what had he become? And why was talking so damn hard for him? Was he always this much of a pussy? He couldn’t quite remember. That worried him.
“I… um… are you… are you there? Alexandria… about what happened…with the old man… I… I made a deal with him, once… I exchanged my life for… well… something I thought… was important to me… but I didn’t… I didn’t understand the price I would pay. So when he… he… took… something from me… something I wasn’t expecting him to take… I killed him because I didn’t realize it was part of the price... I killed your father because I wanted revenge… I killed him because I was stupid…,“ realizing something, he backed away from the door to shake his head. “I should’ve just said that when you’d asked… I killed him because I was stupid.”
He knew a simple answer like that—blaming it on stupidity—would’ve never satisfied her. Hell, he didn’t even know if his legitimate answer would satisfy her. That’s partially why he was internally petrified. Would the master still tolerate the mutt that not only killed her father, but ran away when he was supposed to be making up for it? Making up for it…? Well, as much as a mutt could make up for biting all his previous masters. “I’m sorry failing your command before.”
Open and Claimable Plots:
#2: Free Writing Sequence. Not Refined. Open for discussion.
#3: Free Writing Sequence: Character Fragment. Semi-Refined. Open for Discussion.
Okay, okay. I'm done for now. I feel like you'll have a great idea of who I am from this. So, let me know if you're interested in roleplaying with me. I have a lot of ideas floating around, waiting for me to sledgehammer them out of my brain, so if you're late to the party and you don't get one of the plots up there don't even worry about it. I'm looking for friends that will become partners, not really the other way around.
*GASP*
Oh my god. There's a cool poll creator down there. That's so awesome. I should make a poll. What should I gather valuable opinions about, though?
Hm....
I know. I'll ask what people thought of this huge block of text. (Even though I've edited it now and it's more of a database than an introductory post.)
Like, no kidding. I have a lot of paragraphs. You have no idea. No. Idea. Kudos if you read all this. Seriously, I'll give you a virtual hug. Maybe a virtual cookie, too.
So I used to be on here, and I tried to start a RP, but I fell away from the habit before it started and now I just want to start over. I more or less feel like someone who used to go to those alcoholic rehab meetings, stopped abruptly and relapsed for a long time, and then awkwardly crawled back--but tried to play the whole thing off like it never happened.
That's kind of how I feel.
Mhm... yeah. I'd kind of rather try to find a few literate peeps and then share my ideas with them, instead of just making a few threads for my ideas and waiting and hoping I find someone good. Let me tell you a bit about myself and what I hope for in a partner.
What to Expect From Me:
General:
First of all, I never do slice of life. My plots involve supernatural creatures, gods, death, government conspiracies, inhumane experiments, sociopaths, and more. I tend to be a little dark, and I have successfully played serial killers. Twice.
Romantically, I only do male/female pairings. If an idea pops into my head that has no chance for romance, I'm fine doing two males. But it will never be anything romantic. (Not that I'm judging or anything--I have a few homosexual friends and they're pretty awesome people). It's not my cup of tea, though.
Literacy and Writing Style:
I'm literate. As a general rule I expect you to match what I write, more or less, as post length can fluctuate throughout the course of a roleplay. You can expect a minimum of 2-3 paragraphs per post, or about 400+ words. I generally average about 7-10 paragraphs, but if I have a lot to write about I can go upwards of 15-16. My typical style of writing tends to focus more on the psychological aspects of my characters, their past experiences, and highlighting their respective journeys to achieve some sort of important understanding. I’m not really one for grand descriptions of settings or actions. Those tend to be a bit vague with me. I focus on the characters.
If your writing style is more of a description of actions and settings, with mostly dialogue and little insight regarding your characters’ thoughts and motivations, I’ll have a lot of trouble roleplaying with you. I’m just not good at writing like that, you know? If for some reason I feel like your writing style isn't compatible with mine, although anyone who responds to this should have a good idea of our comparability, I will let you know immediately. I don't have the patience to struggle for a few weeks or months and ultimately have the story die for such a ridiculous reason. I'll let you know the first time I see your post.
Dedication:
I have a decent amount of literate stuff going on at the moment. Because of this, and a certain personality trait of mine (I play favorites), I can be slow to reply. I will by no means guarantee daily posting. I might post daily—maybe more if a RP becomes one of my favorites—but it’s not guaranteed. As such, I can't ask for daily posts from you. It might annoy me if you only post, say, once a week... but I can deal with once every few days.
Know this: I don’t abandon my own plots. That would be stupid. So, I’ll continue to post as long as you do. Which better be longer than a few weeks, by the way—don’t be joining anything of mine if you’re prone to ditching. I don’t think anybody really likes ditchers. I've had people ditch. It isn't acceptable. You have until the first post to run. Once there are two replies, you’re stuck with me. Please—for the love of god—don't flee once the story has started. Tattoo it on both hemispheres of your mind! And, you really aren't allowed to ditch, but if you hypothetically do... Let me know. Don't just disappear. At least let me kill off your character properly so I can somehow work in another person. Or start it from scratch. But, you aren't allowed to ditch, so it doesn't really matter anyway. Right? I am long term, pumpkin. Let me know if you go on vacation or die or go comatose or something.
The art of intriguing posts:
I once had someone play as my character's close friend for about a month, real life time, building a relationship outwardly and inwardly with thoughts. We were just two guys stuck in a (hunger game-ish) forest, trying to survive together and work out their issues. Then, in one post, he completely changed sides and turned out to be working for an enemy. It was the single most shocking and interesting moment in all my years of roleplay. I never saw it coming. It's very interesting when a character's thoughts are deceptive and misleading, as they're supposed to be only known by the character. So one would assume it to be true, right? Heh.
I've seen many roleplay creators say something like, "talk to me before starting any big drama!" I never liked that. I never really liked that at all. You can do whatever you like. You can do bad things. Fights, capture, memory wipes, torture, illegitimate children, whatever—it’s all fair game. In fact, I take this whole thing to such an extreme, I don’t even mind if you kill my character. I will find a way to get you back. And it will be great. Really. I may have said this, but it's okay to betray me. We can all simultaneously betray each other in one big deceptive mess. Bring on the battle of wits. I will screw you all over, every last one of you, so don't be afraid to do it back or aid me in my attempts. Evil laugh, anyone? Mwahaha.
As far as romancy-things, this is my pre-written disclaimer for that. (Although now I've been bested twice, so just keep that in mind.)
The rules are pretty simple. Don’t be cliché and throw in a lot of plot twists. Yep. I want you to be completely and utterly MALICIOUS. Destroy my poor character—one condemned atom at a time—don’t hold back anything! And don’t cry over spilled milk! Then, maybe throw in a little mushy mush. Even if it’s fake I’m-lying-through-my-teeth mush or hell-I-really-hate-admitting-this-sugariness. Then hammer him down again! HA HA HA HA.
I’m not a sadist, really. Just trust me—tragedy is a lot of fun. Much better than gushy mush. And I’ll pay you back for whatever you dish out. Don’t worry ‘bout it. I really love a roleplay when it turns into a battle between writers to outwit the other. Oh, fun times. And—as a little incentive—I’ve only been bested once. The woman had a remarkable character, and I couldn’t figure out her motives at all, and she surprised me with this plot twist that I actually didn’t see coming and… it was an awesome WTF experience that rarely happens. So yeah. Can you handle my dance, little bird? Can you?
...I feel like I should also warn you that I'm prone to swearing.
You can view examples of my writing style here:
First of all, I never do slice of life. My plots involve supernatural creatures, gods, death, government conspiracies, inhumane experiments, sociopaths, and more. I tend to be a little dark, and I have successfully played serial killers. Twice.
Romantically, I only do male/female pairings. If an idea pops into my head that has no chance for romance, I'm fine doing two males. But it will never be anything romantic. (Not that I'm judging or anything--I have a few homosexual friends and they're pretty awesome people). It's not my cup of tea, though.
Literacy and Writing Style:
I'm literate. As a general rule I expect you to match what I write, more or less, as post length can fluctuate throughout the course of a roleplay. You can expect a minimum of 2-3 paragraphs per post, or about 400+ words. I generally average about 7-10 paragraphs, but if I have a lot to write about I can go upwards of 15-16. My typical style of writing tends to focus more on the psychological aspects of my characters, their past experiences, and highlighting their respective journeys to achieve some sort of important understanding. I’m not really one for grand descriptions of settings or actions. Those tend to be a bit vague with me. I focus on the characters.
If your writing style is more of a description of actions and settings, with mostly dialogue and little insight regarding your characters’ thoughts and motivations, I’ll have a lot of trouble roleplaying with you. I’m just not good at writing like that, you know? If for some reason I feel like your writing style isn't compatible with mine, although anyone who responds to this should have a good idea of our comparability, I will let you know immediately. I don't have the patience to struggle for a few weeks or months and ultimately have the story die for such a ridiculous reason. I'll let you know the first time I see your post.
Dedication:
I have a decent amount of literate stuff going on at the moment. Because of this, and a certain personality trait of mine (I play favorites), I can be slow to reply. I will by no means guarantee daily posting. I might post daily—maybe more if a RP becomes one of my favorites—but it’s not guaranteed. As such, I can't ask for daily posts from you. It might annoy me if you only post, say, once a week... but I can deal with once every few days.
Know this: I don’t abandon my own plots. That would be stupid. So, I’ll continue to post as long as you do. Which better be longer than a few weeks, by the way—don’t be joining anything of mine if you’re prone to ditching. I don’t think anybody really likes ditchers. I've had people ditch. It isn't acceptable. You have until the first post to run. Once there are two replies, you’re stuck with me. Please—for the love of god—don't flee once the story has started. Tattoo it on both hemispheres of your mind! And, you really aren't allowed to ditch, but if you hypothetically do... Let me know. Don't just disappear. At least let me kill off your character properly so I can somehow work in another person. Or start it from scratch. But, you aren't allowed to ditch, so it doesn't really matter anyway. Right? I am long term, pumpkin. Let me know if you go on vacation or die or go comatose or something.
The art of intriguing posts:
I once had someone play as my character's close friend for about a month, real life time, building a relationship outwardly and inwardly with thoughts. We were just two guys stuck in a (hunger game-ish) forest, trying to survive together and work out their issues. Then, in one post, he completely changed sides and turned out to be working for an enemy. It was the single most shocking and interesting moment in all my years of roleplay. I never saw it coming. It's very interesting when a character's thoughts are deceptive and misleading, as they're supposed to be only known by the character. So one would assume it to be true, right? Heh.
I've seen many roleplay creators say something like, "talk to me before starting any big drama!" I never liked that. I never really liked that at all. You can do whatever you like. You can do bad things. Fights, capture, memory wipes, torture, illegitimate children, whatever—it’s all fair game. In fact, I take this whole thing to such an extreme, I don’t even mind if you kill my character. I will find a way to get you back. And it will be great. Really. I may have said this, but it's okay to betray me. We can all simultaneously betray each other in one big deceptive mess. Bring on the battle of wits. I will screw you all over, every last one of you, so don't be afraid to do it back or aid me in my attempts. Evil laugh, anyone? Mwahaha.
