Realistic or Modern The Pharaoh's Soliloquy [ACCEPTING]

[Elephantom]

The Pharaoh's Soliloquy

Or, how the Great Depression never happened​

https://www.rpnation.com/threads/pharaohs-soliloquy-plot-info.317231/

https://www.rpnation.com/threads/the-pharaohs-soliloquy-ooc.317230/

https://www.rpnation.com/threads/the-pharaohs-soliloquy-cs.317229/​

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[Elephantom]

Chapter One:
The Man Who Doesn't Mourn

A cry — one of fear, if anything — emanated from a courtyard in the southern side of the greater precipice, next to the social committee hall and a chapel; the former was empty, the latter was filled. It was Sunday, you see. The man had shrieked because a suitable form of communication aside from the bulky radios had yet to exist, and certainly not because he was shocked at the sight of a corpse. The palor, of the formerly alive subject, had changed enough for him to be perceived as one of the unseemly type — the skin was white, the lips and the extremities glaringly purple, as if trying again and again to assert that it was dead, and even when everyone knew it. Gruesome.

The dead man was an outspoken advocate of capitalism, Tim Larson, and he had been hanged. Nobody could've sworn that it was Tim Larson himself riding the scene, but it was him — and one could verify it was him, because he had a strange jaw. It hanged about just right, but tilted at the front, the opposite, rather than the back. Three chins were fairly acceptable, but this wasn't — and fat people barely existed in the heavily screened New Atlanta. Aside from the erect rod from which he was hanging from, there was also another a span and a half down under his belt. It left little to the imagination.

The men from the chapel were the first ones to respond — at the shriek of the man — and they were absolutely mortified, their procession annihilated. Question was, why would Larson hang himself, that too in a public sector. He didn't commit suicide, he was murdered.

The object of murder was a tall streetlight and a coil of finely made rope. He was a short man — bloated or fat, one couldn't discern properly. He was lynched and he was slowly rotting under the heat of the sun. Neither of the two buildings which flanked him noticed the inclusion of another member into their zealous discussions. The nightly drunkards had failed to perceive him too, and it wasn't a surprise they didn't. Local vagrants were removed the day before, forcibly, by the local regulators — the two shared a vague similarity and a fierce enmity with each other.

The Sunday crowd, mostly blue-collars trying out their pinstripes and finest, looking towards Monday, lounged about normally. It was a common sight, the detectives and pinks swarming about a corpse. Good thing was, their frames prevented from seeing the body and its erectile junk. It simply was an ugly sight, as you can imagine.

~

Now, Clay didn't see this — he knew it not from seeing it. You see, he had subscribed to a weekly newspaper program, and it happened to be on the front page.

He woke up, took his medicine, and greeted his wife and his absent — who failed to attend the premises simply because he was too old to do so, and busy making a name for himself — son. He went downstairs and ate breakfast in his own diner — he does that from time to time. The diner was a tall building, long too — the lights were always turned on, flickering every now and then, because the other buildings did little to not overshadow his littler building. The newspaper was in his mailbox; his mailbox was a few paces away from his diner, near the chrome, carefully lined pavement. His Mauser Broomhandle was beside him, lying stagnant in its holster and showing off its glint to any curious eye. He slammed open the lid of the mailbox, grabbed the newspaper, and traveled forth towards the courtyard. A mailman cruised the highway in his ornate bike, rapping his hand against the bell periodically to drive off any obstructions. Lowriders — cars without any levitation function — moved past the mailman.

The diner was busy that day. People coming in, coming out. It was a good day.

The buildings, sallow yet florid, surrounded the street like a long line of steel trees. The sun rarely peeked in the through the buildings, contrasting against the almost-dark apartments. Billboards and sign, fluorescent and glowing about, failed to cast light properly. The people didn't seem to mind.

Clay was attired normally — he wore a black coat, and underneath it, the basic shirt-trouser combination with a vest in which he tends to tuck in his derringer — you see, it was a troublesome city where even regulators were prone to crime. You either stare down a barrel, or you make others do just that. The shirt was white with the a hint of blue, the trouser was drab brown. He wore a pair of burgundy moccasins. He wasn't a blue-collar — filth were the least of his concerns, and the general modicum of fashion surpassed its priority level. His suspenders were hidden neatly.

Along the way, he met two tin-men. One was squabbling with the other about whether or not to pick up a fallen bottle. The bottle was broken and belonged to a nearby liquor store. The robots also belonged to the nearby liquor store. They were dumb, Clay discerned, and would probably receive a re-tuning upon their return with the shattered remains of the bottle. Reboot or a direct boot to the junkyard, either this or that.

It was a small courtyard, surrounded on two sides by the social committee hall and the local chapel, and which both were flanked by lines of tall hedges and bushes. Both were massive figures — small, only when compared to the tall, shining skyscrapers that stood in the background. Other than the road that led to it, there was no other way out. In the center was a fountain, and bordering it, chairs and streetlights. The fountain was brass, the chairs and the streetlight of brass too. All were coated with a solid surface of chrome. New trends, the local father oft liked to say.

Clay often wandered about the courtyard. He loved the sight, the view of the smog-less industrial lands, and the titanic skyscrapers and skylines — all shiny, all painful to the eyes. Nevertheless, it gave Clay a sense of admiration. The world had achieved much in so short a time.

Truth was, Clay didn't relish his time in the courtyard because of the arresting view, but he did so only merely to enjoy the sunlight that seemed to filter in more thoroughly at the courtyard. He sat down on one of the chairs, meant for two or three, newspaper in hand. He unfolded the crumpled sets of papers.

'Overseer discovered dead in ditch'

His lips tightened, and with his furrowed brows, his expression could be thought of as a frown of sorts.

The man had been shot three times, possibly with a Helgalt device. On a corner of the front page, there was news about a capitalist hanged tragically. Clay paid little heed to it. Helgalts were silenced pistols, using a humble bolt-action service — they happened to be symbols of treasury. Coincidence or not, he now realized that this very courtyard was filled with pinks and detectives. What weren't discernable before, seemed to be now. Inquiring discretely, dressed queerly, these men were definitely part of the regulators or the pinkerton Agency, Clay thought.

This was certainly a bad turn of events.

~

“Miky, give me a mug.” Clay murmured, his voice a raspy drawl, as he sat on one of the stools that lined the sides of the counter. Michael, affectionately called 'Miky' by many, worked at Clay's diner. He was a tall man, bearing hardiness and a pair of steely eyes — very rarely, did he talk at all, often answering by simply grunting. Clay doubted that he was as young as he seemed to allege.

Miky knew what Clay meant by 'Mug' — it was his usual after all, a mug of coffee. He filled the mug, and slid it down the even counter. Clay caught it cleanly, the coffee only slightly spilling down the sides. Clay didn't mind the spill.

“Miky,” He said, pausing as if he was collecting his memories together. He brushed his hair back with a simple wave of his hands. His hair was neater and fairer than most men around the place — whose hair seemed too prickly or unreasonably grimy.

“Miky,” Clay repeated, “Ye' heard about the overseer's death.” It wasn't a question, it was an assertion. Miky's eyes wavered about as if he had understood his predicament.

Miky turned towards Clay, thinking for a moment, before answering. “Yessir, I have.”

“T'was a damn shame, wasn't it?” Clay continued, “The people liked 'im- no, feared 'im. Had respect for his like.”

“Yessir, there's riots goin' on 'round baker street fo' 'im.”

“The western end? Shit. What might've caused it, Miky?”

“Panic, sir.”

“Sure, sure. But thing is, who dunnit?” Clay lifted the mug up to his lips, and took a big swig from it. “The murder, that is.”

“Most likely a pack of rats.”

“How did they penetrate them regulators?”

“Them were busy bootin' sum lo'lifes.”

“Don't the regulators be tryin' to look for them lowlifes?”

