qoou
Emperor
- Joined
- Dec 13, 2007
- Messages
- 1,991
Mutant NES: The Rising
- Thread starter Karalysia
- Start date
SKILORD
Insurgent
((OOC: Screw snow))
Raul speaks English without an accent, he has spent years developing a more guttural enunciation that comes off as the work of a native speaker. The theory was simple, one less reason to ask about paperwork. He is also gregarious, addressing strangers on the ferry as the harbor and trying to understand the people and also just to look normal.
Just your average law abiding human. Not an illegal immigrant. Not a mutant.
Raul isn't ashamed about either of those facets of himself, quite to the contrary, but he also knows that they come with some serious political repercussions. One of these strangers is the first to tell him about the Subway.
Police are still looking for the girl, the old man had finished. Raul was calm and acted with the utmost deference to the older man despite his outrageous statements about dangerous strangers who could shock you with lightning and walk through walls and were all intending to harm him personally.
Go in peace, Raul shook his hand, made eye contact before shifting it downwards. New Yorkers have a reputation for ill spirits, and Raul knows that this man is a tourist, but even so he has found that a humility and respect did a lot to break down walls even in hardened Manhattanites, Serve the Lord.
The radio in his small, unassuming two door has better information, although it is all just as prejudiced. A description, this girl with a hoodie, NYU seemed as good a place as any to start, and Raul begins driving to their library, Bobst, a brick building on the campus, still open, he flashes a smile to the guard at the front and mumbles the name of a Professor in the English Department and comments about him being a slave-driver. The guard doesn't bat an eye. New York, Raul smiles, is a wide open playground if you research enough to drop the right names.
He sits in the back, watching the other patrons. In half an hour he moves to the next floor. He glances through a Spanish language edition of Don Quixote.
Chivalry is dead. Second floor.
On the second floor there is a table full of students either involved in an ill timed study session or furtively playing a role playing game, the steady occasional click of dice dominates the half hour. Raul pages through a National Geographic full of spectacular aerial photographs of canyons and gulches.
On the third floor all the lights are much brighter, and there is only one person. She sulks in her hoodie, and Raul represses a smile, there is no need to show emotion as if he is excited to have captured her, she will be frightened and probably paranoid enough.
He sits down across from her and notices that her mascara has run, she gives him a single frightened glance and starts to push her chair back, Raul holds up his hand, Wait.
For some reason she does.
When the future arrives, the first instinct has always been to feed it's heralds to the lions, he says, It is a shame that people do this, but it has never stopped the future from happening.
What?
Christians in Roman times, people who promoted democracy in Europe when there were Kings there, or Communism when there were Tsars. Persecution has an extremely poor record, if you look at it as a goal oriented strategy.
What? She clearly does not know what to think about all of this. He simply frowns.
There was an organization in Uruguay in the sixties, they called themselves the Tupamaros and they committed public protests to advance a social agenda.
Like what?
Shut down corporate headquarters, they got pretty militant and started robbing banks to throw the money in the streets, kidnapping CIA agents and Government officials.
Why are you telling me this?
Nobody chooses to spend their Holidays in the library. There are people in this country who exert a lot of influence, and because of that they fear a future where the important dynamics have changed. They will persecute the future wherever they see it, feed us all to the lions.
You want to rob banks?
Raul shakes his head, and chuckles, Hardly, I'm not in it for the money.
Yeah right.
Raul pulls a lead slug, a coin shaped piece of scrap metal that isn't even reliable in vending machines these days, out of his pocket. He shows it to her perched between his fingers, I find that value, and the coin flashes yellow in an instant, glittering in the too bright, power surging, lights of the third floor, Is an extremely relative concept.
He slides the coin across the desk, along with a small card only big enough for ten digits. Raul stands and turns to the stairs.
What happened to those bank robbers? she asks.
He chuckles, Brought on twenty years of dictatorship devoted to exterminating them. But then again the last two presidents have been former members. Go in Peace.