As far as romancy-things, this is my pre-written disclaimer for that. (Although now I've been bested twice, so just keep that in mind.)
The rules are pretty simple. Don’t be cliché and throw in a lot of plot twists. Yep. I want you to be completely and utterly MALICIOUS. Destroy my poor character—one condemned atom at a time—don’t hold back anything! And don’t cry over spilled milk! Then, maybe throw in a little mushy mush. Even if it’s fake I’m-lying-through-my-teeth mush or hell-I-really-hate-admitting-this-sugariness. Then hammer him down again! HA HA HA HA.
I’m not a sadist, really. Just trust me—tragedy is a lot of fun. Much better than gushy mush. And I’ll pay you back for whatever you dish out. Don’t worry ‘bout it. I really love a roleplay when it turns into a battle between writers to outwit the other. Oh, fun times. And—as a little incentive—I’ve only been bested once. The woman had a remarkable character, and I couldn’t figure out her motives at all, and she surprised me with this plot twist that I actually didn’t see coming and… it was an awesome WTF experience that rarely happens. So yeah. Can you handle my dance, little bird? Can you?
...I feel like I should also warn you that I'm prone to swearing.
You can view examples of my writing style here:
This is my natural writing style, and how I prefer writing. This comes easy to me. It's a typical post.
It took a few seconds to recover from his sudden heart failure. Or maybe it took a few minutes. He wasn’t exactly sure, since he was dizzy from the lack of oxygen runners doing marathons through his veins, and what little concentration he did possess was desperately trying to rid his face of a horrified expression. There wasn’t a monster behind him. It was just Alexandria. Not that it really made a difference. Actually, it did. He would’ve preferred the monster. They don’t ask for words, after all. They just hurt you physically. He could take physical pain. His creator had given him a sturdy build, after all. He could take it. But words never hurt you physically. Not on the outside, at least. They were shards of glass mixed with acid that forced its way up in a sort of emotional word vomit that left you scarred and bleeding for longer than anyone could really take. Those were words. His words. And when she announced his presence he knew it wouldn’t be long before she forced the plague on him, demanding him to speak a painful truth to somehow satisfy her.
But he was prepared for that. Well, as prepared as he ever would be. He always knew the day would come when he’d have to answer for what he’d done. Reveal what no one had learned despite their countless attempts and roughness. It was amazing just how terrifying an army of angered archangels could be, but he’d known that before he killed their god. It was a death sentence to a living hell. That was obvious. He knew the cost of killing the old man. The bastard had spelled it all out for him before the deed was done. But he accepted that price. He deserved to pay it. So even though there were times he was selfish and just wanted the pain to stop, and times he cringed away from the blow that approached, he would always come back to this. He would always come back to his pain. He deserved it.
He deserved to turn around and face her and do whatever it was she said. This was part of his punishment. She was just another catalyst to open old wounds. And he hated her for that. But at the same time… he was relieved that she was there. He hated this, all of it, but he felt incomplete without the agony. The older he got, the more he was starting to think that maybe it was better to live in constant pain than lie broken and bloody, paralyzed with a sort of numb emptiness that just feels worse than anything. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe the pain was worth it if he wasn’t completely alone. So as she spoke her words, her insults, and finally demanded the rest of the story, all he could do was stand silently, preparing for the oncoming horror that was always guaranteed, because he knew that even this was better than wandering around aimlessly with only his thoughts to destroy him. It would be over faster if others shattered him. It would be so much easier. So much faster. All he had to do was stop resisting the siege and open the gates. He just had to start handing out weapons for everyone to stab him with.
If only it wasn’t so hard to do that. Admitting what happened was like taking a blade and sawing off his tongue. It isn’t easy to do that to yourself. He just—he couldn’t do it. But he had no choice. The reality of that became gruesomely apparent when she seized his wrist and dragged him into that horrible room—carelessly hauled him into that horrific place—and perched just like a goddess on her judgmental couch ready to break him more than her father ever did. He kept resolving to stutter through it as steadily as he could, to figure out a way to force himself to say it, to give his master what she wanted and what he ultimately needed, but it… it was just so hard. He kept thinking about it and then he was seeing it and then hearing her screaming and pleading and crying and then he felt the fire on his hands and in his throat and smelled the blood dripping down and it was just too much—he had to forget it all, he had to forget but he couldn’t and he knew it. He could never escape. He could never be anything but wretched ever again. And that terrified him, but it also disgusted him. He hated himself for being so unable to just accept his suffering. He just wanted to stop wishing he could escape.
As the world came back into focus, and he stood there breathing heavily with distorted eyes aimed firmly at the floor, he heard his master say the one thing he never thought she would. He heard her say that he could be forgiven. And it was at that moment that all the agony and dread he’d felt dissipated into nothingness. It was completely evaporated by the heat of sudden and unequaled anger.
Forgiven. Forgiven. Forgiven. How could anyone dare to throw that word at him? It didn’t matter how much of a lie it was. Actually, the fact that it was a lie made it even worse. That word was forbidden to him. He had no right to even begin to think about the possibility of ending his suffering and being… So why the hell was she voicing nonsense about forgiveness? If he couldn’t forgive himself—if he felt like there was no chance for him to ever remotely accept himself again—there was no one on this earth that could possibly have the right to do it for him. That word carried so much weight. He couldn’t believe that she would release it so carelessly.
It physically hurt him to stand there, baring his teeth against the hurricane that had been raging for all these years, trying to keep it from ripping its way out into the open. It really hurt. And he was so exasperated, with her and himself and everything, that for a moment he snapped, and the reinforced iron door he couldn’t bring himself to open cracked. He eyed her with an intensity that matched her own, but while her gaze was a calm, focused dagger that pierced holes through everything it touched, his was a pack of wild dogs that hungrily shredded without regard or mercy.
“You wanna know everything, do you? Well that’s really too bad. I refuse to accommodate a haughty brat that throws empty lies like forgiveness around to get what she wants. You’re a god now, Anna. A fucking god. You’ve got to get your shit together and start acting like it. Billions of people are depending on you now, and you’re just—“ he took a moment to throw a hand in the air, frustrated that he couldn’t find the right words to explain what he saw, “You’re just like the rest of ‘em. I can already see you’ve inherited his flaws. Except you’re young and stupid, so you don’t know how to hide them like he did.”
A few seconds passed before he realized that he’d just reprimanded his master—and called her stupid, on top of that—and that she was actually a god now so it was a pretty ill-advised thing to do. He only partially cared, though. He had stood up to her father countless times, spewing blunt and heated rants just like this one, and as a god he was much scarier than his daughter. It’s true it didn’t end well in the long run, but he figured he’d probably get away with yelling at each god a few times before it came back to really bite him.
Still, Alexandria was known to be rather terrifying and—in his experience—intolerant. It would probably be best to say something to diffuse the situation. Preferably before she reacted and his anger completely left him, leaving the despair to take hold once again. “All that aside,” he added swiftly, “I do owe you a better answer to your question…”
It took a few seconds to recover from his sudden heart failure. Or maybe it took a few minutes. He wasn’t exactly sure, since he was dizzy from the lack of oxygen runners doing marathons through his veins, and what little concentration he did possess was desperately trying to rid his face of a horrified expression. There wasn’t a monster behind him. It was just Alexandria. Not that it really made a difference. Actually, it did. He would’ve preferred the monster. They don’t ask for words, after all. They just hurt you physically. He could take physical pain. His creator had given him a sturdy build, after all. He could take it. But words never hurt you physically. Not on the outside, at least. They were shards of glass mixed with acid that forced its way up in a sort of emotional word vomit that left you scarred and bleeding for longer than anyone could really take. Those were words. His words. And when she announced his presence he knew it wouldn’t be long before she forced the plague on him, demanding him to speak a painful truth to somehow satisfy her.
But he was prepared for that. Well, as prepared as he ever would be. He always knew the day would come when he’d have to answer for what he’d done. Reveal what no one had learned despite their countless attempts and roughness. It was amazing just how terrifying an army of angered archangels could be, but he’d known that before he killed their god. It was a death sentence to a living hell. That was obvious. He knew the cost of killing the old man. The bastard had spelled it all out for him before the deed was done. But he accepted that price. He deserved to pay it. So even though there were times he was selfish and just wanted the pain to stop, and times he cringed away from the blow that approached, he would always come back to this. He would always come back to his pain. He deserved it.
He deserved to turn around and face her and do whatever it was she said. This was part of his punishment. She was just another catalyst to open old wounds. And he hated her for that. But at the same time… he was relieved that she was there. He hated this, all of it, but he felt incomplete without the agony. The older he got, the more he was starting to think that maybe it was better to live in constant pain than lie broken and bloody, paralyzed with a sort of numb emptiness that just feels worse than anything. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe the pain was worth it if he wasn’t completely alone. So as she spoke her words, her insults, and finally demanded the rest of the story, all he could do was stand silently, preparing for the oncoming horror that was always guaranteed, because he knew that even this was better than wandering around aimlessly with only his thoughts to destroy him. It would be over faster if others shattered him. It would be so much easier. So much faster. All he had to do was stop resisting the siege and open the gates. He just had to start handing out weapons for everyone to stab him with.
If only it wasn’t so hard to do that. Admitting what happened was like taking a blade and sawing off his tongue. It isn’t easy to do that to yourself. He just—he couldn’t do it. But he had no choice. The reality of that became gruesomely apparent when she seized his wrist and dragged him into that horrible room—carelessly hauled him into that horrific place—and perched just like a goddess on her judgmental couch ready to break him more than her father ever did. He kept resolving to stutter through it as steadily as he could, to figure out a way to force himself to say it, to give his master what she wanted and what he ultimately needed, but it… it was just so hard. He kept thinking about it and then he was seeing it and then hearing her screaming and pleading and crying and then he felt the fire on his hands and in his throat and smelled the blood dripping down and it was just too much—he had to forget it all, he had to forget but he couldn’t and he knew it. He could never escape. He could never be anything but wretched ever again. And that terrified him, but it also disgusted him. He hated himself for being so unable to just accept his suffering. He just wanted to stop wishing he could escape.
As the world came back into focus, and he stood there breathing heavily with distorted eyes aimed firmly at the floor, he heard his master say the one thing he never thought she would. He heard her say that he could be forgiven. And it was at that moment that all the agony and dread he’d felt dissipated into nothingness. It was completely evaporated by the heat of sudden and unequaled anger.