“Nussir, to busy weeding out vagrants. Them pinks think Tim got done in by sum foo-reds.”

“What about the union? The worker's union?”

“Nah, Pete's got nu' bone to pick with Tim.”

Clay straightened his back. He was slouching earlier, you see.

“Right. Lemme tell ya' somethin', Miky; ignore me, and serve the customers.” Clay too one last slurp from it, before standing up and going back the way he came. “It's my livelihood too, y'know.”

His voice trailed off, mixing with the coarse ambiance, as he hurried off.

There was still half left in the mug. He had business to finish.

 

[The Chronicler]

Edward Tahoma

12:34PM | ??-??-???? | Garage

Edward was sitting down in his rusted out, old, chair. There was no real details to begin of but of Edward drinking tea. One of his favorite flavors. Black Tea. Beautiful color, amazing look, and wonderfully tasteful. Though, his tea wasn't the only thing that was attracting his attention, a note, he held in his hands. A message from one of the goons of Leopold Hedwin, the man who controls all police activity. It was a sickening note, but also a good reminder that there are people watching.

The note read:

Dear, Edward Tahoma

We have taken notice of your so-called 'inventions', and we have seen them in action. And we are not happy about it. You are abusing the city resources to build these 'inventions', if persisting, we are to forcefully tell you to stop, or arrest you. These resources you are taking are valuable to New Atlanta.

We are kindly asking you to stop. If you do not, we will storm your house and take these resources or what's left of them back. And forcefully arrest you.

Please and Thank you,
[REDACTED]

Edward called 'bullshit' and crumpled the note and threw it into the trash about 5 feet away from him. He sighed, taking a sip from his tea. He knew he couldn't afford these materials he was stealing from construction areas. He understands what he did was wrong but from what he can tell, they can still keep going, they have the materials and resources plus money for the construction of those buildings. So really, Edward saw the note as just being hateful to him and his job. It's surprising how much money Edward gets from doing nothing. He really just waiting for a lawsuit.

Oh right, someone died today. Whatever. Edward took one last sip of his tea before getting up and preparing to fix his car.

​

 

[xenforo_design]

Xing rolled out of bed unceremoniously, groaning as she chanced upon her reflection in her bedside vanity. Her hair sat in unattractive, black clumps along her shoulders. This is what I get for not braiding the night before, she thought petulantly, before raking a brush through the ends of her hair. Her stylist would have to pour that sickly-sweet concoction onto her head again. There goes three hours of my life, wasted. Well, not if she could tease these knots out herself. With renewed vigor, she tugged the brush somewhat violently.

"Stop!" wailed the tin (copper) man, waving his single arm haphazardly as he stumbled toward Xing. She stopped, though not so much out of obedience as concern for her robot. "Madame will destroy her precious hair!" He appeared as distraught as a hollow can of copper could possibly be-- which was surprisingly distraught.

Xing removed her brush from her hair in a display of good-natured defeat. "Okay, Monsieur. You stop waving your arm. We agreed that you would take it easy." The tin man made no response besides lowering his single arm by his side. He needed a proper replacement for that other one. Xing quickly changed out of her sleeping attire and slipped into a loose green cheongsam and a pair of black flats. Perhaps she would go purchase a replacement arm today, she mused as she tugged her left shoe on. Although... if she were to do that, maybe she should bring him with her...? Xing sighed and hastily wrapped her hair into a bun atop her head. Breakfast first. She needed to eat something before she decided what to do with her day off, a rarity in the climax of filming.

"I'm going to go eat," she told him. Monsieur lifted his arm again, as if to protest. "I'll be back soon, so don't you flip and end up sending nonsense telegrams to Cartier." The arm returned to his side, the robot seemingly quelled again. Though Xing knew that he would be thoroughly agitated if she did not return within a few hours. The last time she had been out late with a handsome up-and-comer, Monsieur bombarded her step-father with fretful telegrams about her whereabouts and the dangers of the acting industry for a young woman such as herself. Trust her step-father to gift her with the most protective, mother-goose tin man known to mankind. Perhaps it was some kind of a technological innovation. The Your Mom is Dead? Have a Robot! initiative. Xing snorted before affectionately waving goodbye to Monsieur. He really was such a precious thing.

Xing loped down her apartment stairs in long, quick strides, a childish smile teasing her lips. She gathered herself before she left through the main door of the building. Two deep breaths. She pushed the heavy door and slipped out to the bustle and industrial odor of a city morning. A pale smog sat stubbornly against the sky, refusing to make way for the sky to peek through. She began to walk.

A diner stretched before her, its entrance practically a revolving door. People seemed to enter at the same rate at which people left. "I hope that means this place is good," she murmured to herself, still largely unfamiliar with the area. It was grittier than the high life she was used to, but no less appealing. Xing entered the building. It was crowded and busy; surely a sign of good business here. One seat was left at the counter, near an older man. As soon as she was about to sit down, he rose and hurried off. She blinked.

"Friendly people, hmm," she muttered, before sitting down and ordering hot tea and breakfast biscuits. It was a second before she noticed the newspaper on the counter, where the man had been sitting. A gruesome photo adorned the front page. She recoiled before grabbing the paper and turning to shout after him, "Excuse me, sir, is this yours?"

Elephantom

 

[Elephantom]

Clay was stopped halfway through his triumphant escape from his own diner, by what seemed to be a chink — and not just any chink, but a lady, more accurately, and one that seemed vaguely familiar. He hadn't a good memory, he mused, and a good memory was what was needed to recognize shit. He paused for a moment, hand waiting on the rim of the diner's door, before turning his head back slowly. She was holding his newspaper; he had absent-mindedly left it behind, and in a scatter-minded fashion, Miky had also decided to not inform him about it. In all honesty, he had told him to so.

Miky was doing his job — cleaning the small spill he had left behind — he wasn't all that very good at this job, as it looked like. The surface was extremely even — how one could fail at cleaning a surface such as this was a queer question.

He shook his head slightly, lamenting momentarily about his own thoughts and foolishness, before yanking his hand away from the door. He went towards the woman, formulating a response for her comment — and it was a helpful comment, nothing bad — as he did so.

“Oh, forgot my paper.” Clay tottered till he was close to her chair, head titled about just slightly. Sticking out his arm, and with subtlety, he grabbed the newspaper from her.

He took a brief glimpse at the front of the paper and her. He could put two and two together, and it would've been easy, was easy.

“Right,” He muttered. “The sector overseer got done in by a couple o' men. Causing some kinda riot in the western side.” He stretched the front of his paper till he got a good view of it

“The local regulators were busy bootin' vagrants outta town, and maybe they're still doing it. Who d'ya think might've done it, Miss?”

xenforo_design

~

Witnessing the western side riots, the news of the stray rats soon became a petty worry. It was chaotic — fire everywhere and in every place, burnt lowriders resembling ashen caricatures of their past selves, hovercrafts flying about within the air in great hurry. The people were screaming and shouting in unison, their chants resonating their violence, obviously not realizing the weight of their actions as their individuality diminished into nothingness. One of them, an extensive BLISS user judging by his blackened arms, tossed a fireball into a liquor store as if it was a crude molotov — flame erupted from the insides of the stores, an audible crackling noise, and the smell of sweet burnt flesh and alcohol. Hunt winced and averted his eye, before resuming his observation. The man didn't stop at that, and on the contrary, he started throwing even more, flashes of bolide ripping through the streets and brutally vandalizing the public properties. The fusillade of fire tinted the chrome surface of the buildings with a red hint — and one thing that might immediately come to mind is the olden interpretations of hell itself.

The man — easily recognizable by his baldness, which was probably a side effect from his usage of BLISS — was tall and wore a rolled up full-sleeve and no jacket. By the way he was doing shit, he was the mastermind behind these series of cacophony.

