Multiple Settings {IC} ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ' ꜱᴇզᴜɪᴛᴇʀ - Your charries' lost IC... (Yes, Always OPEN!!)

[BuggaBoo]

Markina - The Steampunker Inventor!

∘ | World and Plot: AU London late 1800s. A bunch of scientists come together to form a society where they may practice their wild and weird SCIENCE!!
∘ | Context: Markina is trying out her experiment for the 13th time on her doggo, Croissant, hoping it all dont explode
∘ | BG Motivation: She has been trying to perfect her multi-lingual translator: The 'Fauna-Speak Transmorgrifier for the 20th Century'!!
∘ | Post Inspiration:

Was this contraption he had commissioned worth it's salt?

"Please dont blow up..."​

A couple more turns on the wrench. Pink tongue couldn't help but poke out the side of her mouth the same way she couldn't help but stare cross-eyed when her face was mere inches from her work surface.

Slowly now, zooming out from the hatch in the giant clump of pipes, metal, glass and coppery wire, the young woman still held a look of deep consternation. Finally her impression of a concerned statue ended. A lovingly worn and oiled up work glove raised to her face and wiped, attempting to clear up, yet invevitably grease up, an already greased up forehead. A dirty, leather fingertip tapped on full lips because why not add more grit and grime to her face?

At her heels, the rythmic thumping of a tail on the floor accompanied by a querying whine reminded her she was not alone in her endeavours. From the top of a bookshelf, relentlessly lined with multiple books molested by old and oily little fingerprints, a yowl reminded her that the metallo-kitty was hungry.

"Peine, mate. Relaaaaax. We'll get some breaky after we get this final test done, savvy?" she called over her shoulder, aiming her voice at the demanding yowls. All the while, baby blues locked on the spider eye'd cluster of gauges and light bulbs staring right back at her. The readout panel seemed to bare the only semblance of reason and rhyme upon the massive blob of bolts and iron and bronze.

Baby blues softened as she re-tied her obvious veteran worker's apron. Squatting down now, she stroked the canine at her heels, "And as for you, Brûlée? Mate, doncha' worry none. Your sister will be fine. Just fine. I promise."

Several more strokes she gave the dog before scratching the area where the metal plates met her hide. A brass and steel leg kicked in time, pleasure and bliss clearly spilling from Brûlée's face. A yowl yet again from the book case. Markie thought it sounded like jealousy in Peine call, but most likely it was another reminder that the top-hat wearing metallo-kitty was hungry.

"Alright then! I'm up. I'm up. Croissant looks stable... vitals are good... she's sound asleep..." the young woman removed her glove before checking the other smaller dog in the harness. That same look of consternation took over her face as she double checked the leads heading from the machine, to Croissant in the harness, and back to the machine. Full power. Full stream ahead, "Alright let's have a go then shall we? Mates, readies your headies! System is hot and we are a go...!"

A nervous giggle escaped her lips as she slid her goggles around her dirty tan face. Several switches she flipped up and pressed a button several times. A heartbeat after the whoosh and whir sounded out, filling the room, the small hairs on her arms began to rise. Same with her hackles. Baby blues narrowed as she gripped the ignition lever with both hands, "Peine, start minutes, please. Brûlée, watch that door please."

Markina had to raise her voice over the chuffing an chugging of the barrel-shaped engine beside her invention. Suddenly, smoke burst out of its stack. Crackling static burst into life, buzzing angrily out her machines speaker. Lights flashed and gauge needles trembled, barely grazing the redzone in the readout panel. The half metal, half dog in the harness began to genrtly twitch and sleepily bark. "Alright. Let's hear Croissant for the first time ever. Ahem! Test run number 13 for the The 'Fauna-Speak Transmorgrifier for the 20th Century'!! Subject Croissant stable and at optimal health! Witnesses Peine and Brûlée have visuals and recording minutes! And inventor, Markina Lahadita del Rios... wellllllll--"

Peine's tail grasped the quill tighter as he dipped the tip into the inkjar, shook and continued to scrawl madly onto the manilla sheet. Brûlée did a nervous 2-step at the door, her metal rear right paw, clinking nervously upon the concrete floor.

"--me? I'm mad as a hatter...!" Baby blues held closed tight for dear life. Markina then screamed in desperation as much as it was in prayer.

She threw the switch.

WC: 688
​

 

[TobiornotTobi]

Holis Mayville​

World and Plot: Original sci-fi universe.
Context: After a foolish decision, Holis is stranded on an asteroid with no chance of escape.
BG Motivation: Holis while downtrodden and contemplative, refuses to simply lay down and die.
Post Inspiration:

Suddenly, smoke burst out of its stack.

---

On the edge of uncharted space, standing on a barren asteroid, was Space Ranger Holis Mayville. His face was masked by an opaque helmet with a reflective surface, but his body language screamed worry. His chest heaved up and down as he hyperventilated, rght hand clutched his left shoulder. Orange light illuminated his helmet and reflecting the source of said light, the burning remains of his spaceship. What was once a mighty cobalt and chrome spacecraft was now a battered hunk of twisted steel. The aircraft was burning like a funeral pyre. When it had made impact with the asteroid's surface, the wing on its right side had been irreparably damaged, along with a rear booster on the same side. At that point, you were better off acquiring a new ship if you could. If only this sector wasn't uncharted. The only people who flew through here were fools who didn't know better, prospective treasure hunters looking for relics, or criminals evading the law. And as Holis stood, his spacesuit sporting the same color scheme as his ship, he knew he was squarely in the first category.