Forgiven. Forgiven. Forgiven. How could anyone dare to throw that word at him? It didn’t matter how much of a lie it was. Actually, the fact that it was a lie made it even worse. That word was forbidden to him. He had no right to even begin to think about the possibility of ending his suffering and being… So why the hell was she voicing nonsense about forgiveness? If he couldn’t forgive himself—if he felt like there was no chance for him to ever remotely accept himself again—there was no one on this earth that could possibly have the right to do it for him. That word carried so much weight. He couldn’t believe that she would release it so carelessly.
It physically hurt him to stand there, baring his teeth against the hurricane that had been raging for all these years, trying to keep it from ripping its way out into the open. It really hurt. And he was so exasperated, with her and himself and everything, that for a moment he snapped, and the reinforced iron door he couldn’t bring himself to open cracked. He eyed her with an intensity that matched her own, but while her gaze was a calm, focused dagger that pierced holes through everything it touched, his was a pack of wild dogs that hungrily shredded without regard or mercy.
“You wanna know everything, do you? Well that’s really too bad. I refuse to accommodate a haughty brat that throws empty lies like forgiveness around to get what she wants. You’re a god now, Anna. A fucking god. You’ve got to get your shit together and start acting like it. Billions of people are depending on you now, and you’re just—“ he took a moment to throw a hand in the air, frustrated that he couldn’t find the right words to explain what he saw, “You’re just like the rest of ‘em. I can already see you’ve inherited his flaws. Except you’re young and stupid, so you don’t know how to hide them like he did.”
A few seconds passed before he realized that he’d just reprimanded his master—and called her stupid, on top of that—and that she was actually a god now so it was a pretty ill-advised thing to do. He only partially cared, though. He had stood up to her father countless times, spewing blunt and heated rants just like this one, and as a god he was much scarier than his daughter. It’s true it didn’t end well in the long run, but he figured he’d probably get away with yelling at each god a few times before it came back to really bite him.
Still, Alexandria was known to be rather terrifying and—in his experience—intolerant. It would probably be best to say something to diffuse the situation. Preferably before she reacted and his anger completely left him, leaving the despair to take hold once again. “All that aside,” he added swiftly, “I do owe you a better answer to your question…”
A sharp string of curses rang through the air as the needle continued to weave in and out of her torn skin, paler than usual but also stained red with blood. The wind clawed at her long, dark hair, whipping it this way and that like paint splattering on a wall. Or, if you’re a darker type, like the blackened blood of a demon spraying as a slayer devours it. Of course, she wasn’t sure if demon blood was, indeed, black in color. She had never killed one herself. Did they even have blood? Where they even alive? This, she did not know. Of course they’re alive. They can die, can’t they? They appear somewhat humanoid in structure, as well, indicating they possess some substance comparable to blood. Such a stupid inquiry, to believe them dead. Honestly—
The curse words continued to pierce the surrounding atmosphere, jolting her from her tangent, and now being conscious she gritted her teeth as another stitch formed. Xavier continued to curse with each new stitch he stitched. She glanced down tiredly at his handiwork, eyeing the pitifully uneven stitches with some weak amusement. He was a terrible medic, despite his training. A doctor who can’t sew. How pathetic is that? She wondered why they even hired him.
“Can they drive any faster? I’m sure I’m late,” she said, voice strained but overall even. She was trained to tolerate and conceal pain, but it took concentration and she had her limits. “I’d rather them not drive any faster, at least not with us in the back,” he muttered, stitching the last stitch. He did have a point, actually. Their entire schedule had been decimated today, and she found herself unable to drive independently to the target area. They had to pick her up using the only spare company vehicle: a polished black truck with merely two front seats and a bed. She needed medical attention, and refused to go to the medical wing, so she and Xavier were stuck in the back, getting torn up by dusty projectiles and dry wind.
My, she hated the idea of being late. It would be a terrible representation of her agency. But, she did have a good excuse. You know, being caught in an explosion and all. One always prepares for the unexpected, for the mission that goes terribly wrong, but it always screws you over in the end. Always. Luckily, she only had one large laceration on her thigh, about 5 or 6 inches long, small cuts and bruises scattered throughout, a few minor burns, and a small gash on her forehead. The thing on her thigh was the only wound that needed stitches. He finished up, knotting the string tightly, and reminded her to keep the rag pressed firmly against her head. She only nodded in response. God, this all hurt like hell.
Making a mental note to sneak some pain meds later, even though it isn’t smiled upon, she heavily stood to look up the seemingly endless road. Her head felt light and the world seemed to spin at a greater speed than reality condoned, but she did not show it. She wouldn’t show it until she was alone. Hopefully her new acquaintances wouldn’t take long to greet so she could get the fuck out and not look weak. Her boss had told her she couldn’t show any weakness. Humans had to prove their strength to these creatures, and she was going to be the one to do it. Like hell she would. They’d probably kill her as soon as Nix was downed, if not before. God.
Squinting, she saw a small building somewhat on the horizon. As the vehicle moved closer and closer, the building grew, and she noticed a slight discoloration. They came closer. It wasn’t a discoloration, there was movement. Unless she was hallucinating or something. Sighing irritably, she shoved a hand in the back pocket of her jeans, pulling out her glasses. The left lense was substantially shattered, missing a few pieces, and the right donned a thin crack. They more or less worked, though. With their aid, she saw the discoloration was actually an overturned truck. Ducking behind it, there was a tall presumably male figure. That, or a very manish female. God, she hoped it was a guy. Emerging from behind the obstacle, he continued his blunt strides to the building. It wasn’t long before the truck slowed, and they came up close behind him. A file passed through her mind.
Connecting physical appearance to file data, she pegged him as DeKnight. The slayer. Oh, leave it to her to run across that one first. Not that it really mattered; all of them were against her kind. Her balance was interrupted as the truck came to an abrupt stop, well before the building. “What the hell?” she muttered unwittingly. The driver called back to her, saying something about letting her walk with her new playmate so she could better adjust and make friends. Skylar was obviously annoyed, more by the tone than anything, as the driver treated her like a kid being dropped off at kindergarten.
Glaring at the foolish agent with vengeance, she jumped over the side and landed with a generous thud on the dusted ground. Pain shot up violently at the impact, but the cringe lasted only a moment before her face was more or less blank. She took a large, green canvas bag with many pockets out of the passenger seat. It was fairly large, able to conceal a small child, and was obviously her ammunition bag. Slinging it over her shoulder, she shoved her hands in her pockets and trudged on towards Gabriel and the building. She showed no discomfort in the slayer’s presence, no outward fear of his supposed superiority. Honestly, she didn’t care after the day she had.
Looking at her, she was a complete mess. Her jeans, already casual for an agent, were completely shredded to almost shorts on her right side, fully exposing her terribly stitched laceration. The left leg fared better, but was still torn and stuck to a minor burn on her calve. Her black tank top was also quite torn, though it wasn’t as visible under a fresh military jacket she had taken from Xavier. She walked with the slightest limp, trying to keep it unnoticeable, but it was there. Her hair was windblown and streaked with blood, though not matted in its deshelved bun. Dirt and blood both dry and oozing covered her in scattered areas, mingling with debris and the smell of fire. The truck backed away as she moved forward, turning and taking off swiftly back to base. She listened to the tires roll over the dirt road as she approached the slayer, appearing to have the goal of walking past him without a glance. Her vision wasn’t helpful in this moment anyway, as her dull grey eyes would suggest.
The curse words continued to pierce the surrounding atmosphere, jolting her from her tangent, and now being conscious she gritted her teeth as another stitch formed. Xavier continued to curse with each new stitch he stitched. She glanced down tiredly at his handiwork, eyeing the pitifully uneven stitches with some weak amusement. He was a terrible medic, despite his training. A doctor who can’t sew. How pathetic is that? She wondered why they even hired him.
“Can they drive any faster? I’m sure I’m late,” she said, voice strained but overall even. She was trained to tolerate and conceal pain, but it took concentration and she had her limits. “I’d rather them not drive any faster, at least not with us in the back,” he muttered, stitching the last stitch. He did have a point, actually. Their entire schedule had been decimated today, and she found herself unable to drive independently to the target area. They had to pick her up using the only spare company vehicle: a polished black truck with merely two front seats and a bed. She needed medical attention, and refused to go to the medical wing, so she and Xavier were stuck in the back, getting torn up by dusty projectiles and dry wind.
My, she hated the idea of being late. It would be a terrible representation of her agency. But, she did have a good excuse. You know, being caught in an explosion and all. One always prepares for the unexpected, for the mission that goes terribly wrong, but it always screws you over in the end. Always. Luckily, she only had one large laceration on her thigh, about 5 or 6 inches long, small cuts and bruises scattered throughout, a few minor burns, and a small gash on her forehead. The thing on her thigh was the only wound that needed stitches. He finished up, knotting the string tightly, and reminded her to keep the rag pressed firmly against her head. She only nodded in response. God, this all hurt like hell.
Making a mental note to sneak some pain meds later, even though it isn’t smiled upon, she heavily stood to look up the seemingly endless road. Her head felt light and the world seemed to spin at a greater speed than reality condoned, but she did not show it. She wouldn’t show it until she was alone. Hopefully her new acquaintances wouldn’t take long to greet so she could get the fuck out and not look weak. Her boss had told her she couldn’t show any weakness. Humans had to prove their strength to these creatures, and she was going to be the one to do it. Like hell she would. They’d probably kill her as soon as Nix was downed, if not before. God.
Squinting, she saw a small building somewhat on the horizon. As the vehicle moved closer and closer, the building grew, and she noticed a slight discoloration. They came closer. It wasn’t a discoloration, there was movement. Unless she was hallucinating or something. Sighing irritably, she shoved a hand in the back pocket of her jeans, pulling out her glasses. The left lense was substantially shattered, missing a few pieces, and the right donned a thin crack. They more or less worked, though. With their aid, she saw the discoloration was actually an overturned truck. Ducking behind it, there was a tall presumably male figure. That, or a very manish female. God, she hoped it was a guy. Emerging from behind the obstacle, he continued his blunt strides to the building. It wasn’t long before the truck slowed, and they came up close behind him. A file passed through her mind.
Connecting physical appearance to file data, she pegged him as DeKnight. The slayer. Oh, leave it to her to run across that one first. Not that it really mattered; all of them were against her kind. Her balance was interrupted as the truck came to an abrupt stop, well before the building. “What the hell?” she muttered unwittingly. The driver called back to her, saying something about letting her walk with her new playmate so she could better adjust and make friends. Skylar was obviously annoyed, more by the tone than anything, as the driver treated her like a kid being dropped off at kindergarten.
Glaring at the foolish agent with vengeance, she jumped over the side and landed with a generous thud on the dusted ground. Pain shot up violently at the impact, but the cringe lasted only a moment before her face was more or less blank. She took a large, green canvas bag with many pockets out of the passenger seat. It was fairly large, able to conceal a small child, and was obviously her ammunition bag. Slinging it over her shoulder, she shoved her hands in her pockets and trudged on towards Gabriel and the building. She showed no discomfort in the slayer’s presence, no outward fear of his supposed superiority. Honestly, she didn’t care after the day she had.