Raul speaks English without an accent, he has spent years developing a more guttural enunciation that comes off as the work of a native speaker. The theory was simple, one less reason to ask about paperwork. He is also gregarious, addressing strangers on the ferry as the harbor and trying to understand the people and also just to look normal.
Just your average law abiding human. Not an illegal immigrant. Not a mutant.
Raul isn't ashamed about either of those facets of himself, quite to the contrary, but he also knows that they come with some serious political repercussions. One of these strangers is the first to tell him about the Subway.
Police are still looking for the girl, the old man had finished. Raul was calm and acted with the utmost deference to the older man despite his outrageous statements about dangerous strangers who could shock you with lightning and walk through walls and were all intending to harm him personally.
Go in peace, Raul shook his hand, made eye contact before shifting it downwards. New Yorkers have a reputation for ill spirits, and Raul knows that this man is a tourist, but even so he has found that a humility and respect did a lot to break down walls even in hardened Manhattanites, Serve the Lord.
The radio in his small, unassuming two door has better information, although it is all just as prejudiced. A description, this girl with a hoodie, NYU seemed as good a place as any to start, and Raul begins driving to their library, Bobst, a brick building on the campus, still open, he flashes a smile to the guard at the front and mumbles the name of a Professor in the English Department and comments about him being a slave-driver. The guard doesn't bat an eye. New York, Raul smiles, is a wide open playground if you research enough to drop the right names.
He sits in the back, watching the other patrons. In half an hour he moves to the next floor. He glances through a Spanish language edition of Don Quixote.
Chivalry is dead. Second floor.
On the second floor there is a table full of students either involved in an ill timed study session or furtively playing a role playing game, the steady occasional click of dice dominates the half hour. Raul pages through a National Geographic full of spectacular aerial photographs of canyons and gulches.
On the third floor all the lights are much brighter, and there is only one person. She sulks in her hoodie, and Raul represses a smile, there is no need to show emotion as if he is excited to have captured her, she will be frightened and probably paranoid enough.
He sits down across from her and notices that her mascara has run, she gives him a single frightened glance and starts to push her chair back, Raul holds up his hand, Wait.
For some reason she does.
When the future arrives, the first instinct has always been to feed it's heralds to the lions, he says, It is a shame that people do this, but it has never stopped the future from happening.
What?
Christians in Roman times, people who promoted democracy in Europe when there were Kings there, or Communism when there were Tsars. Persecution has an extremely poor record, if you look at it as a goal oriented strategy.
What? She clearly does not know what to think about all of this. He simply frowns.
There was an organization in Uruguay in the sixties, they called themselves the Tupamaros and they committed public protests to advance a social agenda.
Like what?
Shut down corporate headquarters, they got pretty militant and started robbing banks to throw the money in the streets, kidnapping CIA agents and Government officials.
Why are you telling me this?
Nobody chooses to spend their Holidays in the library. There are people in this country who exert a lot of influence, and because of that they fear a future where the important dynamics have changed. They will persecute the future wherever they see it, feed us all to the lions.
You want to rob banks?
Raul shakes his head, and chuckles, Hardly, I'm not in it for the money.
Yeah right.
Raul pulls a lead slug, a coin shaped piece of scrap metal that isn't even reliable in vending machines these days, out of his pocket. He shows it to her perched between his fingers, I find that value, and the coin flashes yellow in an instant, glittering in the too bright, power surging, lights of the third floor, Is an extremely relative concept.
He slides the coin across the desk, along with a small card only big enough for ten digits. Raul stands and turns to the stairs.
What happened to those bank robbers? she asks.
He chuckles, Brought on twenty years of dictatorship devoted to exterminating them. But then again the last two presidents have been former members. Go in Peace.
Haseri
Emperor
Name: Stephen Hunter
Age: 30
Occupation: TSA worker in JFK airport
Location: Queens, NYC
Physical Description: Bald Caucasian, slightly overweight
Mutant Powers/Abilities: Mind Reader. However, mutants with mind-altering powers are blank to him.
Other Skills: Basic security stuff that comes with the training.