To an ex-lawman such as Remy, it was unacceptable. A lynching was the last treatment he wanted to receive, but not intervening went against his loose code of honor. He emerged from his cover, took a sharp turn, and confronted the BLISS user. Taking in a deep breath, and doing so silently, he spoke.

“I'm gonna have to ask you to stand down, sir.” There was a casual amount of uniformity in his voice; his time with Allan helped him a great deal.

Remy was one of Hunt's pinks — a newcomer, short and bearing little significance. He had been strolling about nearby, when he heard the commotion. Rushing to it without any plans or call for reinforcements surely was a novice's mistake.

He shouldn't have been running open, the thought gradually coming to his dull mind, without any enforcers. Especially, in case of a mob such as this. Fortunately, his voice was drowned beneath the sea of sounds that echoed throughout the tall, somber street — only given a temporary drive by too much zeal, it seemed, actual ones.

This, he realized, was a job for a regulator — and it was their job, to be precise — but he, unfortunately, had to speak in their stead it seemed. The sector's regulators were probably either busy booting those vagrants or they were regrouping and gathering what remained of their wits — and which was their version of slacking off. The small conflict probably wasn't going to last all that long, but it'd do some mighty damage in that short duration. He had to do something, and with the weaponry and manpower he had, the least he could was stall them.

The bald man sneered. The others were too busy shrieking to notice Remy. It was a duel, Remy soon realized. He slid his hands down the holster that clung on to his belt, bringing out his Webley in a quicksilver motion. His adversary sneered again, and without warning, tossed another ball of crackling fire towards him. Remy tried to dodge, and in turn, fell for the man's easy bluff. Another fireball quickly dashed through the air, soon after the first one landed in the pavement, hitting Remy straight in his abdomen; he fell down with a subtle groan.

Had it not been for his heavy coat, or for his BLISS attachments, he definitely would've met his death. He whipped out a second revolver — the first one having fallen off of his hands from the impact — and violently rapped the trigger with his finger. A loud noise, a flash of light, and the bullet dispersed towards its location. A bullet was always quicker than a man, people like to say.

The man, struck by the bullet in his abdomen and bleeding profusely as a result of that, fell down on his knees. Hunt, without pausing, shot his revolver. The first pull's recoil made the revolver leap up, causing the second the hit the man flat in his head. The third went to nowhere in particular and the air.

Bullets were also louder than people. The crowd, mostly the ones on the front, turned towards him.

“Shit.” He gulped. He was in a strange predicament, it seemed.

Historical Storyteller
The Chronicler

 

[Historical Storyteller]

State Army​

Today was everybody's lucky day, for most of the soldiers within Atlanta city were given the day off. Those left at Doolittle's Army Base stayed to file paperwork and perform other administrative tasks while their buddies hit the streets hard. Crowds of off-duty soldiers with big money to spend littered the streets, ready to spend their hard-earned cash on wine and cigars. Occasionally, a lusty prostitute looking for prospective customers would flash her breasts and wink her eye at a young serviceman then entice him to follow her to a private area where they would experience the greatest of human emotions.

One rather feisty serviceman said that the experience was so powerful that he felt that he could move mountains. At first, these lovemaking blowhards presented a real threat to the military authorities, who believed that soldiers damaged their public image by entering into whorehouses. They were supposed to be a vigorous moral force that would not succumb so easily to the sin of lust. It was true that these were young men that had a strong sex drive, but their strength of character must overcome their natural urge to reproduce.

And so the army posted guards next to whorehouses to prevent soldiers from gaining entry. Their efforts were in vain for few men were deterred from securing this valuable human experience. Instead of going to the usual locations these men looked for other places to crash, places the army were not aware even existed. Deep underground where thousands of the Lows lurked they eagerly exploited the many opportunities awaiting them. Sometimes, when the soldier earned enough money he could even go up the skyscrapers where the Highs and Elites dwelt. There were just as many opportunities awaiting him though the price was way higher than the usual rates.

Not everyone was fond of such perverse activities, only a third of the men in the army were prone to this behavior. Some soldiers were bookworms and they would visit the Atlanta City Library which held numerous collections of works all around the globe. Books of all languages were distributed throughout the building, German, Chinese, Japanese, French, and more. The library was quite large, for it was four floors high and about one hundred meters long. The librarians were always readily assisting scholars writing their latest works, and many accomplished Elites regularly dropped in the place.

Others simply went sightseeing, marveling at the various monuments erected around the city, breathing fresh air in the parks and checking out new restaurants. Atlanta was amazing and many could hardly believe that the city was still growing even after the city was filled to brim with people. There was even news that a transcontinental railroad was being constructed and if this was true then Atlanta would be a global city. Experts reported that in the next decade Atlanta will be a flourishing megacity with an estimated population of at least 10 million people.

---

Sergeant Guy Focker: Crashing the Party!
​

Seven soldiers marched with their sixty pound bags under the hot yellow sun, all of them were ready to collapse due to exhaustion. These rascals were being punished for sneaking in bottles of beer inside the base and distributing it to the entire garrison. Before they could drink the forbidden substance they were caught by the prying eyes of a lieutenant by the name of Alexander and they were forced to march around the city for one month under full pack. It was a severe punishment fitting for these sons of bitches.

Of course, these soldiers also carried their rifles with them to throw in some extra weight. Mostly, these were only for show, none of the rifles were loaded. The soldiers did, however, bring their bayonets which was stowed inside their packs. Apparently the officers wanted to put as much stuff as possible so the soldiers would experience the climax of their suffering.

Just right ahead of them was Sergeant Guy Focker, who was assigned to take care of these misfits for the time being. Guy was furious that he had to babysit these little pieces of shit and that they took away his free time for the day because of their misbehavior. This was inexcusable. People could screw up, act like idiots, and fail at life, but nobody, I repeat, nobody takes away his free time. They hit his berserk button and they were going to pay the price of angering him. He made them rise up at 12:00 AM and start hauling their collective asses around the city three times.

It was a daunting task even for athletes competing in the Olympics, but Guy said it had to be done or they would face not one month of punishment but two months instead. The soldiers reluctantly obeyed and they gradually accomplished their herculean task. It was 10 AM now and the soldiers were so tired that the ground seemed to be a comfortable place to sleep on.

Even Guy himself was a little tired and when they started heading for Doolittle Army Base they bumped straight into the western side riots. It was a complete catastrophe with people smashing shop windows down the street and looting whatever valuables they could find. Some of the shop owners were frightened and they locked themselves behind a door while others were not so happy and brought out the big guns. A few gunshots were heard, a scream followed, and people scattered in all directions.

In another corner of the street, a firepower BLISS user got into a fight with an armed gunman attempting to stop him from setting everything on fire. The flame guy hit first and sent the gunman down with a fireball. But the gunman retaliated by shooting the flame guy in the gut, and the flamer went down like chestnut tree.

In spite of himself, Guy cheered the gunman on, screaming at the gunman to deliver the coup de grace and end the fight with a fatality. Guy firmly believed in the superiority of firearms over BLISS modifications anytime of the day. Drugs suck. Guns rock.

Suddenly, the people surrounding the gunman were slowly approaching him. Guy read their intentions, they were probably going to lynch him for taking out the flame guy. Unacceptable, he was not about to let these punks get all butthurt over a junkie. The gunman won fair and square and this was how they were going to treat him?

It was at this time that Guy decided to make a timely intervention. He quickly grabbed his M1911 and aimed at the sky and squeezed the trigger. BAM.

Heads were turned to face Guy and his squad of seven soldiers.

"This is the State Army," Guy began with authority in his voice, "You will all stand down or you will face the wrath of the military. I repeat, you will all stand down now. Don't make me bring the tanks in people, and don't think we won't do it. Violence is our livelihood."

Guy turned to the exhausted soldiers and ordered them to fix bayonets. The soldiers obeyed and they turned their rifles into pointy sticks of death.

"This is your last warning. Return to your homes or there will be consequences."