Looking at her, she was a complete mess. Her jeans, already casual for an agent, were completely shredded to almost shorts on her right side, fully exposing her terribly stitched laceration. The left leg fared better, but was still torn and stuck to a minor burn on her calve. Her black tank top was also quite torn, though it wasn’t as visible under a fresh military jacket she had taken from Xavier. She walked with the slightest limp, trying to keep it unnoticeable, but it was there. Her hair was windblown and streaked with blood, though not matted in its deshelved bun. Dirt and blood both dry and oozing covered her in scattered areas, mingling with debris and the smell of fire. The truck backed away as she moved forward, turning and taking off swiftly back to base. She listened to the tires roll over the dirt road as she approached the slayer, appearing to have the goal of walking past him without a glance. Her vision wasn’t helpful in this moment anyway, as her dull grey eyes would suggest.
Characters:
If you Fall in love with one of them, let me know. I generally have plots in mind for specific characters. If not, or if they're already in a RP, I will probably be willing to discuss a plot with you and/or play the same character in multiple stories.
Cyprian
Name: Cyprian Alexander Harris
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Appearance:
Quirks: Often speaks cryptically and in metaphors. Quotes/alludes to literature. Speaks in fragments. Oddly defensive to touch. Prone to insincerity and deceit. Falls asleep at weird times.
Significant Quotes:
“You overrate my capacity of love. I don't possess half the warmth of nature you believe me to have. An unprotected childhood in a cold world has beaten gentleness out of me.” ― Thomas Hardy, Far from the Madding Crowd
“The first time it was reported that our friends were being butchered there was a cry of horror. Then a hundred were butchered. But when a thousand were butchered and there was no end to the butchery, a blanket of silence spread. When evil-doing comes like falling rain, nobody calls out "stop!" When crimes begin to pile up they become invisible. When sufferings become unendurable the cries are no longer heard. The cries, too, fall like rain in summer.”― Bertolt Brecht, Selected Poems
Soliloquy / Creed:
A person’s life is equivalent to a man stranded on one side of an abyss with the singular goal of making it to the other side. He has three paths. First, he could delude himself into believing his goal to be attainable—thereby remaining stationary until he is overtaken by time’s impatience. Whether he schemes or simply waits for a miracle, it doesn’t matter. The reality is he’s waiting for death to come to him. Second, he could accept the futility of his goal and lament his inability to move forward. Instead of waiting for the demons behind to stab him, he jumps into the abyss. A half-assed attempt to reach the other side, doomed to fail, but perhaps giving a little more comfort than simply waiting for death. Third, he could accept the impossible forward trajectory and move along the edge. He lives on, constantly running from the death-demons, but he’s doomed to never reach his goal. Running left or right will never get him to the other side. He possesses his life… but his life doesn’t amount to anything when death finally comes to him.
I chose to live my life according to the last scenario. I’m not really afraid of death. I think it’s just something you should avoid if you can. Because… if death is coming at some point, I might as well do what I can to survive until then. I refuse to be some dumbass who just gave in to demise. I won’t lose my footing so easily. I’ll survive even if it’s pointless.
Fragment:
Droplets of water slid happily down overgrown blades of grass, not caring about the filth that lingered below, while over the hill other droplet clans slid down far deadlier blades. Stained blades. Their kin painted tears on rotting faces and mingled with blood on shattered spikes. Some say rain is the tears of God. Is it really? Even if it is true, and He does cry for mankind, crying sure doesn’t do a damn in the end. The sky should stop tearing up and do something for a change.
A deep rasp dashed through waves of dancing chains and steadfast bars and unnatural breathing. It was his voice. He was saying something.
“I wonder if I’ll die today.”
That’s right. He whispered that every morning, nowadays, whether it was his turn to fight or not. The others all cried or begged or stared off into the distance with a different shade of gloom, but not him. He just slept and woke and said the same nonchalant words and uttered the same type of facetious remarks whenever his eyes returned from their long respite. Was he insane? Many believed so. But it wasn’t the usual color of insanity. Those who lost their minds in the holding cells were violent and loud, shrieking nonsense and playing cryptic Picasso on their walls. He was different. He didn’t seem to care. He was quiet and sarcastic, marching off to face death when he had to but not without baffling the reaper with his latest enigma. He was definitely insane. They all knew it. But he was insane intelligently.
Chains clicked. Vision blurred. Words slurred and ran together in a wretched painting not even a mother could dare admire. Before he knew it he was at it again, playing the same game he always did, running from a force he couldn’t defeat. Back and forth. Near and far. Left. Right. Roll. Dodge. Run. Keep running. He went through the motions. Yes, it was instinct at this point. But his head wasn’t there. It hadn’t been there for weeks. Months, even. He didn’t even know if he had a head anymore. Maybe it was cut off. Maybe his head was crying God’s tears on a bloody, broken stick up on a hill somewhere. They couldn’t even splurge on an unbroken stick. As if it’s that hard to go and pick up a new one somewhere. Those bastards.
Loud. Louder. What were those noises, he wondered, as the walls roared and cheered and called his name. He was the frontrunner. He was the example. He had won the game again. But even then, with his newly stolen hours of guaranteed life, his head wasn’t there. He didn’t hear them. He couldn’t. It all didn’t matter. It never mattered. He was just a ghost forced into a game he didn’t like. Crying wouldn’t help. Begging wouldn’t help. Crazy would only help him to his grave… and pride was a distant dream that only fools feigned. But maybe he wanted pride. Maybe pride was the reason he fought. Did he have a reason to fight? If he had a reason, he surely wasn’t conscious of it. That was his curse. He existed… but he didn’t know why he existed. Or if he even wanted to.
Name: Cyprian Alexander Harris
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Appearance:
Quirks: Often speaks cryptically and in metaphors. Quotes/alludes to literature. Speaks in fragments. Oddly defensive to touch. Prone to insincerity and deceit. Falls asleep at weird times.
Significant Quotes:
“You overrate my capacity of love. I don't possess half the warmth of nature you believe me to have. An unprotected childhood in a cold world has beaten gentleness out of me.” ― Thomas Hardy, Far from the Madding Crowd
“The first time it was reported that our friends were being butchered there was a cry of horror. Then a hundred were butchered. But when a thousand were butchered and there was no end to the butchery, a blanket of silence spread. When evil-doing comes like falling rain, nobody calls out "stop!" When crimes begin to pile up they become invisible. When sufferings become unendurable the cries are no longer heard. The cries, too, fall like rain in summer.”― Bertolt Brecht, Selected Poems
Soliloquy / Creed:
A person’s life is equivalent to a man stranded on one side of an abyss with the singular goal of making it to the other side. He has three paths. First, he could delude himself into believing his goal to be attainable—thereby remaining stationary until he is overtaken by time’s impatience. Whether he schemes or simply waits for a miracle, it doesn’t matter. The reality is he’s waiting for death to come to him. Second, he could accept the futility of his goal and lament his inability to move forward. Instead of waiting for the demons behind to stab him, he jumps into the abyss. A half-assed attempt to reach the other side, doomed to fail, but perhaps giving a little more comfort than simply waiting for death. Third, he could accept the impossible forward trajectory and move along the edge. He lives on, constantly running from the death-demons, but he’s doomed to never reach his goal. Running left or right will never get him to the other side. He possesses his life… but his life doesn’t amount to anything when death finally comes to him.
I chose to live my life according to the last scenario. I’m not really afraid of death. I think it’s just something you should avoid if you can. Because… if death is coming at some point, I might as well do what I can to survive until then. I refuse to be some dumbass who just gave in to demise. I won’t lose my footing so easily. I’ll survive even if it’s pointless.
Fragment:
Droplets of water slid happily down overgrown blades of grass, not caring about the filth that lingered below, while over the hill other droplet clans slid down far deadlier blades. Stained blades. Their kin painted tears on rotting faces and mingled with blood on shattered spikes. Some say rain is the tears of God. Is it really? Even if it is true, and He does cry for mankind, crying sure doesn’t do a damn in the end. The sky should stop tearing up and do something for a change.
A deep rasp dashed through waves of dancing chains and steadfast bars and unnatural breathing. It was his voice. He was saying something.
“I wonder if I’ll die today.”
That’s right. He whispered that every morning, nowadays, whether it was his turn to fight or not. The others all cried or begged or stared off into the distance with a different shade of gloom, but not him. He just slept and woke and said the same nonchalant words and uttered the same type of facetious remarks whenever his eyes returned from their long respite. Was he insane? Many believed so. But it wasn’t the usual color of insanity. Those who lost their minds in the holding cells were violent and loud, shrieking nonsense and playing cryptic Picasso on their walls. He was different. He didn’t seem to care. He was quiet and sarcastic, marching off to face death when he had to but not without baffling the reaper with his latest enigma. He was definitely insane. They all knew it. But he was insane intelligently.
Chains clicked. Vision blurred. Words slurred and ran together in a wretched painting not even a mother could dare admire. Before he knew it he was at it again, playing the same game he always did, running from a force he couldn’t defeat. Back and forth. Near and far. Left. Right. Roll. Dodge. Run. Keep running. He went through the motions. Yes, it was instinct at this point. But his head wasn’t there. It hadn’t been there for weeks. Months, even. He didn’t even know if he had a head anymore. Maybe it was cut off. Maybe his head was crying God’s tears on a bloody, broken stick up on a hill somewhere. They couldn’t even splurge on an unbroken stick. As if it’s that hard to go and pick up a new one somewhere. Those bastards.
Loud. Louder. What were those noises, he wondered, as the walls roared and cheered and called his name. He was the frontrunner. He was the example. He had won the game again. But even then, with his newly stolen hours of guaranteed life, his head wasn’t there. He didn’t hear them. He couldn’t. It all didn’t matter. It never mattered. He was just a ghost forced into a game he didn’t like. Crying wouldn’t help. Begging wouldn’t help. Crazy would only help him to his grave… and pride was a distant dream that only fools feigned. But maybe he wanted pride. Maybe pride was the reason he fought. Did he have a reason to fight? If he had a reason, he surely wasn’t conscious of it. That was his curse. He existed… but he didn’t know why he existed. Or if he even wanted to.
Name: Jason E. Bennett
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Special Attributes: Supernatural
Personality:
As a victim of child abuse and neglect, Jason harbors many emotional scars. He doesn’t trust anyone. This lack of trust causes him to isolate himself from others both physically and mentally.
He lives by himself in a second floor studio apartment, where he makes paintings and sculptures to sell in the art gallery below. The owner of the gallery, Emelyn, is the sole person that Jason can bring himself to almost trust. Her interactions with him are strictly based off personal gain, so he knows he’ll be fine so long as he has something to offer. He feels there’ll be enough of a warning to prepare himself before she drops him, so it offers some comfort.