Possessions: Stun gun, TSA security pass
Injuries: None
Affiliation: None
Followers: 0
Background: Had leukaemia as child. Survived, but he doesn't have a hair on his body. Stephen's power manifested while in middle school - imagine as a teenager suddenly finding out exactly what your friends, your teachers and even the person you fancied thought of you. After a brief flirtation with deep depression, Stephen was determined to make it work. Throughout high school and college he was the best friend and partner anyone could ask for, though he kept his power secret.
With his power, Stephen knew he was going to go into law enforcement. However the police didn't want him. They said it was medical thing, but Stephen suspected it was because he was a mutant. So he went to work with the TSA, and now checks people coming through. Despite considerable success (he once stopped a terrorist that had slipped past everything else), he has meagre pay and is abused constantly by people saying he's 'infringing on their liberties' by probing their minds.
However, he puts up with it for two reasons. The first is the occasional person who thanks him for his job. The second is his wife, Lauren, who is also a mutant. Her 'power' is a rather awful one. To most people who see her, she is no more than an object. Guys (and girls) that see her can usually think of nothing else for a while. They undress her with their minds and feature heavily in 'alone time' fantasies, if Stephen's friends are anything to go by.
To Stephen, however, her looks are nothing special. Not terrible but certainly not head-turning like other people say. And she loves the fact she's found somebody that's interested in her for more than her looks. And he can't read her mind, so he can relax with her after a long day of listening to other people's thoughts. It's an odd relationship, yes, but they've been married for 4 years now, and been together for 10, so something must be going right.
Age: 30
Occupation: TSA worker in JFK airport
Location: Queens, NYC
Physical Description: Bald Caucasian, slightly overweight
Mutant Powers/Abilities: Mind Reader. However, mutants with mind-altering powers are blank to him.
Other Skills: Basic security stuff that comes with the training.
Possessions: Stun gun, TSA security pass
Injuries: None
Affiliation: None
Followers: 0
Background: Had leukaemia as child. Survived, but he doesn't have a hair on his body. Stephen's power manifested while in middle school - imagine as a teenager suddenly finding out exactly what your friends, your teachers and even the person you fancied thought of you. After a brief flirtation with deep depression, Stephen was determined to make it work. Throughout high school and college he was the best friend and partner anyone could ask for, though he kept his power secret.
With his power, Stephen knew he was going to go into law enforcement. However the police didn't want him. They said it was medical thing, but Stephen suspected it was because he was a mutant. So he went to work with the TSA, and now checks people coming through. Despite considerable success (he once stopped a terrorist that had slipped past everything else), he has meagre pay and is abused constantly by people saying he's 'infringing on their liberties' by probing their minds.
However, he puts up with it for two reasons. The first is the occasional person who thanks him for his job. The second is his wife, Lauren, who is also a mutant. Her 'power' is a rather awful one. To most people who see her, she is no more than an object. Guys (and girls) that see her can usually think of nothing else for a while. They undress her with their minds and feature heavily in 'alone time' fantasies, if Stephen's friends are anything to go by.
To Stephen, however, her looks are nothing special. Not terrible but certainly not head-turning like other people say. And she loves the fact she's found somebody that's interested in her for more than her looks. And he can't read her mind, so he can relax with her after a long day of listening to other people's thoughts. It's an odd relationship, yes, but they've been married for 4 years now, and been together for 10, so something must be going right.
das
Regeneration In Process
Would "Michael" qualify?
I'll try and work on a starter story tommorow I suppose.
Haseri
Emperor
Yes, he would be blank.
DarthNader
Destroyer of Worlds
Pour another Fedya, don't leave my glass empty.
The blond-haired man with a chiseled face refilled the man's glass with vodka.
We're nearly out of pelmeni. Karak, you want me to go to store?
Neh, we have enough of this bread and cheese for the night.
Whatever you say Karak. I has no preferences.
The sky was dark, and that meant the two would meet for a drink, a meal, and some conversation. It was a tradition they had. Two friends, a case of vodka, and their thoughts...it couldn't be simpler.
So, how's life driving your little taksi Karak? You roll in the big cash today?
F*** you Fedya. Just because I'm legit doesn't mean I can't make money.