Guy's ploy seemed to be working smoothly until one defiant woman stood up to confront one of his soldiers.

"Ma'am, I'm going to ask you to-"

The woman approached a soldier, and as she stepped closer the soldier quickly reacted by weakly poking her with the bayonet. He was using all that he had, and he kept attacking her with the strength of a newborn baby, repeatedly poking her with the sharp bayonet.

Just what the fuck are you up to, soldier? Guy watched them with his mouth open in astonishment.

She was unimpressed by this display of naked power, so she raised her hand and slapped the soldier in the face. The soldier saw this as an opportunity to finally get some sleep so he pretended that the slap was backed by the force of a sledgehammer, and so he flung himself backwards and crashed into a concrete wall behind him. Then he closed his eyes and got the sleep he wanted.

Goddamn it, boy, you've doomed us all. If the army was seen as a complete bunch of weaklings, Guy was now gonna get lynched by an angry mob. Now, he didn't have to worry about the welfare of the gunman, Guy had to think about his own safety first.

Elephantom

---

Corporal Delmore "Del" Markusen: Gone off the deep end.
​

Delmore Markusen woke up in the middle of Atlanta city's junkyard. He slept upon heaps of trash. Scraps of metal, discarded pieces of paper, and rotten food covered his entire body.

It was the second time this month, this time he teleported out of the city in his sleep. Good god, his powers were going haywire and there was nothing he could do to get it under his control again. He stopped using his powers for two years now, but by then it was too late for him to prevent the symptoms from showing up.

BLISS was slowly killing him, taking away his own body from him.

Why is this happening to me? Del buried his face in his hands. No, doofus, it happens to everybody. Don't be selfish, you're not the center of the world, man.

Everybody knows that if you take ZEAL, BLISS, and FERVOR modifications your body will suffer. Use of these powers will put a great tax on your health and it should only be used in emergencies. Del didn't take any precautions and now he's in the danger zone.

Ten years ago, he used to be in the prime of his life, he was physically fit and he could run miles without getting tired. Now, he had to catch his breath after running two blocks. All thanks to using so much of that Snake Oil. Back then, he didn't have to worry about disappearing into strange places he's never seen before. Now, he ended up teleporting inside barnyards, tunnels, this junkyard he's staying in right now, inside a stranger's bathroom, and on top of a skyscraper. All thanks to using Teleportation too much. He could have taken a powerful hit from a professional boxer. Now, he could be easily be pushed to the ground by a wimp. All thanks to using Second Layer.

Jeez, thanks ZEAL, BLISS, FERVOR for ruining my life. Del sighed.

This was hopeless, it was so foolish of him to be so irresponsible. All of this was his fault in the first place. Everybody told him to keep it down, to stop using ZEAL and FERVOR but he didn't listen. His life is ruined and he has to face the consequences of his mistakes. It seemed that nothing could save him now. But sometimes, every month he would try to cure his 'disease'. He asked all his drug-using friends for advice, but they all told him the same thing, it was too late for him. He visited all the city's doctors who told him that they could do nothing to help him. He asked the companies who manufactured the ZEAL and FERVOR drugs to no avail.

Fuck.

No, it couldn't end like that. Maybe this was not a sickness of the body but rather a sickness of the soul. So Del consulted the city's best spiritualists for advice, and he followed it to the letter but in the end he was met with little to no results. OK, now it was hopeless. It was too late for him. He tried everything he could but everybody said it was impossible to get rid of the symptoms. He read books, multiple books about the lives of users like him.

Most of the time they were old army veterans and rich people. Those were the most frequent users and they had the most access to the drugs. There was even a story of a pastor who took all these modifications at once and exploded. Bloody stuff.

All of them gave the same answer. There was no hope for them. People should stop using ZEAL and FERVOR. And if you happen to display the same symptoms as them, it might be too late already. You can't get rid of the symptoms once they've started to appear.

This was the end of the road for Del.

God, God help me. Del started to sob violently, his cries echoed throughout the entire junkyard. But there were no human being around to witness his sadness, not even the Rats were there to comfort him.

He was all alone, like so many other drug users. There were not many people there to understand his problems, and there were even some people who looked down on drug users like him. Sergeant Guy was one example. He was a good guy and he meant well, but he just doesn't know what the fuck he's saying sometimes.

Maybe everybody means well, but they just don't understand. Del couldn't blame them, they were just standing up for their own principles. Well, not everyone was so morally outstanding, you know there was just the occasional jerk.

What will I do now? Del thought and he thought hard. I could always jump off the nearest skyscraper.

No, that was too painful. He was also afraid of heights so he wouldn't dare pull off a stunt like that.

Gunshot to the head?

Nah, still painful.

What then?

Well, he could not try to die.

I'm such a pussy.

At least it doesn't hurt.

Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it all. It's all hopeless. I don't have my health and I can't even decide to take my own life. I can't do anything anymore, and I barely qualify as a human being! I hate myself. Del banged his fist on the side of a nearby refrigerator.

Then he remembered, he remembered something that happened ten years ago before he started taking those drugs. It was so long ago, but he could still faintly recall what happened. He promised himself that even if life was hard and he seemed to go down the drain he will still be strong enough to carry on. Why? Because he's Delmore Markusen and he's gonna travel all over the world and piss on the Eiffel Tower and jack off at Big Ben's.

Those were in the days before he was shipped off to Europe and he was having the time of his life. He went exploring all over the continent and he had a hell of a time. Good times. Happy times. There was so much happiness in his life and he was going to throw it all away like that? He was so stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Grow a pair of balls, asshole. You're speaking like a man who has a one-inch dick, piece of motherfuckin' shit.

Maybe it is hopeless, but that doesn't mean I should just give up. I don't have my body anymore but I still have my life. Life may be bad now but that doesn't mean I can't be happy. Del smiled and then he burst into laughter. It was just so stupid, being so upset on something so small. There were a lot of things out there in the world open for him even without his health. He could still live a good life if he tried. All he had to do was try.

He was going to cry a lot and laugh at himself, but he's going to live on. You can take away his health, you can take away his hope, but he will never allow anyone to take his life, not even himself. Delmore Markusen, he has a weak body but he has a strong soul to compensate for that. He will continue to do whatever it takes to be happy, and he will live on.

Oh, and he actually did piss on the Eiffel Tower by the way.

 

[The Chronicler]

Edward Tahoma

?The Tea Run?

Edward was torching up his car, he wasn't sure what would happen or why exactly he decided to torch his car but the best thought he could think of was; 'just because.' If Edward was being honest with himself, he really has no clue on why he does certain things. One of the many mysteries of New Atlanta.

He reached to his table to get grab a sip of his tea, and once latched onto his cup, he slowly moved it to his mouth, once accomplished, he tipped it around 30 degrees and found it.... empty. His piano that he recently fixed broke and the strings played a wonderful toon; "DUN DUN DUN". Edward stared upon his piano. "That was... oddly timed.. perfectly." Ed made a weird face. "Well... shit, now I have to fix the strings again."

Finding no tea in his cup was shocking, it seemed to fill itself whenever it was empty... or he just kept refilling it without knowing. For the first time in a lifetime, he had to get out of his garage and enter... the kitchen. It was like a war zone in there, there was only one way out. And that one way was having the tea guide him.

It only took about 10 minutes for him to make it to the cabinet where he he found... nothing. He heard more piano strings break; "DUN DUN DUN." Edward took a deep breath in, and then out. "Stay calm... that piano is just broken, it doesn't have magical properties..." Only than the piano grew legs and arms, and jumped at Edward. "HOLAYYY SHIETTTTTT!!!" Edward jumped back. Than found himself on the floor of his kitchen, his tea cup broken, and expired milk next to him. "Well, that's new."

It was only than he realized he needed to do the one thing he knew he would never do in a lifetime.... A Tea Run. The most competitive competition there is, only the tastiest will survive. He heads out the door, his rifle on his back attached to his backpack containing food and other survival things, like crumpets. And brought his arm piece for his armor. The only reason was to look badass but that ended quickly right after he out his hat on.