While many turn to suicide in light of negative socialization, Jason’s experiences have given him a great appreciation for life. He values the lives of everyone, despite his mistrust of them, and can’t help but lend a hand when he can. He’s a very sensitive and kind person, but that’s warped by his insecurities and cynicism. Still, he’ll often feign trust to defend both his own feelings and the feelings of others. He has a hard time expressing his emotions and will lie or simply remain quiet when forced to reveal them.
His lack of true social experience shades him as a very awkward and naive person. He’s extremely innocent in the ways of love, having never so much as kissed before, and would probably be acutely oblivious to even the most straightforward advances. And, if someone was able to make their emotions obvious enough to him, he would most certainly talk himself out of believing them. He tends to overthink things. As far as other non-romantic social whatnot, he’s little better.
He prefers dark colors, and he only likes it outside when it’s raining, foggy, overcast, or overly windy. He likes food and video games. And books. He currently has no family, other than an older brother he wouldn’t talk about even if he had someone to talk about it to.
Quirks:
Sometimes talks in rhymes. Has a deep loathing of umbrellas. His skin is pretty pale, so when he blushes his entire body turns red. Ears, arms, legs…. everything.
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Special Attributes: Supernatural
Personality:
As a victim of child abuse and neglect, Jason harbors many emotional scars. He doesn’t trust anyone. This lack of trust causes him to isolate himself from others both physically and mentally.
He lives by himself in a second floor studio apartment, where he makes paintings and sculptures to sell in the art gallery below. The owner of the gallery, Emelyn, is the sole person that Jason can bring himself to almost trust. Her interactions with him are strictly based off personal gain, so he knows he’ll be fine so long as he has something to offer. He feels there’ll be enough of a warning to prepare himself before she drops him, so it offers some comfort.
While many turn to suicide in light of negative socialization, Jason’s experiences have given him a great appreciation for life. He values the lives of everyone, despite his mistrust of them, and can’t help but lend a hand when he can. He’s a very sensitive and kind person, but that’s warped by his insecurities and cynicism. Still, he’ll often feign trust to defend both his own feelings and the feelings of others. He has a hard time expressing his emotions and will lie or simply remain quiet when forced to reveal them.
His lack of true social experience shades him as a very awkward and naive person. He’s extremely innocent in the ways of love, having never so much as kissed before, and would probably be acutely oblivious to even the most straightforward advances. And, if someone was able to make their emotions obvious enough to him, he would most certainly talk himself out of believing them. He tends to overthink things. As far as other non-romantic social whatnot, he’s little better.
He prefers dark colors, and he only likes it outside when it’s raining, foggy, overcast, or overly windy. He likes food and video games. And books. He currently has no family, other than an older brother he wouldn’t talk about even if he had someone to talk about it to.
Quirks:
Sometimes talks in rhymes. Has a deep loathing of umbrellas. His skin is pretty pale, so when he blushes his entire body turns red. Ears, arms, legs…. everything.
Name: Zachariah Cato Quintrell
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Special Attributes: Supernatural. (He's a demon.)
Personality:
Having acquired a rather despicable personality over the years, Zac has resigned himself to the life of a recluse who enthusiastically annoys others to the fullest of his ability. It’s a personal challenge, really, to get under each person’s skin and infuriate them in ways only he can. He possesses an intuitive nature, easily perceiving the inner workings of whatever target without much trouble. Although, if a person can resist his intuitive prowess and harassment, it simply encourages him to pursue them more. He enjoys the challenge of overpowering difficult people. They are the interesting ones. Yet they’re also the most dangerous, and risky, and he doesn’t enjoy being overpowered by his prey. Such is the perilous conundrum he often engages in.
Zac is extremely stubborn, though he is more likely to yield if he’s facing an equally stubborn opponent who would engender a deadlock. It’s all about strategy and manipulation. It’s far better to be perceived as one lacking in strength during the course of the game than losing the challenge because pride reared its illogical head. He tries his absolute best to take a logical approach to everything, having abandoned frivolous emotion long ago, and fakes whatever feeling he might need to best control the situation. Boasting quick-wit and a false charisma, Zac manages to lie and smooth talk his way through most unsavory confrontations. If there was ever a person that could render him tongue-tied, however, they would encounter deathcon-5 defense he so masterfully utilizes. Sarcasm—as much sarcasm as he can manage—and in really horrific situations—angry silence.
Overall, Zac is an apathetic mastermind who comes off as a complete asshole with a bit of old-fashioned con-man dashed in. Such are the outer layers of Zachariah Quintrell. The inner layers... well, that's another matter entirely.
Soliloquy:
I never understood the desperation mankind often feels in the presence of pain. People become so pitiful. They even stoop so low as to ask the assistance of others. Fuck that shit. I’m seriously tired of it. I just want to watch the tragedy play out—and they go and ask me to save them. So then I either have to ignore them—which never works, by the way, since they just beg more in the face of neglect—or voice my policy of strict observance. And when I refuse to help them, I have to do it in an extravagant way, or they’ll just beg even more than if I’d ignored them. So in the end I have to waste several breaths saying something like, “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just here to idly observe your complete obliteration, as I always do, in my attempt to likewise obliterate this god-forsaken boredom that I so woefully possess. Please… do get on with your destruction. I so enjoy the lingering residue of your terror.”
And then, after that, some of them go so far as to ask for advice. What? Dude, I just said I was here to revel in your pain. Why would I help you out of it? I mean, seriously! But those people always expect some sort of answer, and as an expert I couldn’t justify silence, so in the end I typically advocate alcohol. It does have the potential to cause more suffering, I guess. It’s like a gamble—did I help them or increase their woe? Only time will tell.
Seriously, though. Alcohol is a wonderful thing. It's my best friend, and it should also be yours.
Significant Quotes:
“Maybe it’s not about the happy ending. Maybe it’s about the story.”
“I desire the things which will destroy me in the end.” – Sylvia Plath
“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.” – Helen Keller
“I’m not really a control freak but… can I show you the right way to do that?”
“I lied because I don’t want you to know how much it hurts me.”
“So this is how the world ends… Not with a bang but with a whimper.”
“I’ll be there just to watch you fall.”
“It’s so hard to have a heart when you’ve stopped so many others.” – K. M. Howell
“You’re appealing to emotions I simply do not have.”
“Don’t be surprised when I disappear.”
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Special Attributes: Supernatural. (He's a demon.)
Personality:
Having acquired a rather despicable personality over the years, Zac has resigned himself to the life of a recluse who enthusiastically annoys others to the fullest of his ability. It’s a personal challenge, really, to get under each person’s skin and infuriate them in ways only he can. He possesses an intuitive nature, easily perceiving the inner workings of whatever target without much trouble. Although, if a person can resist his intuitive prowess and harassment, it simply encourages him to pursue them more. He enjoys the challenge of overpowering difficult people. They are the interesting ones. Yet they’re also the most dangerous, and risky, and he doesn’t enjoy being overpowered by his prey. Such is the perilous conundrum he often engages in.
Zac is extremely stubborn, though he is more likely to yield if he’s facing an equally stubborn opponent who would engender a deadlock. It’s all about strategy and manipulation. It’s far better to be perceived as one lacking in strength during the course of the game than losing the challenge because pride reared its illogical head. He tries his absolute best to take a logical approach to everything, having abandoned frivolous emotion long ago, and fakes whatever feeling he might need to best control the situation. Boasting quick-wit and a false charisma, Zac manages to lie and smooth talk his way through most unsavory confrontations. If there was ever a person that could render him tongue-tied, however, they would encounter deathcon-5 defense he so masterfully utilizes. Sarcasm—as much sarcasm as he can manage—and in really horrific situations—angry silence.
Overall, Zac is an apathetic mastermind who comes off as a complete asshole with a bit of old-fashioned con-man dashed in. Such are the outer layers of Zachariah Quintrell. The inner layers... well, that's another matter entirely.
Soliloquy:
I never understood the desperation mankind often feels in the presence of pain. People become so pitiful. They even stoop so low as to ask the assistance of others. Fuck that shit. I’m seriously tired of it. I just want to watch the tragedy play out—and they go and ask me to save them. So then I either have to ignore them—which never works, by the way, since they just beg more in the face of neglect—or voice my policy of strict observance. And when I refuse to help them, I have to do it in an extravagant way, or they’ll just beg even more than if I’d ignored them. So in the end I have to waste several breaths saying something like, “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just here to idly observe your complete obliteration, as I always do, in my attempt to likewise obliterate this god-forsaken boredom that I so woefully possess. Please… do get on with your destruction. I so enjoy the lingering residue of your terror.”
And then, after that, some of them go so far as to ask for advice. What? Dude, I just said I was here to revel in your pain. Why would I help you out of it? I mean, seriously! But those people always expect some sort of answer, and as an expert I couldn’t justify silence, so in the end I typically advocate alcohol. It does have the potential to cause more suffering, I guess. It’s like a gamble—did I help them or increase their woe? Only time will tell.
Seriously, though. Alcohol is a wonderful thing. It's my best friend, and it should also be yours.
Significant Quotes:
“Maybe it’s not about the happy ending. Maybe it’s about the story.”
“I desire the things which will destroy me in the end.” – Sylvia Plath
“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.” – Helen Keller
“I’m not really a control freak but… can I show you the right way to do that?”
“I lied because I don’t want you to know how much it hurts me.”
“So this is how the world ends… Not with a bang but with a whimper.”
“I’ll be there just to watch you fall.”
“It’s so hard to have a heart when you’ve stopped so many others.” – K. M. Howell
“You’re appealing to emotions I simply do not have.”
“Don’t be surprised when I disappear.”
Significant Quotes:
"Why do you stay in prison when the door is so wide open?” (Jalal ad-Din)
“I’m not great at advice… may I interest you in a sarcastic comment?”
“I’d kill a thousand men before I let one make me his slave.”
“You have no idea how many times I’ve tried to tell you the truth through my jokes.”
“The flashbacks hurt…”
“Do not ask the price I paid. I must live with my quiet rage and tame the ghosts in my head that run wild and wish me dead.”
“You don’t understand how much I hate myself.”
“Hearing something that kills you inside and having to act like you don’t care.”
“Sooner or later I’m going to have to think about it and then I’m going to be a mess.”
“Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.”
“If by my life or death I can protect you, I will.” (J.R.R. Tolkien)
“The worst part about it all is that I have to go back there tomorrow and pretend everything’s fine.”
“The night is the hardest time to be alive and 4 a.m. knows all my secrets.”
“I’m fiercely independent, but I’m also terrified of being alone.” (Adam Levine)
“I closed my eyes and spoke to you in a thousand silent ways.”
“I spent this year as a ghost and I’m not sure where home is anymore.”
“I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.”
“The boy never cried again, and he never forgot that to love is to destroy and to be loved is to be destroyed.”