Ah, you're such a funny guy my friend. But, how does you expect me to believes you can make any money driving stupid tourists around Manhattan, eh?
Tourists don't know what they pay, Fedya. I can get twice the fare off a unsuspecting tourist then I get off some local.
The two shared laughed a hearty laugh.
What, you gauge? I guess that makes you a possible politician back in the old country. Would you charge me such high prices?
Hell, if I saw you I would drive away as fast as possible. If I gave you a ride, I'd assume my cab would get shot up.
Fedya laughed. He knew exactly what his friend spoke of. Many a man hated him for a number of reasons. Fedya Volkov was in the KGB with Bronislav, but he operated mainly in Smolensk. And, like Bronislav, he served in the FSB after the Soviet Union collapsed. Not only did he have enemies in Russia, but he had enemies in the US as well because his work was less than...acceptable.
You know, Karak, you could always join us. A man with talents such as yours is always an asset. And besides, you would make much more money. Maybe buy nice car so you don't have to drive that yellow pile of s***.
Eh, I don't know. Maybe if things get tight, I might join the Bratva. But, you know...I'm not a fan of having all those tattoos.
You grow to like them.
Fedya stood up from his chair and staggered towards the counter. He picked up the gun and tucked it in his pants. As he moved towards the door, he heard the crash of one of the several empty bottles on the table hitting the floor.
S***. I'm sorry, let me clean that up.
No, Fedya. I'll take care of it.
Fedya nodded and opened the door. As he hung in the door frame he turned back to his friend.
You know, the offer is always on the table. Working for us would mean you could live up to your name again.
I know, I know. Don't you fall down the stairs this time, ok Fedya.
No worries! Do svidaniya, Karak!
The door slammed and Bronislav could hear Fedya trying his damnedest to make it down the hall and down the three flights of stairs. Hopefully he wouldn't knock over old lady Tancheva this time.
As the night continued, Bronislav wondered about Fedya's proposal. Perhaps now was the time to seriously consider the offer.
The blond-haired man with a chiseled face refilled the man's glass with vodka.
We're nearly out of pelmeni. Karak, you want me to go to store?
Neh, we have enough of this bread and cheese for the night.
Whatever you say Karak. I has no preferences.
The sky was dark, and that meant the two would meet for a drink, a meal, and some conversation. It was a tradition they had. Two friends, a case of vodka, and their thoughts...it couldn't be simpler.
So, how's life driving your little taksi Karak? You roll in the big cash today?
F*** you Fedya. Just because I'm legit doesn't mean I can't make money.
Ah, you're such a funny guy my friend. But, how does you expect me to believes you can make any money driving stupid tourists around Manhattan, eh?
Tourists don't know what they pay, Fedya. I can get twice the fare off a unsuspecting tourist then I get off some local.
The two shared laughed a hearty laugh.
What, you gauge? I guess that makes you a possible politician back in the old country. Would you charge me such high prices?
Hell, if I saw you I would drive away as fast as possible. If I gave you a ride, I'd assume my cab would get shot up.
Fedya laughed. He knew exactly what his friend spoke of. Many a man hated him for a number of reasons. Fedya Volkov was in the KGB with Bronislav, but he operated mainly in Smolensk. And, like Bronislav, he served in the FSB after the Soviet Union collapsed. Not only did he have enemies in Russia, but he had enemies in the US as well because his work was less than...acceptable.
You know, Karak, you could always join us. A man with talents such as yours is always an asset. And besides, you would make much more money. Maybe buy nice car so you don't have to drive that yellow pile of s***.
Eh, I don't know. Maybe if things get tight, I might join the Bratva. But, you know...I'm not a fan of having all those tattoos.
You grow to like them.
Fedya stood up from his chair and staggered towards the counter. He picked up the gun and tucked it in his pants. As he moved towards the door, he heard the crash of one of the several empty bottles on the table hitting the floor.
S***. I'm sorry, let me clean that up.
No, Fedya. I'll take care of it.
Fedya nodded and opened the door. As he hung in the door frame he turned back to his friend.