Only after an hour of searching for the Tea Surplus, he came across a crowd, or a hate mob, both worked for the situation. Edward looks upon the mob, and a few looked at him, than started approaching, in a straight line. Edward took out his rifle, aimed it straight at the first persons head, and BAM. He accidentally shot a blank. "Fuck! I thought I reloaded this piece of shit!" Ed than bashed the first guy, reloaded his gun in quick succession and only than he took his shot at the second guy. BAM

The bullet rocketed through the second guys head, and than grazed the other guys head. Probably damaging the skull more than the ear it tore through, the bullet than traveled down south, hit up a steel support, ricocheted off of it and bounced off a building door which was Steel too and eventually ricocheted into the gunmans stomach. Edward stared in awe. "Now that's just plain dumb luck. Also, ANYBODY KNOW WHERE THE TEA SURPLUS IS?"
Elephantom
Historical Storyteller

​

 

[Wandering Grim Hollow]

George Havel aka Odysseus​

"Odysseus! Odysseus!" A young lad named Lex shouted as he slammed the reinforced shutter into the underground garage shut. George, who was busy helping out Judith in weaponizing an abandoned milk cart, peeked over the top of the cart as Lex rushed over before tripping on a fallen pipe. George couldn't help but burst out laughing at the sight.

"Jesus, Lex! Watch your step! What's with all the panic?" George good-naturedly joked as he walked over and offered a grease-streaked hand to the poor boy. The kid dusted himself off after muttering a word of thanks, his face a bright red but George was more interested in the crumpled up and torn newspaper Lex dropped. He picked it up and smoothened it out before reading the article. His eyes widened in surprised before grinning.

"I see, Lex... This is big news! Good work, son!" George praised, slapping the happy looking Lex on the back before jogging over towards the intricate radio broadcasting station they set up on a catwalk near the top of the garage.

"Hap! Fire up the transmitter! I'm gonna start a broadcast soon!" George called up to the burly looking African-American who was busying himself with a bunch of radio cables.

"Yessir, Bossman!" Hap cheerfully replied with a smirk, yanking out the radio wire and connecting it to a hidden plug between a pair of worn out glamour posters. That line lead to a series of powerful (and illegal) radio transmitters capable of broadcasting to the whole of New Atlanta. All to spread the word of true news that wasn't censored by the Government of course. George pushed the stack of reports and 'fan mail' that cluttered the already crowded desk apart and readied the microphone.

"Fire up the radio and.... We are live!"

VOX POPULUS - The True Voice of the People​

A bandwidth of radio that only spouted static suddenly started playing a short jingle, a slightly warped version of the Star Spangled Banner, before it switched to the sound of someone tapping the mic.

"Good morning, guten morgen, ohayo gozaimasu, ni hao and bonjour ladies and gents of New Atlanta! Its your old buddy, Odysseus here and its time for the only radio show that tells the real news: Vox Populus! On today's broadcast, I have news and letters from various parts of the world that the 'oh so powerful' Masters of this fine city don't want you to hear. So let's get started shall we?

Firstly, Oriental news: Our Chink friends over at China seem to be on the rise again. With the rise of pro-communist activity there, we can be sure to see more and more riots. And to that I say, good luck and kung fu some of the oppressors for me, will you?

Next up, Edo news: Nothing much has changed. People are still practising bushido and my Jap friends there keep sending me dried fish flakes and something called uh... Let's see... Ume... boshi... Whatever that stuff is, salty little things. Moving on!

European news: A pro-Kaiser resistance group, the Elderweiss, have been wiped out by police forces. My condolences to our brave comrades and may their afterlife be filled with feasting, women, and fighting. No news from our French friends so far. Maybe they were too busy drinking wine and eating cheese to bother writing to poor old Odysseus! Hahaaaah!

Lastly, local news. Now this is the kicker ladies and gentlemen! Seems like someone went ahead and decided to off poor old Mr Tim Larson, himself! Ahahahahaaa! Some crazy sunavabitch actually did it! Hung that slob off a lightpost for all to see! Not only that but it seems that people are starting tooooo.... You guessed it, riot! Throwing a hissy fit at the oppressors themselves!

Now, you may be asking: 'Did the Klephts did it, Odysseus? Was it your masterful thinking, Odysseus? Should we begin our own attacks, Odysseus?' To that I say.... No, no, and only if you have a deathwish. Hm? What's that? Oh you're all surprised that I didn't do this and that the Klephts are innocent for once? YES. IT IS. I declare the neither I or the Klepths are behind this daringly stupid attack.

Now you may ask, 'So whodunnit, Odysseus?' To be frank, I don't know. And that's all the time I have for this broadcast. Until next time ladies and gents of New Atlanta and remember: Check if the milk is bad before adding it to your tea. Wouldn't want to risk a bad stomach ache during a raid, no?"

The short jingle played again before the transmission was cut and the familiar static returned.

"What now Bossman?"
"Now, Hap? Ohohoho... Now we get to work..."

 

[xenforo_design]

He-- he basically snatched it out of her hand! Well, perhaps not snatched. But he did take it from her, and it felt kind of strange. Xing tamped down the unjustified indignation in her throat and dipped her head. She was too familiar with the royal treatment she received from the polished, somewhat slimy industry she'd spent the last decade or so of her life with. Surely she could not be offended by such a minuscule difference.

The sector overseer got done in by a couple o' men. Causing some kinda riot in the western side.

That was the sector overseer? That man, on the front page? Xing stared at the image of a twisted body twisted away from her. She was so transfixed by the photo that she nearly missed his question. "Who did it?" she repeated, almost stupidly. She tore her eyes away from the paper and looked up at the man. "Who killed him, you are asking me?"

How sheltered she must have been, this entire time. Not that she wasn't aware of the violence in New Atlanta, but she'd been kept relatively.. protected from this kind of information. There wasn't much time for newspapers between hours of makeup, hair, filming, and traipsing about with actors and politicians. She supposed it made perfect sense that her dates wouldn't want to discuss violence during their nights out. But was this Western societal turmoil not relevant at all to potential independence? Perhaps the elites and the government would be more receptive to releasing territory when they couldn't even maintain order by their own citizens...?

"I don't know, sir, I'm not from around here," Xing answered candidly. She added, honestly, "Where I come from, crime is no less frequent, I think... but it doesn't happen quite the same way. Nor is it covered quite this way." She snorted. Her tea had arrived, sitting, almost as if abandoned, on the smooth counter. "What kind of a man was he?"

Elephantom

 

[Elephantom]

“The overseer?” Muttered Clay as he looked over at her, slightly surprised to see someone so sheltered from the outside world. She could've been a new immigrant, or perhaps, she was just too rich to bother. Chances were just that.

An overseer's position is a promotion given to regulator officers of sound mind and body — regulator officers themselves are an elevation of status from the usual grunts. Overseers are responsible for the schedules, budget management and maintaining the causal modicum of discipline in their respective stations. Their deaths usually meant chaos and a dash to elect, with haste, another officer.

Usually the most popular one.

“Nathaniel Bridges.” He continued, squinting his eyes upward. The lights still flickered every now and then. He needed to get them fixed. “He was the sector overseer- y'know, a punk who maintains law a bit more from the higher side- and he was killed.”

There was a strong accent to his voice — the accent of a man who clearly wasn't born in Atlanta. Somewhere in the Mississippi, or the Texan — a mixed-up drawl of them all.

“It'd be a blunder to say he was killed rightly. He was a devil, but he had a sense of honor, a loose one though.”

Clay lifted one of his hand up to his mouth — the other, occupied with holding the newspaper — before coughing lightly. Age was taking its toll on him, and so was the zeal he used occasionally; his age certainly did little to help it, and there had yet to exist a more safer option for zeal or a curious cure for its side effects.