“I often miss this little girl… whose dreams had no barriers…. Who believed in a world where anything is possible with a heart that was full and unbroken.”
"FLASHBACKS. INSOMNIA. NIGHTMARES."
"I always tried to protect you, keep you safe. Dad didn't even have to tell me. This was always just my responsibility, you know? It's like I had one job. I had one job. And I screwed it up. I blew it. And for that I'm sorry."
Past Fragment:
“There will come a day when you realize that all I’ve said is true. You’ll notice the horror that awaits you up ahead, but you won’t be able to stop moving towards it. You’ll realize that there’s no escape for you, no backspace, no detours, and though it may be fate that you kill me here, it is also fate that I get my revenge on you. Even the kingdoms of gods are just playthings for other gods, and even though I’ve died here, I’ll be painting your fate one universe above you… Heh… be sure to take good care of my daughter, boy.”
He was always afraid of words. They were such careless things, so easily made, but they had power over people. They have power over him. That’s why he wasn’t one for talking. When he was quiet, he could almost forget it all. He only had to suffer at night when his soul cursed him in dreams for keeping his agony so close to his heart. He only had to suffer when the darkness smothered out all distractions and left him in an empty room with nothing to do but wait for his insides to leak out. That’s the only time he had to suffer if he could just shut up for the rest of his life. But it was never that easy. He couldn’t be silent, so even the day tormented him. Because of her, the vampires could creep just as flawlessly in day as night. Just looking at her inspired fear. She had power over him. Just like words. It’s true he wouldn’t mind that much if she’d just asked him for actions—he could surrender actions in the day just fine; they were distractions, and he needed and liked distractions—but he knew it was words she wanted. Every day, every goddamned day, he’d watch her—wondering if today was the day she’d ask him to cut out his soul and present it to her on one of their shattered serving plates. It wouldn’t even be a whole one, he knew, because she wouldn’t understand his fragmented words and the shards would pierce both her hands for touching the subject and his heart for revealing itself in the unforgiving air. Living like this was starting to destroy him. He now understood why her father had ordained this as his punishment. At night he was cursed with insomnia and nightmares. In the day he lived in fear and flashbacks. He couldn’t escape from it anymore. It was a hideous, primal monster that chased him day and night without rest. He was going to break. His emotion was bound to slip out eventually. Then she would know. They would all know. And his promise would be broken.
He knew it was going to happen eventually. He followed her every order without fail until it did, resigning himself to objective recital that would hopefully spare him any outburst. But he couldn’t delete his emotions—as much as he hid them, they were still there. So when she finally called him in one night and looked him in the eyes and “Tell me why you killed my father” fell off her tongue, he couldn’t do it. Everything fell apart—just like the old man said it would—and he realized for the first time just how damned he was. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look her in the eyes and see all his shame shot back to him along with whatever hatred she mixed into the powder. For the first time she saw his weakness; she saw the suffering he tried so hard to restrain. And then his promises were broken. He’d cried in front of her and ran from his punishment. He broke his oath to always obey his master. And for the first time, everyone knew that he hadn’t been a dog chained and forced to do what he was told. They knew he’d been collarless this whole time. He did what they said by force of will. It was never because of some cursed mark bestowed on him by that damned old man he killed that night. They all knew it was true, now that he’d fled in tears instead of telling her what she wanted to know.
They all knew the secret, now. And he knew they’d want to know more. They’d want to know why he stayed and listened and why he ran and what happened that day and all the answers would just beget more questions and rather than face the wrath of all those words and memories that he only wanted to bury he would rather just die and face that damned old man that predicted it all. He had abandoned his pride long ago, but it still hurt to know that man was right about everything. It hurt to know that if he was right about all the pain that chased him up to this point, he was probably right about the monster that waited in ambush just ahead in the darkness. He was probably right when he said there was no escape.
After running that night, he ran for another two years. For two years he tried to outwit his fate. But in the end he knew. He was doomed. The old man was definitely watching him, and no form of recompense would save him from a dead God’s vengeance. So after running for two years and trying to postpone the inevitable for one, he returned to the door of his master and resigned himself to living without completely falling apart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It seemed her palace hadn’t changed much in the three years he’d spent as a stray—it was still cold and overbearing in its intimidating stone gown, steadfast as ever but not without some air of delicate beauty and flawless grace. He always thought it was a rather fitting abode for those who called themselves gods. Inviting and merciless at the same time. After all, it was with perfect allure that all evils beckoned their prey—promising good to all but only truly delivering to some—like carnivorous plants that boast oxygen to those larger and food to those smaller. Oh, did you think the plant would just sit there and let you eat at its expense? No, little fly—the food that was promised to you is yours—surely—but to attain it you must part with your life.
As he left the surrounding night for the innards of the palace, he dimly wondered where and when this sudden eloquence had broken into his soul. But it didn’t loiter around long enough for him to take any real notice. No pretty words could change the truth of the matter. Her palace was a prison. A pound for hopeless tramps and strays like him and an adventure for the obedient and trusting pedigrees like everyone else. It was a prison. But it was only his prison, and as such the bars were visible only to him. No one else really noticed how everything got darker the more steps you take inside. No one noticed how cold it was. How empty. How dark.
It was quite a long time before he reached the darkest place of all. No—it was the second darkest place. His room was the darkest. His empty room with nothing but bars and chains and airless darkness. Her room was the second darkest. That’s what he realized as he stared darkly at the door of her room. There weren’t any bars in her room, for some reason. Her room was the only place that wasn’t a prison. It took him a minute to remember why, but he regretted thinking about it when he did. Why wasn’t the second darkest room a prison cell? He knew why. It was an execution chamber. The place where god died. When he thought about it, staring at her door, he started to wonder if she knew that her father was killed there. If it was him, he wouldn’t want to lay in the same place someone else died. But then again, that’s exactly what he used to do.
He stared at the door for a few minutes before he started to realize how stupid it was. No one else saw this place as he did—the darkness was only reflected in his eyes. And because of that he was more afraid of the door than actually facing what he’d done. So he decided he didn’t have to go through the door. He didn’t even have to touch it. Well, maybe he had to touch it. The old man would want him to suffer for running off for three years, and touching the door seemed like a good way to do that. Maybe if he started his own suffering it wouldn’t be as bad. And maybe Alexandria wasn’t even in there. It’d been three years, after all. Maybe he could just lean against the door and start talking and do what he should’ve done then, and be rewarded with a clean conscience without all the trouble of facing her again. Maybe he could slip out before morning and no one would ever know. Maybe there was some god out there that loved him.
“I… um… you asked me… why I killed your old man…,” he whispered, stalking the door to lean a fist and a forehead on it. As he continued, he couldn’t quite keep his voice at a steady volume. It fluctuated somewhere between a breath and a low, strained murmur. Like he couldn’t quite decide if he should be a man about it—quietly, of course; there was no need to wake anyone else in the palace—in case she wasn’t there or do everything in his power not to be heard if she was. “…Three years ago… well, three years and twenty-two days…uh, not that I counted or anything… or kept track from the beginning... damn it. I, uh… I have to answer you sooner or later… since I… well, ran away in tears like a little… you know what, let’s just start this over. I’m sure you’re sleeping anyway… in a room… that isn’t this one… God… Why didn’t I… why the hell didn’t I practice this shit? God damn it… I had three years… I shoulda practiced…”
He fell silent for a moment, listening to the air behind the door, trying to judge if she was there or not. It probably wasn’t too late to run again. He’d done it once right in front of her, so what was the shame of doing it again like this? She might not even be there.
But the old man was. It was a scary thought—one that he hadn’t fully grasped before. Her dad already had it coming to him for running—he knew that much—so to even think about running again was just… man… what had he become? And why was talking so damn hard for him? Was he always this much of a pussy? He couldn’t quite remember. That worried him.
“I… um… are you… are you there? Alexandria… about what happened…with the old man… I… I made a deal with him, once… I exchanged my life for… well… something I thought… was important to me… but I didn’t… I didn’t understand the price I would pay. So when he… he… took… something from me… something I wasn’t expecting him to take… I killed him because I didn’t realize it was part of the price... I killed your father because I wanted revenge… I killed him because I was stupid…,“ realizing something, he backed away from the door to shake his head. “I should’ve just said that when you’d asked… I killed him because I was stupid.”
He knew a simple answer like that—blaming it on stupidity—would’ve never satisfied her. Hell, he didn’t even know if his legitimate answer would satisfy her. That’s partially why he was internally petrified. Would the master still tolerate the mutt that not only killed her father, but ran away when he was supposed to be making up for it? Making up for it…? Well, as much as a mutt could make up for biting all his previous masters. “I’m sorry failing your command before.”
Open and Claimable Plots:
#1: Completed (unnamed) Idea
Some stuff you should know:
This has a sort of advanced steampunk setting… The science itself is pretty advanced, but it has that steampunk feel. Some of the cities aren’t really steampunk at all, though. It depends. There’s a unified world government—they call it The Republic—and their colors are green and white. The war has lasted seven years up to this point. Revolutionaries wear various colors according to their divisions, and sympathizers quickly began wearing their colors, engendering the term “Color Gangs.” Republic executives, soldiers, and loyalists wear white and green. Those wearing different colors aren’t allowed to interact, so there are towns and cities dedicated to different colors—loyalist cities, revolutionary bases, and lawless zones. The revolutionaries ignore the law and mix their colors.
There’s supposedly no one person running the government—instead, there’s a council of administrators that represent various areas of the world. It’s a small council, with never more than 10 members, but usually closer to 5 or 7. Countries are always merging and splitting apart as deals are made between higher ups, changing the amount of nobles in the council. Their power isn’t necessarily equal. One of the more powerful leaders has a daughter that everyone refers to as a princess, even though there aren’t any real kings in the world government. He had a son, too. But the princess’ older brother died after getting caught by the revolutionaries four years ago. He was executed in the traditional way, but when it was sent back to the capitol, his corpse was beyond recognition.
As for what happens at the end of the following group of text, I leave her reasoning up to you. Curiosity, a pre-planned conspiracy, anger, something else—you decide. He has no idea why she did that, and neither do I.
~~~~
They hoped this would end the war. Or slow it down, at least. Bring the distant light, dimly signaling the end of the tunnel, into view. His death would be the first step to end it. This war that shouldn’t even be happening. His blood would distort the pages of time—blur the details of the past until they could no longer be recalled—and bring an end to the war. It was fitting, in a way. He was the perfect sacrificial dog. They would’ve liked to get the commander—the one in charge of it all—but he would work just fine. The second division captain. He wasn’t the head, but he was the brains. He was the one that started this war. Sure, some would think that was a stupid claim. But a few of the world nobles, and admirals, and civilians—they knew better. It was him.