You know, the offer is always on the table. Working for us would mean you could live up to your name again.
I know, I know. Don't you fall down the stairs this time, ok Fedya.
No worries! Do svidaniya, Karak!
The door slammed and Bronislav could hear Fedya trying his damnedest to make it down the hall and down the three flights of stairs. Hopefully he wouldn't knock over old lady Tancheva this time.
As the night continued, Bronislav wondered about Fedya's proposal. Perhaps now was the time to seriously consider the offer.
OOC: Hmmm, I'm probably not going to join except possibly to start a militant group or become a politician (before any detection technology comes around ^^), but I thought I should say that is a really nice map. Not perfect, but really great, best I've seen around here (not that I go looking).
SKILORD
Insurgent
You know, since this NES is closer to character driven role playing than the typical NES I really don't feel like there is a need for a map. If we did need a map it would probably be a streetmap of NYC (no offense to those who made characters elsewhere, just that so far it's totally the most populated area), but considering that political borders are not the defining characteristic of this game I am pretty sure it would be superfluous. Frankly it is probably a mistake for me to bother trying to reply to that post, sarcasm is difficcult to catch on the internet and I spent too much time trying to figure out a context in which your words made any sense. Having devoted such time to it already I cannot resist replying, but it's a mistake and I apologize.
Haseri
Emperor
The woman passing by him was having an affair her female secretary. She was planning on meeting up with her lover at an airport on the other side of the country, change names and re-marry. This was at the forefront of her mind, the largest in a cloud of thoughts. That's how Stephen saw everyone in the terminal. They all had clouds of thoughts hovering around their heads, each memory and idea a star in the neural galaxy. And the background music. You know that song that gets stuck in your head? That's what plays through your mind.
Everybody had a story to tell. It made Stephen quite philosophical on the human condition the fact that, most of the time, people were thinking about sex at the forefront of their minds. Sex with their partners, sex with people who weren't. Killing a cheating bast...
Wait.
Stephen's job was to monitor for terrorists, people planning on being here illegally, smugglers and people running away. Surprisingly, it would be an exciting month if he came across one. Possible criminals were to be noted down and passed upwards, then sideways to the NYPD or the FBI, depending on which way they were going. Made life a lot easier if they actually did bother with the crime to know that they were thinking about it.
Before home, there was time for a quick beer in the mutant bar. He didn't particularly like that one, as there was music and dancing that got a bit too personal and the patrons didn't wear enough, especially on a cold January night. But it was passable for the simple reason it was on the way home. And many people in the club were blank, which was soothing.
Then, he was home. Lauren and Stephen curl up on the sofa and talk about their days. Lauren works at a girl's high school where, in theory, her power would mean less embarrassment. It doesn't.
Everybody had a story to tell. It made Stephen quite philosophical on the human condition the fact that, most of the time, people were thinking about sex at the forefront of their minds. Sex with their partners, sex with people who weren't. Killing a cheating bast...
Wait.
Stephen's job was to monitor for terrorists, people planning on being here illegally, smugglers and people running away. Surprisingly, it would be an exciting month if he came across one. Possible criminals were to be noted down and passed upwards, then sideways to the NYPD or the FBI, depending on which way they were going. Made life a lot easier if they actually did bother with the crime to know that they were thinking about it.
Before home, there was time for a quick beer in the mutant bar. He didn't particularly like that one, as there was music and dancing that got a bit too personal and the patrons didn't wear enough, especially on a cold January night. But it was passable for the simple reason it was on the way home. And many people in the club were blank, which was soothing.
Then, he was home. Lauren and Stephen curl up on the sofa and talk about their days. Lauren works at a girl's high school where, in theory, her power would mean less embarrassment. It doesn't.
OOC: That's ok. It was just a genuine compliment of the map, which is the best I've seen around here. Transniestra is on it! (Andorra isn't delineated, but its capital is visible.)
I don't see why complimenting the map is out of context, it could be more relevant, but I also expressed I might join as a militant or politician.
Let's not post anymore on it though as I haven't joined, or joined yet.