He navigated his hand from his mouth to his chin, caressing it lightly. Pontificating her about the real world was a job best reserved for somebody other than him. Still, he supposed, he'd better sum things up.

“Deaths like these are real uncommon, what with enforcers buddying up around the overseer. But, them regulators were busy booting some vagrants today, and the week before- middle class who just devolved into lower class, but still living in them regions.” He paused, pointing his hand half-mindedly to nowhere in particular.

“Y'know how this world of ours revolve.”

The radio was turned on — a yellow classic with two newfangled antennas sticking out from it, situated well high up on a cabinet for everyone in the diner to hear. Old, funky music played in a loop. In an abrupt fashion, the music was interrupted by queer, odd scratches — high noise transmissions, loud and jarring to the ear. As quick as it had twisted, it transformed into a more stable ambiance — not quite the best, but good enough for the average listener to hear.

Safe to say, it interrupted Clay's flow of speech.

A highly-morphed jingle, plagiarized obviously from the star spangled banner, emanated from the radio. Then, after a brief pause, a guy came on it, or at least, his disembodied voice. It was a guy all right, and certainly not the singer or whatever doggone thing the radio was spouting out.

He told, the radio that is, of knowledge known mostly to the higher-ups or punks who could afford shit. If Clay wasn't all that old as he happened to be, he'd probably be be gawking like a madman — instead, with furrowed brows, he glared at the camera, focusing on it. That punk, the radio that is, was spilling out censored information — he, the radio that is, was damn fanning the flame of the riots.

“Shit.” He murmured steadily, a groan soon following. “I need to scoot fast. This is a whole lot of shebang.”

“You can come if you want to, Missy, but I can't guarantee your safety.” He brushed his hand through the well-oiled leather holster that contained his mauser, checking it thoroughly. He was in great haste, as one could bother to observe, and it was rightly justified — you see, he was a concerned citizen, and a taxpaying one at that.

He turned towards the counter. “Oy, Miky, pass me that Browning, would ya'?” It was more a demand than a request.

Miky crouched under the counter and produced a Browning auto-5 — one of Clay's personal weapons that he keeps in the diner just in case some crazy starts scrambling in. It was an old gun but it worked fine — and it, odd for a gun, opted for a semi-automatic action rather than the usual pump, lever or break. Miky tossed the shotgun; it flew through the air and landed on Clay's arms half-perfectly. Not the best show of artfulness, Clay supposed, but it'd do.

He held down his bowler hat, then proceeding to jog out and away from the diner.

xenforo_design

~

Remy had been shot, he could feel it well and it was painful; he had Second Layer all right, but the fire had taken it out already — half out, the front of his brown duster had been blackened, his shirt and hat singed. The shot had ricocheted from somewhere behind him, and judging by direction it came from and the substantial evidence, it was the tea-crazy punk that held a rifle all mighty-like — he demanded tea. Blood expelled from Remy's stomach. It was not the most best scenario. Stumbling half-enthusiastically towards a steel wall, he slumped against it, levelling his gun to anyone who dared approach him. The state army did well in serving as a blockade for the gung-ho crowd.

The state army had come to his rescue, subduing his almost-lynchers — they, as bizarre as it was, were marching. One of them, a kid by the looks of it, was taken down mighty easily by a simple punch. His attacks were ridiculously harmless.

It was a great shame, and the kid was snoring too.

“Don't just stand there.” Remy yelled, again half-enthusiastically, mustering up a fair amount of audacity, or all he had actually. “Shoot 'em!”

He aimed his revolver at the woman who had knocked out the kid, pressing the trigger. The gun belted out a quick bullet with a blast, blowing a chunk in her pea-sized, Neanderthal head. The brief silence that temporarily occupied this entire situation was completely broken — the crowd was, yet again, riled up. Half were scared and panicking, the others seemed a bit too overconfident.

The two were barely distinguishable.

Historical Storyteller
The Chronicler

 

[xenforo_design]

Xing sat quietly as the older man explained to her the nature of Nathaniel Bridges' death-- as well as a few other things. An incredible amount of unrest plagued this area, as she'd imagined, though fortunately never had to encounter. For all the unpleasant aspects of the high life, it certainly kept one more protected and uninvolved, say, than someone of the lower class. Not that that was necessarily a good thing, actually. Xing frowned, pensive. These Westerners faced riots and disobedience and instability. It wouldn't be long, naturally, before there was a regime change. That much was for sure. Either that or the rebel voices would be squashed by heavy-handed government action, much like it was in China, against Chinese Independence protesters. But that would only postpone the inevitable exchange of power, peaceful or violent.

Lost in her thoughts, Xing somewhat absent-mindedly listened to the man. His rolling accent didn't help-- some kind of drawl which might, if she'd listened to for another hour or so, put her to sleep. It was a nice sound, different from the more aggressive tones the city had primed her to, but certainly not one conducive to her comprehension of mutiny and murder.

It was the radio music that stunned her back to attention. An ugly tune, one that she vaguely recognized to be the nation's anthem. Her nose wrinkled, almost reflexively, against the sound. The music ended, and replacing it was a man's voice, unmistakably...

"Firstly, Oriental news: Our Chink friends over at China seem to be on the rise again. With the rise of pro-communist activity there, we can be sure to see more and more riots. And to that I say, good luck and kung fu some of the oppressors for me, will you?"

Xing snorted. What a properly Western way to over-simplify anything happening overseas. There was far more than riots going on, and gong-fu would certainly not solve any of it. The puppet government was falling apart, thanks to the revolutionaries working away at the threads of bribes and connections which kept the rat-faced politicians marginally loyal to each other. But perhaps it was better that the people here were clearly unaware of it. If too-critical information reached the French or the British, who still maintained some semblance of control-- and nearly all the economic gains-- of China, then the independence efforts would all go to shit. They'd have to start all over again. And Xing was not ready to pull those kinds of favors so soon after she'd just paid a spy's way into the Governor's office. She shuddered.

"...Hung that slob off a lightpost for all to see! Not only that but it seems that people are starting tooooo.... You guessed it, riot! Throwing a hissy fit at the oppressors themselves!"

The announcer seemed to be deriving far too much amusement at this. Riots and murders were not a laughing matter. Xing sighed, a serious air settling over her. Violence was not a source of humor. But it was symbolic. She thought back to the protests in the streets of Hong Kong, which had quickly grown volatile after riot police stormed the city square. A thousand faces that looked like her own. Twisted in screams and fury, demanding freedom. A list of casualties that was longer than any scroll would allow, stretching, growing, while she was here, living in an apartment of luxury, dining with handsome men whose names she didn't care to remember. Back-door meetings with people who had supposedly been offed, revolutionaries she was tasked with hiding.

Irritated, she reached for her tea. Xing tuned the rest of the radio announcement out as she drank from her cup, still warm since it had arrived minutes ago. She set it down just as the man mentioned that he needed to "scoot fast," because "this is a whole lot of shebang." (No matter how prestigious her English tutor's titles, Xing had to accept the reality that she would simply never master the language. There seemed to be fifty new words every day, whether they were sounds she'd never heard before or words used in the wrong context or conglomerates of noises that didn't seem to make much sense without the context of a full sentence.) "You can come if you want, Missy, but I can't your safety."

"Wh-what?" Xing blinked, alarmed at the exchange of arms right before her eyes. She unconsciously scooted back slightly. It wasn't uncommon for her male companions to carry weapons, but usually they were smaller, sleeker, more concealed, like under a suit jacket or something-- not passed around in the middle of a diner. Guarantee my safety? she thought, a smidge hysterically, Well, you look like you're about to guarantee something. A twinge of heat raced through her limbs. Excitement. Oh, god, this would be one hell of a day off. She could be blown to bits or she could go home and talk to a robot for the rest of the day. The first was clearly the more favorable option.