He’d been a little shit when he was little. A delinquent kid living on the streets. He was an orphan, no known family, no friends except a pack of ragged cats and a jar of worms. He abducted rats, too—called them hamsters—kept them in a box and cried whenever they escaped. Everyone who stumbled across him looked down on him with hatred. He was a menace. Stole from everyone, attacked drunkards, broke machines, set fires. Those animals were the only thing he had. So when the “princess” came down the street in her car—five or six years old, taking a routine tour of the kingdom to “connect” with its people—and one of that kid’s beloved cats was reduced to bloody road kill right before his eyes, they weren’t surprised when he threatened her.
In fact—though he was twenty-something now and chained to a platform, two executioners crossing blades above his neck—a few people were seeing a dirty, scraped up, bandaged, tearful mess of a brat, pointing a defiant finger towards the princess and demanding an apology, then vowing to take over the world and overthrow the republic and, above all, “get the princess someday” after she refused to offer any semblance of sorry. It was a scene that was largely forgotten, even among the townspeople that knew him so well. And with good reason—he’d ran god knows where and disappeared for over ten years, suddenly reappearing one day with a different name and an army behind him. But they weren’t fooled. It was him. The brat had started a war over a dead cat.
You can imagine, then, the overwhelming exasperation of just about everyone who knew this fact. The war could’ve seemed acceptable if it was for a decent cause, not that the republic would ever admit to sympathizing with revolutionaries, but no—it was started because the world government accidently killed a cat. Because of this idiocracy, he became the second most wanted man in the world. And after finally being captured—and spitting in the face of his captors—he was now about to be executed for the good of the war—eh, world. The good of the world.
It was a big deal. They thought this would be a chance to draw out the commander—using the 3 o’clock execution of his right hand man to lure him out—but when the brat first heard of that plan, he just laughed and said, “You shitheads. That’ll never work.” He’d been spewing out nonsense at everything, though, so no one paid it any attention. Although, now, it seems he was right about the commander not showing up. But no matter. His head was good enough.
Looking back, no one could really believe what happened. No one came to his rescue. Not even his own division. His own men. And it seemed like he knew that it would end like that. He was so calm up on that platform, everyone watching. When 2:59 finally came and they all held their breath as he bowed his head for the blades, and the executioners lifted the polished bronze up towards the sun and tensed their muscles to end his life, his face lifted ever so slightly, and they all saw it. He had the biggest smile on his face. It was so genuine, so innocent, so… out of place. Everyone saw it. Everyone talked about it. But what they didn’t see, what they didn’t talk about, was what happened before that. What happened before he bowed his head. Before he smiled at her.
They never gave him a chance to say any last words, but his mouth still moved to say them anyway. He looked at her, that girl he hadn’t seen in seventeen years—who probably didn’t even remember him—and wordlessly apologized for causing her trouble.
If the broadcast hadn’t cut out, and anyone other than executives had been present in the capitol’s plaza, they would’ve talked about how the princess ordered the blades to halt right before they bit his skin. Or rather, how the executioners were shot mid-swing by the princess’ head of security. And how that big smile of his was replaced by contorted confusion as they dragged him back to a holding cell in the lower level dungeons.
Some stuff you should know:
This has a sort of advanced steampunk setting… The science itself is pretty advanced, but it has that steampunk feel. Some of the cities aren’t really steampunk at all, though. It depends. There’s a unified world government—they call it The Republic—and their colors are green and white. The war has lasted seven years up to this point. Revolutionaries wear various colors according to their divisions, and sympathizers quickly began wearing their colors, engendering the term “Color Gangs.” Republic executives, soldiers, and loyalists wear white and green. Those wearing different colors aren’t allowed to interact, so there are towns and cities dedicated to different colors—loyalist cities, revolutionary bases, and lawless zones. The revolutionaries ignore the law and mix their colors.
There’s supposedly no one person running the government—instead, there’s a council of administrators that represent various areas of the world. It’s a small council, with never more than 10 members, but usually closer to 5 or 7. Countries are always merging and splitting apart as deals are made between higher ups, changing the amount of nobles in the council. Their power isn’t necessarily equal. One of the more powerful leaders has a daughter that everyone refers to as a princess, even though there aren’t any real kings in the world government. He had a son, too. But the princess’ older brother died after getting caught by the revolutionaries four years ago. He was executed in the traditional way, but when it was sent back to the capitol, his corpse was beyond recognition.
As for what happens at the end of the following group of text, I leave her reasoning up to you. Curiosity, a pre-planned conspiracy, anger, something else—you decide. He has no idea why she did that, and neither do I.
~~~~
They hoped this would end the war. Or slow it down, at least. Bring the distant light, dimly signaling the end of the tunnel, into view. His death would be the first step to end it. This war that shouldn’t even be happening. His blood would distort the pages of time—blur the details of the past until they could no longer be recalled—and bring an end to the war. It was fitting, in a way. He was the perfect sacrificial dog. They would’ve liked to get the commander—the one in charge of it all—but he would work just fine. The second division captain. He wasn’t the head, but he was the brains. He was the one that started this war. Sure, some would think that was a stupid claim. But a few of the world nobles, and admirals, and civilians—they knew better. It was him.
He’d been a little shit when he was little. A delinquent kid living on the streets. He was an orphan, no known family, no friends except a pack of ragged cats and a jar of worms. He abducted rats, too—called them hamsters—kept them in a box and cried whenever they escaped. Everyone who stumbled across him looked down on him with hatred. He was a menace. Stole from everyone, attacked drunkards, broke machines, set fires. Those animals were the only thing he had. So when the “princess” came down the street in her car—five or six years old, taking a routine tour of the kingdom to “connect” with its people—and one of that kid’s beloved cats was reduced to bloody road kill right before his eyes, they weren’t surprised when he threatened her.
In fact—though he was twenty-something now and chained to a platform, two executioners crossing blades above his neck—a few people were seeing a dirty, scraped up, bandaged, tearful mess of a brat, pointing a defiant finger towards the princess and demanding an apology, then vowing to take over the world and overthrow the republic and, above all, “get the princess someday” after she refused to offer any semblance of sorry. It was a scene that was largely forgotten, even among the townspeople that knew him so well. And with good reason—he’d ran god knows where and disappeared for over ten years, suddenly reappearing one day with a different name and an army behind him. But they weren’t fooled. It was him. The brat had started a war over a dead cat.
You can imagine, then, the overwhelming exasperation of just about everyone who knew this fact. The war could’ve seemed acceptable if it was for a decent cause, not that the republic would ever admit to sympathizing with revolutionaries, but no—it was started because the world government accidently killed a cat. Because of this idiocracy, he became the second most wanted man in the world. And after finally being captured—and spitting in the face of his captors—he was now about to be executed for the good of the war—eh, world. The good of the world.
It was a big deal. They thought this would be a chance to draw out the commander—using the 3 o’clock execution of his right hand man to lure him out—but when the brat first heard of that plan, he just laughed and said, “You shitheads. That’ll never work.” He’d been spewing out nonsense at everything, though, so no one paid it any attention. Although, now, it seems he was right about the commander not showing up. But no matter. His head was good enough.
Looking back, no one could really believe what happened. No one came to his rescue. Not even his own division. His own men. And it seemed like he knew that it would end like that. He was so calm up on that platform, everyone watching. When 2:59 finally came and they all held their breath as he bowed his head for the blades, and the executioners lifted the polished bronze up towards the sun and tensed their muscles to end his life, his face lifted ever so slightly, and they all saw it. He had the biggest smile on his face. It was so genuine, so innocent, so… out of place. Everyone saw it. Everyone talked about it. But what they didn’t see, what they didn’t talk about, was what happened before that. What happened before he bowed his head. Before he smiled at her.
They never gave him a chance to say any last words, but his mouth still moved to say them anyway. He looked at her, that girl he hadn’t seen in seventeen years—who probably didn’t even remember him—and wordlessly apologized for causing her trouble.
If the broadcast hadn’t cut out, and anyone other than executives had been present in the capitol’s plaza, they would’ve talked about how the princess ordered the blades to halt right before they bit his skin. Or rather, how the executioners were shot mid-swing by the princess’ head of security. And how that big smile of his was replaced by contorted confusion as they dragged him back to a holding cell in the lower level dungeons.
There was only one road that passed through the city. All the others vanished long ago. It sliced through the middle, leaving two congruent halves of an empty metropolis, separating north and east with little more than dusty asphalt and once yellow lines. I said the city was empty, moments ago, but then the universe shifted and truths became lies and a man found himself in the empty city. On that road now lies a man, rising from a parched lake of rusted blood, and staring down at the man is a darkened pair of eyes that say nothing—but imply everything—and dancing wickedly around them is the feeling that life isn’t as meaningless as some believe it to be.
~AN UNNAMED AMOUNT OF TIME IN THE FUTURE, AFTER THE AFOREMENTIONED MOMENT~
They lied to her. Or maybe she lied to herself. It wasn’t quite clear to her which it was. Both, perhaps. The world was full of liars. She was a liar. But in the end, so were they. All she really knew was everything up to this point had been a death procession, and she had walked along with her will intact, following as though it were all just a trivial cavalcade. She also knew that she was doomed. That, at least, wasn’t a lie. In the past it had been her game. Her rules. Her decisions. Everything was under her control.
But no more.
Now it was he who toyed with her life—it was him kissing her neck with a switchblade, and it was him playing with words and making demands. It was his turn to be in control. And all she could think of was her agony—her mental despair that she had never truly been in control—her emotional despair that she had been offered no “right” path—her mind screaming that she knifed the wrong heart—her heart screaming that her mind was a hypocrite, and she was right not to become the very thing she hated more than anything else in the world—her mind saying she was condemned because of her foolish moralities—her heart saying this fate was by no means evadable –her mind beckoning her to evade what lies ahead—her heart begging her to accept whatever comes…
Whoever might’ve won the argument, it was over before she could decide. The floor sparkled in a radiant permanence as the music dashed forward like a killer suddenly forsaken by a wayward shadow. Against her will the world kept turning, and she kept turning, unsafe in the arms of a suitor she wished only to escape. But the blade remained too eager a partner, and she too reserved a maiden, and the dance turned deadly in a crimson moment. She was left dead in his arms, even though it was his heart that stopped beating and hers that started for the first time.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this, you know.
~AN UNNAMED AMOUNT OF TIME IN THE PAST, BEFORE THE AFOREMENTIONED MOMENT~
He had always hated his life. It was the kind of life that anybody would eventually condemn. His existence was crappy. He was alone. Depressed. Neglected. Abused. It was meaningless. Life. So stupid. He tried what he could to overcome what he could—art, writing, poetry, therapy—he tried all the healthy outlets when he was a kid. But nobody cared about his shitty scribblings and playing “how does that make you feel” with a distant psychiatrist only served to take him away from his real family that butchered him and place him in half a dozen fake families that butchered him in other ways. As the years passed he tried other means of expression—running away replaced the psychiatrists and his body replaced the paper he used to draw and cut. It made no difference though. Nobody cared.