The battle was all but placed squarely in the Galactic Federation's hands. In an attempt to receive better treatment, a P.O.W revealed the details surrounding a secret route the Valdanish Clans took to smuggle weapons and supplies undetected. When the information checked out, Holis and his squadron were tasked with ambushing the supply ships. The Federation and the Valdanish had been at war for a long time, which was why putting the squeeze on their supply routes was of the upmost importance. Everything went according to plan except one thing: Holis lost his cool.

Once the first of two transporter ships had its boosters damaged, effectively disabling it, the enemy became leaves in the wind. They were expecting little to no opposition, if any at all. But a heavily armed Galactic Federation squadron? The hired guns with brains broke formation to make a hasty retreat. Those that didn't were subject to Hazard Squadron's 3-NP gatling lasers. The only failing was the capture of only one transporter, but the message was clear for the Valdanish, they would need to find a new route. But Holis, certified envelope pusher, continued to give chase, despite his superior's orders. They had come to deal a grievous wound to their enemy, and Holis aimed to solidify the victory by disabling the second transporter. Which was when multiple Valdanish bandits had a change of heart and sought to nab an easy picking who had strayed too far from formation to have backup.

Holis' put his wrist to his face as he took assessment of his situation. A holographic interface lit up and displayed his suit's oxygen levels, prompting him to grimace. With 80% remaining, it was up in the air whether rescue could make it in time. Hazard Squadron's spacefighters fit one person each, and it had taken a while to reach the ambush spot. Holis then looked to the sky, searching for any signs of trouble. If suffocation didn't get to him, a vengeful Valdanish could swoop in to finish the job. This was it, this was how he was going to die. No blaze of glory, no valiant death. His would be a slow and painful one. For the first time in his time as a pilot, Holis was faced with his mortality. There was so much he wanted to do, that his battlelust plucked from his hands. A hand brushed against his sidearm, an unthinkable question filling his mind. Why wait for death? It was then, taking in his last sights, that he saw it. A large black building with a red glowing entrance. How long was that there? While salvaging what he could from his ship, Holis must has missed the anomaly. His fingers curled in his good hand. There was a chance that going there would mean death. But there was also a chance at life, and Holis was never one to turn away from a challenge. He had no desire to sit down and die. Taking the first of many steps forward, Holis began his march in the direction of the mysterious tower.

 

[BuggaBoo]

v

Oxi - Tiamata Okscana - Angel gunslinger

∘ | World and Plot: Urban fantasy. A world where there is a war between supernaturals that mortals cannot see nor know. Somehow all the different types of Supernaturals must get along to fight the oncoming attack of Demonic Forces.
∘ | Context: : In the past, Oxi went rogue and assassinated corrupt supernaturals and started a war between supernatural factions in the name of revenge.
∘ | BG Motivation: Oxi is a member of a team of the NightFlight. A ancient group of Angel gunslingers.
∘ | Post Inspiration:

But Holis, certified envelope pusher, continued to give chase, despite his superior's orders.

"For Closure..."​

It is easier to tell yourself you're doing the right thing with the best intentions in your mind.

Green eyes narrowed the moment she spotted the black sedan. It could have been any ol' car driven by any ol' person. Oh, but she knew this one; this was the one with all the feathers in full display upon the dashboard. No, of course mortals couldn't see them. To their numbed eyes, they would only see what their mind would desperately tell them.

When asked what was on the dashboard in that black sedan, mortals would probably say: scattered parking tickets, old fast food containers, a funky marble pattern in the leather, hell even an array of cute little anime bobbleheads. No, they would not know what they were. What they really, really were.

Oh, but Oxi did. And one of those things displayed thoroughly like dispicable trophies belonged to one her own, someone she had known for over 2 centuries.

A white hot sneer parted full cherry lips. No. No, it didn't matter to her who was riding in the back seat of that sedan. It had been a long time coming; still she should have let it go. But they had to go and demean her friends honour in that car. To all others in their sphere they boasted that they had killed and dominated her kind. The idea that someone she called a sister was reduced to a trinket to enjoy with perverted and damning eyes and hearts? No. She would trade her guns in fix that.

And so she did. True, Oxi was a gunslinger and like all of her kind she was only allowed specific shooting weapons; these were sacred and bonded to the gunslinger afterall. Her pair of sandalwood handled irons had been with her for over a century. And they meant so much to her. They were her calling card, her name, her symbol in this ancient war. And that's why it hurt so much to give them up.

Oxi swooped in an arc back towards the clouds, scarlet hair chasing behind her. She stalled, hovering in an upright position and took one last look to check if the sedan was clear from bystanders and alone without entourage. No, she didn't have her beloved twin pistols. But this...? She heaved the gunmetal hued silo upon a shoulder. One green eye fell closed neath dark lashes as she aimed. The other eye lit up, ablaze with the awful goodness of an avenging Angel. Yeah, this would do.

It is said that it is easier to tell yourself you're doing the right thing with the best intentions in your mind. It is also said that the idle mind is the Devil's playground.

And the best intentions pave the path to Hell.

"For the Cause... For Polanitia..." yes, today she would collect her friend's wing feather. And all those other Angel's feathers from offa that dashboard.

Silver and slate wings buffeted, keeping her steady and airborne as the rocket launched like a lioness hell bent on claiming a gazelle, its roar nearly drowning out a primal battle cry.

WC: 522
​