She grabbed the biscuits from the plate before she stood, replacing them with several bills.

Any proper young woman would tell you that following an older male stranger wherever he went was a foolish thing to do. Especially right after he'd just been tossed a gun. But Xing, against her better judgement and every bone in her body, did so anyway. The only person who would mind was Monsieur, and he wasn't so much a person as he was a body of copper with a curiously-developing personality. Well, there was her step-father, too, but he was miles across the Atlantic and couldn't do anything even if he wanted to. So Xing ran and did her best to keep up with the man, clutching her breakfast in her hands, though her shoes weren't exactly best equipped for hurrying on the sidewalk.

"Sir-- sir, where are we going?!"

Elephantom

 

[Historical Storyteller]

State Army
​

After hearing of the Vox Populus broadcast, most soldiers have already started scrambling back to Doolittle Army Base. Odysseus, the city's most wanted terrorist had just made a broadcast and that could only mean one thing; trouble. The people of Atlanta city had long been acquainted with Odysseus' antics, he seemed to not only be a revolutionary but a showman as well. Usually if he made grand speeches like these he was likely to make a big move today. The man was crazy for sure but he was still a little predictable, not that he made any attempts to hide his intentions anyway.

Out on the streets soldiers were cramming themselves inside taxis, much to the protests of the drivers, to get back to Doolittle Army Base as soon as possible. Soldiers who had no choice but to go on foot made one mad dash to the base. Not many of the soldiers brought their weapons with them, they were only equipped with pistols and trench knives at most. This was supposed to be the day they could take their minds off the safety of the city at the moment and now it had to be interrupted by some terrorist.

Doolittle Army Base housed three Mark VIII tanks for emergencies, the city was teeming with revolutionaries and these tanks were stationed here to ensure Atlanta would remain in the Collective's hands. These Mark VIII tanks were armed with five Browning M1917 machine guns but they do not carry the standard 57mm primary cannon since most thought it was overkill.

The State Army was not going to use these tanks today. Many hoped that they would never have to use them at all. Only if the city was under heavy siege or if the riots spread throughout the entire city would the Army be forced to utilize these deadly machines of war.

Instead, the Army was going to form into platoons of fifteen men each, arm them with rifles, and fire warning shots into the air. Lots and lots of warning shots. This was pretty much the standard fare of the State Army, nobody wanted to have to kill people especially civilians. Politicians and their constituents would throw a fit whenever the Army produced an ugly situation so the Army was careful to not cause trouble.

Sergeant Guy Focker: A Mexican standoff.
​

A bearded madman armed with a rifle crashed headfirst into the crowd demanding tea. The lunatic bashed the head of a nearby man with the butt of his rifle, reloaded his rifle in only a few seconds and took a wild shot aimed to kill another man. Guy expected the loon to score a headshot but instead the bullet rebounded off that man's skull and zipped all over the place until it hit Remy's guts. The poor sot staggered and let his back fall on the steel wall for support and he waved his gun around at the crowd to discourage them from approaching him. He didn't want them to have any funny ideas.

Guy decided to give the angry mob one more chance to disperse, "Enough is enough, go back to your homes now or-"

He was promptly cut off when the gunman shot a woman in the head. The fool had scared half of the angry mob out of their wits and they looked ready to run away while the other half of the angry mob sought to avenge their fallen comrade and quickly rushed to tear the gunman a new asshole. Before these attackers could lay their hands on Remy, Guy froze them in their tracks by firing even more warning shots then aimed his gun at them.

This was it, the moment of truth. "This is your last warning to all of you. There will be no lynchings and there will certainly be no more shootings. Failure to abide by these requirements will result in immediate death. Go home or go to hell."

The western side riots had produced a curious situation indeed. There was a Mexican standoff between the State Army, the gunman named Remy, the angry mob, and the bearded madman. All of them seemed ready to strike the moment the other side made their move.

At that moment, an old man with a shotgun followed by this Oriental girl raised the stakes even further. Great, just when things could not get any worse. Guy did not know if they were as crazy as the bearded madman or if they were concerned citizens aiding the State Army. Whoever they were, Guy thought they only added to the chaos of the western side riots.

Goddamn it, what the fuck do you think you're doing?

 

[Kloudy]

The Kronos Collective

It was a tense moment.
For but a brief second did the man completely freeze, stopped dead in his tracks. A vein struggled to pulse painfully on man's temple, the roughly shaven face and thick, prescripted glasses with the beginnings of grey in his hair revealing almost 40 years of life lived. An achievement for some, a milestone for others. Such words and ideals did not exist in this man's mind at the time, however. Instead, his brain contained and confusing scramble of numbers, a mad dash of sounds and flashing images of light that danced across his sight as his very identity was invaded. It was a break from all the political talk, a break from all the riots, a break from murder and a break from discrimination and prejudice. It was a break of the soul as the middle-aged man suddenly jumpstarted back to life like a man restored from death, coughing and spluttering about as his hands groped for something to support himself with. To the unpractised eye, he looked to be a heavy smoker or a BLISS user that had taken it too far. On closer inspection, one would notice the lack of injected eyes and deformed body failure. The man was as physically healthy as the next street-goer. And yet he staggered forward as he struggled for breath as if he were a fish on land, a soldier in enemy territory.

Of course, the man was not the only one confused and that wasn't including the disgusted and disapproving passerbys that cast glares and frowns in his direction for disrupting the peace. Not that there was much peace around here lately. But the one entity that was truly the most confused was the one that now resided within the man himself. It was an odd idea to fathom, how could two people exist within one body at once? Science and medicine simply hadn't come that far. And that was correct. What had happened, though, was more of a temporary replacement. The consciousness that had resided within the man's body was gone and in its place now existed an evil so inherently catastrophic that it didn't even knows itself that it was evil, or at least in the eyes of the public, should its existence be known: The Kronos Collective, an artificially created being with no body of its own, yet a powerful mind that chose its domain upon will alone. It was easier to believe it to possess a BLISS ability, but there was apparently no drugs involved. There was nothing organic to inject it into. Or so it would seem anyway, currently what was occurring was the first test trial of the subject Kronos C-1, the first live trial to date of an artificial intelligence. There was a lot of animosity and fear surrounding the participation and activation of this experiment; what if it went terribly wrong? It would and it had, but those back at the lab didn't know it yet.

The hijacked man finally came to a stop as he walked directly into another man who seemed to be in a hurry and was being followed by some Asian lady. The older gentlemen have no reaction to having stumbled with his strange limp into the other, instead he desperately grabbed the person's lapel and hoarsely whispered in horror, "What... Am... I...?" There was a brief pause and some sniffling before the terrifyingly doomed man continued, "K... Kro.... nn.... nos..."It was all that was allowed before blood began steaming from his nose and he collapsed, a pool of blood growing from where his head had hit the pavement. People started looking on in shock and a small crowd had gathered, believing it to perhaps be another one of those murders the radio had spoken of. The now-dead man didn't seem to be anyone important, but his demeanour had been... disturbing. They said that dead men told no tales and when one started walking, well, there was definitely something sinister behind it. Something that could be only described by the words the unfortunate dying human had uttered before departing to the afterlife, "Kronos," a word that simply sounded evil just to hear. It was the name of an evil Titan that had given birth to 6 gods. He had subsequently eaten his children for the suspicion that they would usurp and kill him one day. And so The Kronos Collective was birthed.

Elephantom xenforo_design

 

[Elephantom]

Riots were scarce in New Atlanta, and even scarcer in the greater precipice. Clay supposed, and he supposed so right now, about the difficulties that were bending down time itself — riots weren't supposed to happen, even if the overseer were to meet an untimely death. To a concerned citizen like Clay, who was happening to see such destruction for the first time since the great war, it was unacceptable. The incompetence of the regulators were hardly unbelievable — for they were a bumbling lot — but the fact that the civilians couldn't keep their cool amidst rough straits could be seen as a certain shock. Massive shock, to be precise. Clay had certain hopes. The common men drawing out their personal armaments, letting loose a few shots over about the air, shouts among the sorely improvised deaths; all drowned underneath the prospect of riot. Gun control had yet to exist, and it was a highly improbable subject, at that. Nevertheless, to call it stylish, would be a bizarre folly — taste was probably the last thing the people had in mind, if they had it at all.