So finally, when the years had passed and the fake homes faded into a very real street, he danced with death, and death overtook him, and everyone cried fake tears and wore mournful masks and agreed that his suicide was a great tragedy befitting the world—which was, of course, little more than a Shakespearian stage.
He probably thought his life was over. That’s what I imagine most people think when they die. Or maybe he was thinking of something else. Something random. Meaningless. Happier. Or depressing. Whatever it was he might’ve thought before his final breath… his life wasn’t over at that moment. No. At that moment, his tragedy had just begun.
~AN UNNAMED AMOUNT OF TIME IN THE FUTURE, AFTER THE AFOREMENTIONED MOMENT~
They lied to her. Or maybe she lied to herself. It wasn’t quite clear to her which it was. Both, perhaps. The world was full of liars. She was a liar. But in the end, so were they. All she really knew was everything up to this point had been a death procession, and she had walked along with her will intact, following as though it were all just a trivial cavalcade. She also knew that she was doomed. That, at least, wasn’t a lie. In the past it had been her game. Her rules. Her decisions. Everything was under her control.
But no more.
Now it was he who toyed with her life—it was him kissing her neck with a switchblade, and it was him playing with words and making demands. It was his turn to be in control. And all she could think of was her agony—her mental despair that she had never truly been in control—her emotional despair that she had been offered no “right” path—her mind screaming that she knifed the wrong heart—her heart screaming that her mind was a hypocrite, and she was right not to become the very thing she hated more than anything else in the world—her mind saying she was condemned because of her foolish moralities—her heart saying this fate was by no means evadable –her mind beckoning her to evade what lies ahead—her heart begging her to accept whatever comes…
Whoever might’ve won the argument, it was over before she could decide. The floor sparkled in a radiant permanence as the music dashed forward like a killer suddenly forsaken by a wayward shadow. Against her will the world kept turning, and she kept turning, unsafe in the arms of a suitor she wished only to escape. But the blade remained too eager a partner, and she too reserved a maiden, and the dance turned deadly in a crimson moment. She was left dead in his arms, even though it was his heart that stopped beating and hers that started for the first time.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this, you know.
~AN UNNAMED AMOUNT OF TIME IN THE PAST, BEFORE THE AFOREMENTIONED MOMENT~
He had always hated his life. It was the kind of life that anybody would eventually condemn. His existence was crappy. He was alone. Depressed. Neglected. Abused. It was meaningless. Life. So stupid. He tried what he could to overcome what he could—art, writing, poetry, therapy—he tried all the healthy outlets when he was a kid. But nobody cared about his shitty scribblings and playing “how does that make you feel” with a distant psychiatrist only served to take him away from his real family that butchered him and place him in half a dozen fake families that butchered him in other ways. As the years passed he tried other means of expression—running away replaced the psychiatrists and his body replaced the paper he used to draw and cut. It made no difference though. Nobody cared.
So finally, when the years had passed and the fake homes faded into a very real street, he danced with death, and death overtook him, and everyone cried fake tears and wore mournful masks and agreed that his suicide was a great tragedy befitting the world—which was, of course, little more than a Shakespearian stage.
He probably thought his life was over. That’s what I imagine most people think when they die. Or maybe he was thinking of something else. Something random. Meaningless. Happier. Or depressing. Whatever it was he might’ve thought before his final breath… his life wasn’t over at that moment. No. At that moment, his tragedy had just begun.
Cars abandoned the cracked parking lot with differing promptness, contrasting the monotonous pulse of a mistaken clock, as tired part-timers mulled about behind the register and in the kitchen. Static tried passionately to disrupt the current music fads on FM radio, but its chorus couldn’t quite gain the popularity it needed to stick around. It popped in and out of existence like the countless tyrants falling in and out of memory. Now, usually, he wouldn’t notice such trivial nonsense. But today was a particularly miserable day. Flies, both dead and alive, were his only company in the darkened pizza parlor. He had hoped to attract at least a few evil minions to do his bidding. Maybe he should pick up a copy of robotics for dummies and get to work building his army.
Robots… No, that was a simply dreadful Idea. They’d gain independent thought and take over the world before he knew it. Had sci-fi films taught him nothing? Jeez. “There’s no other way around it, then…” Indeed. There wasn’t any other way to proceed.
He had to think of a way to proceed. That was all he could do at this point.
______
“You’re here for a very specific reason: cookies. Yes. I told you there would be cookies. And there are cookies. But, alas, the cookies are not for you. They’re for the baby shower next door. You could go steal the cookies, I guess, but that would be a very wicked thing to do…”
He paused to survey the faces of these people he so woefully tricked into coming here. It was the only feasible plan he had come up with. Find people and get them to join the cause. Now, he had people. It was just a matter of inspiring them to embrace the dark side. That would prove very difficult, he thought, because some of them looked like they wanted to tackle him for lying about the cookies. But he didn’t lie about the cookies. He simply misled them.
“Never mind that, though. You came here for a reason. Now, since you no longer have a reason for your presence here, I will reinstate you with a new reason. I realize your patience may be a bit agitated and your attention span a bit seduced by another—that is, the cookies—but please lend me a moment from your mental warehouse. Thank you.”
Taking a few seconds to breathe and collect himself, he continued on with a charismatic authority that befit a person of his ambitions. It was important to avoid stereotypes and clichés, as none of the past players had won the game… but, even so, there were some demeanors that were better followed than ignored. Or so he thought.
“Let me get right to the point. I seek world domination! Yes, you may laugh if you wish, but I assure you I am quite serious. I will succeed where my predecessors have so woefully failed. History parades their mistakes. They were overtaken by their enemies; they were overtaken by their own collapsed foundation; they were misled with erroneous ideology; they were stupid. But I will not make these mistakes. I have a most powerful resource on my side. That’s right. I have google. And with google, I will be the most proficient villain in the history of antagonists! And on top of that, I’ll be pretty damn likeable too. But I don’t want to do it alone. No, I can’t do it alone. I need you. I ask that you join me in my journey to overtake the world, not as a minion, but as a partner. We will undoubtedly be a small enterprise—yes, very small and privately owned—but we will be powerful! Now let us go steal some cookies!”
“Wait, no. That would make us assholes and probably get us in trouble with the cops. We want to avoid detection. So, let’s go ASK FOR SOME COOKIES! And, should that fail, let us go BUY SOME COOKIES! HUZZAH!”
“Oh, but before that, I’m willing to answer any questions you may have. I’ll also unlock the door so the craven, who will ultimately fall by our hands, can depart. I’ll also have to run applicants through an intense screening process—to eliminate government spies and backstabbing buffoons—so I can ensure our eventual success.
Then we’ll have a meeting to discuss very important matters of our mission. I feel like we need a cool name. Every notable organization has a cool name. I should probably have a cool name, too. Real names are bad when you’re technically a criminal. I think I’ll call myself... well, I'll sort that out later.”
“Oh yeah. And does anyone have any suggestions as to how we should take over the world? I have some ideas—of course… Yeah. But… I assume it’s beneficial for an evil dictator to act in a slightly less dictatorial fashion among his colleagues. Otherwise they’re not very likable.”
After unlocking the door, he pretended not to be hurt when everyone left.
Robots… No, that was a simply dreadful Idea. They’d gain independent thought and take over the world before he knew it. Had sci-fi films taught him nothing? Jeez. “There’s no other way around it, then…” Indeed. There wasn’t any other way to proceed.
He had to think of a way to proceed. That was all he could do at this point.
______
“You’re here for a very specific reason: cookies. Yes. I told you there would be cookies. And there are cookies. But, alas, the cookies are not for you. They’re for the baby shower next door. You could go steal the cookies, I guess, but that would be a very wicked thing to do…”
He paused to survey the faces of these people he so woefully tricked into coming here. It was the only feasible plan he had come up with. Find people and get them to join the cause. Now, he had people. It was just a matter of inspiring them to embrace the dark side. That would prove very difficult, he thought, because some of them looked like they wanted to tackle him for lying about the cookies. But he didn’t lie about the cookies. He simply misled them.
“Never mind that, though. You came here for a reason. Now, since you no longer have a reason for your presence here, I will reinstate you with a new reason. I realize your patience may be a bit agitated and your attention span a bit seduced by another—that is, the cookies—but please lend me a moment from your mental warehouse. Thank you.”
Taking a few seconds to breathe and collect himself, he continued on with a charismatic authority that befit a person of his ambitions. It was important to avoid stereotypes and clichés, as none of the past players had won the game… but, even so, there were some demeanors that were better followed than ignored. Or so he thought.
“Let me get right to the point. I seek world domination! Yes, you may laugh if you wish, but I assure you I am quite serious. I will succeed where my predecessors have so woefully failed. History parades their mistakes. They were overtaken by their enemies; they were overtaken by their own collapsed foundation; they were misled with erroneous ideology; they were stupid. But I will not make these mistakes. I have a most powerful resource on my side. That’s right. I have google. And with google, I will be the most proficient villain in the history of antagonists! And on top of that, I’ll be pretty damn likeable too. But I don’t want to do it alone. No, I can’t do it alone. I need you. I ask that you join me in my journey to overtake the world, not as a minion, but as a partner. We will undoubtedly be a small enterprise—yes, very small and privately owned—but we will be powerful! Now let us go steal some cookies!”
“Wait, no. That would make us assholes and probably get us in trouble with the cops. We want to avoid detection. So, let’s go ASK FOR SOME COOKIES! And, should that fail, let us go BUY SOME COOKIES! HUZZAH!”
“Oh, but before that, I’m willing to answer any questions you may have. I’ll also unlock the door so the craven, who will ultimately fall by our hands, can depart. I’ll also have to run applicants through an intense screening process—to eliminate government spies and backstabbing buffoons—so I can ensure our eventual success.
Then we’ll have a meeting to discuss very important matters of our mission. I feel like we need a cool name. Every notable organization has a cool name. I should probably have a cool name, too. Real names are bad when you’re technically a criminal. I think I’ll call myself... well, I'll sort that out later.”
“Oh yeah. And does anyone have any suggestions as to how we should take over the world? I have some ideas—of course… Yeah. But… I assume it’s beneficial for an evil dictator to act in a slightly less dictatorial fashion among his colleagues. Otherwise they’re not very likable.”
After unlocking the door, he pretended not to be hurt when everyone left.
Okay, okay. I'm done for now. I feel like you'll have a great idea of who I am from this. So, let me know if you're interested in roleplaying with me. I have a lot of ideas floating around, waiting for me to sledgehammer them out of my brain, so if you're late to the party and you don't get one of the plots up there don't even worry about it. I'm looking for friends that will become partners, not really the other way around.
*GASP*
Oh my god. There's a cool poll creator down there. That's so awesome. I should make a poll. What should I gather valuable opinions about, though?
Hm....
I know. I'll ask what people thought of this huge block of text. (Even though I've edited it now and it's more of a database than an introductory post.)
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