The state army was present yet unable to keep their resolve straight, a wounded man there too, slumping against the wall. He looked familiar, but in his haggard state, it was difficult to determine properly. There, in the awful interlude he created as he arrived, appeared a brief moment of peace, courtesy to the high rank bimbo that led the sickly platoon. The bimbo was infuriated, it seemed. Most men tend to get easily infuriated, most men that included him.

Everything was shit.

The pavement, displaying gallantry even in the face of death, was tainted with blood and gore; stray animals scuttled about, finding their own way out of the chaotic streets; the sky was despondent, a dismal slate of gray with only the slightest ripple that indicated clouds. Clay was tempted to shrug off the mindless anarchy, and do his job — a job which he himself had yet to know of properly. It mostly dealt with matters such as the radio: roughing up the operators seemed a likable notion, and lending a good pair of eye on the matter that were occurring before him. Not that it would do any help, of course — he wasn't the city's greatest diplomat. Hell, he wasn't a diplomat at all.

Diplomats are people who diffuse certain situations. He was the kind of person who made shit more complex.

There are differences.

~

Wherever trouble went, Clay went there too.

Or the other way around.

Same thing.

In the distance, and visible to Clay only via the fringes of his peripheral vision, a man was coughing like it was the last thing he was doing. Blood soon followed, and it became apparent that he was extremely sick. The man, old enough like himself, vomited up a storm like a cat spewing out its guts after vegetable found its way into its daily fish scrounging.

Sad but true.

And in a strong joie de fivre à la ecstasy fit, without any hint of panache whatsoever, the man dashed towards Clay — as if the others before him, the state army and all, weren't quite present and only he seemed tangible. The gun had been held afore him, and as the man bumped into him letting out his final croak, Clay instinctively pressed the trigger. As the man muttered out some cryptic sentences, a loud wail of screaming pellets and Clay had shot off the man's junk.

Carte Blanche, as they say.

It was bloody and mostly disgusting — but to Clay, it was unsurprising. He saw it once when he was in the army, but it happened to be the least of his concerns. It was the least of his concerns now too, for his jacket had been tainted by blood, grime and sinewy vomit.

“Fuck!” He exclaimed, shoving the man towards the ground more out of sudden shock — and temporary grief from the ruination of his best clothes — than anything. Nobody just vomits face-first onto a person, especially while saying random shit.

Still, he was his fucking Sunday best, ruined by some shitty motherfucker.

Once Clay was certain that he had gained his cool, and he had done so by repeatedly stomping the ground, he checked the man again. He sure was dead, no use arguing with that fact — and a ridiculous argument it would be. He was dead all right.

Straightening his resolve, Clay nudged him with his toes. He was a concerned citizen, but not concerned when it came to, eh, dead bodies. He knelt down the ground, examining him a bit more properly.

He was as good as dead, and maybe, Clay had killed him. If he wasn't all that very sick in the first place.

xenforo_design
Kloudy

~

Remy was wounded — and the wound wasn't of the good kind. He was shot in his abdomen, slightly down, slightly left, near his kidney. His body expelled blood at a mildly worrying rate; his fidgety hand shook, and his eyes wavered — his attention began to waver too. His gun's aim stood even though, marking only-god-knows-what. Hell, his vision was too blurred to see properly.

The pistol he held in his hand slowly slipped out from his grip, landing on the sullen ground with a thud. His numb hand, growing even more numb by the second, fell limp beside him.

His vision soon blackened, or rather, a strange sort of sleepiness decided to take control of his mind. And his eyelids too, as one could imagine.

Not good at all, he knew, but there existed things men couldn't control. Things they can't control all that rightly…

Historical Storyteller

 

[Historical Storyteller]

Guy Focker: Save yourselves!
​

Jesus Christ, this old man has anger management issues. Guy had just witnessed an old man with a shotgun blast a man to kingdom come after said man vomited on his best suit. Whoever this man was, Guy was going to have to put out an arrest for this bastard. Nobody was going cowboy cop on his watch. This wasn't the Wild West, buster, no this was Atlanta city and it had rules to follow. And if he thought being a senior citizen gave him the right to shoot a man's prick off then he was going to go to the big house where thugs like him belonged. Atlanta city didn't need problems like him, Atlanta city needed people who could make the world a better place. It was just too bad that the city didn't have as much good people as it should have.

If he didn't have his hands tied he would have taught this sucker a lesson in violence.

But Guy had to restrain himself for now, he had a much bigger problem on his hands. There was a full-blown riot right in front of him and he wondered how the hell he was going to keep these wild monkeys under control. Quite a number of the rioters were armed and dangerous, and if Guy wasn't careful the possibility of death was real. For now, he had to reconsider his options and he had to decide now before time ran out. Guy took a close look at the rioters before making his move and see what he could find. The results were not pretty. An estimated number of ninety people out of a crowd of a hundred twenty had firearms, every single one of them posed a significant threat to him.

Not good. Guy thought now was the best time to run was now, but he had to do it in a way that wouldn't attract notice from the riot. The problem was that every single person here had their eyes fixated on Guy and his soldiers. While they had limited success in drawing attention away from the gunman Remy, he had managed to piss off nearly a hundred angry gun owners in the process. His warnings did not appear to have much effect on the riot, in fact, all he did was forestall the inevitable. Soon, the riot was going to get out of control again, but this time the rioters were going to target Guy and his exhausted men.

It was at this time, Guy decided to try one last ploy before calling it quits. He adopted a solemn tone and then he spoke with a grand voice.

"Stop, I want everyone to stop and think. Think about what you are doing for Christ's sake. I want to ask you if this is who you really are. I want to know if you are really are human beings or if you are just savages. Do you really want to kill another man in cold blood without a single thought? Do you seriously think you are going to come clean out of this riot after ruining so many people's lives? Do you think God will forgive you? Do you think the Collective will give you mercy? Do you think any man on Earth will protect you from the wrath of God and the power of the Collective? I will speak some sense into you so that you can save yourselves before it's too late."

Guy softened his voice, he wanted to show that he was one of them.

"I speak to you not as a Citizen of the Collective, not as a taxpayer, not as a soldier of the State army, but I speak to you as a man with blood in his veins. I don't know why you are so angry at the Collective, so angry at the world, and so angry at God. But I swear that that same anger will do you no good. That anger will destroy you because God and the Collective will destroy you. So please, I will tell you one last time to go home."

It was at this time, Guy began to break into tears and now he was practically begging the riot to stop. He couldn't hold back the sudden surge of emotions that was hidden deep inside his heart. It just sort of came out of nowhere, but he knew what it was. It was all of his memories of the atrocities of the Collective during his last nine years of military service. He could recall seeing the concentration camps, where people had to eat each other to survive. He saw the Collective rounding up dissidents in Europe and making them dig up their own graves. He was forced to kill an entire family after they were suspected of espionage.

More and more memories sprung up from his mind until he could not process them all at once. But each memory that came back to him was so full of emotions that he started to cry violently. The sight of a soldier suddenly losing it and sobbing right in front of them must have been shocking to most people. Most thought a soldier was a mindless robot that followed orders, but now the people could see the humanity in this particular soldier.

"Please, don't do this to yourselves. I don't want anyone to get hurt. Never in my nine years of service in the Army have I wished anyone harm. I know the Collective and I have seen what they do to people who do not obey. If you do not leave this riot now, you will never leave. If you ever wanted to die, I swear that what is coming next will make you wish you were never born. If you want to stay, I will say that nothing can save you now."