Hmmm, the heck with it...:
Character Application
Name: Joergen Zimmerman
Age: 50
Occupation: Security Contractor
Location: New York State, Singular Security Inc.: West Texas
Physical Description: Tall Germanic Businessman
Mutant Powers/Abilities: Joergen has the ability to sense other mutants within a 1-mile proximity to himself, as well as suppress his own and other willing mutants' abilities and the detection of them for as much as 1 week at a time (after doing so it is not possible for an equal amount of time). He is also a mutant lie detector of humans and other mutants.
Other Skills: Financial Skills, Social Skills, Military Knowledge, Knowledge of how to run a Private Security Organization/Network
Possessions: 51% shareholder of Singular Security Inc. (Yearly Profit of 18 million USD and a total stock value of 216 million USD, The company has a slightly low P/E ratio due to being seen as risky) and a Swizz Bank Account (approximately 35 million USD in a mixed currency basket)
Injuries: None
Affiliation: US Citizen and Corporate Stockholder
Followers: Singular Security employs 2,500 US citizens and foreign nationals (50 of whom are secretly mutants and owe a special loyalty to Zimmerman as well as 200 other purely human employees with a similar loyalty: friends and family of the mutants trained and very well-paid to work with the mutants in the field)
Background: Zimmerman used to be a wealthy family man and alternative energy entreprenour in Germany until his latent abilities appeared at the age of thirtyfive. Curiously attracted to strange company he would find his new friends frequently attacked by mutant hate-groups until he finally understood that he could sense mutants, and that perhaps he was one himself as his intense wish for things to return to normal occasionally robbed him and his new friends of their powers. His life progressively more in ruins, he divorced and sold off his belongings and shares in German companies and emigrated with his more reliable mutant friends to the land of oppertunity. Once in America he established a Private Security Company as a hybrid organization legitimately contracting security under government regulations and secretly also a mercenary and special requests network, hiring out his mutant-enchanced strike teams and mutant friends' abilities to the government's intelligence organizations and private clients alike.
Singular Security Incorporated, statistics: Yearly Earnings 18 million USD, Total Stock Value: 216 million USD, 2500 employees, 1 Headquarters w/ Training Facilities in West Texas (including airstrip and a heavy vehicles course), 750 Private Security Contractors (50 mutants w/ 200 human partners), Small Arms, Body Armor & Squad Weapon Armory, 200 Armored SUVs, Jeeps, Up-armored Humvees and Armored Trucks, 6 M1126-Stryker APCs, 2 M-2 Bradley IFVs, 3 T-72 Tanks, 2 Mi-24 Gunships, 1 CHF-47F Chinook (that is an old refurbished Chinook, not a new one), 2 EMB-314 Super Tucano Turboprop Jets
(Not sure how much all the named stuff costs, but the Tucano's are about 9 million a pop new and the Chinook 8 million, so that's 25 million. The Mi-24s are 12 mill a piece, but that's if they're new so I could probably get both of them for 12 mill. (37), three new T-72s should be 6 mill. max. (43) The two Bradleys if the company was allowed to buy them should be 6 mill a piece (55), and the Strykers if we can buy them should be 9 million total... this all amounts to 64 million in heavy equipment. I suppose the light vehicles would cost roughly 20 million dollars while the base armory would probably come out to 15 million dollars, and the rest of the Headquarters and training facilities themselves something like 50 million dollars.)
SKILORD
Insurgent
((OOC: I'm putting up another story (something legitimately relevant to the thread) soon, but I wanted to establish this and apologize: When I joined this NES it didn't have a map and I did not realize that one had been added. Based on that I considered your original statement to be either totally sarcastic or a complete non sequitor. Now I look at the map and I realize that instead it was a genuine compliment of a genuinely nice map, sorry for getting on your case, I didn't realize it was going to be this sort of mistake.))
Also, that's a really good character.
Also, that's a really good character.
Hey, you couldn't know, and it was nice of you to keep your doubt open.
Thanks (for the compliment of my character). : )
Hopefully he'll be accepted and hopefully I will play him well.
PS. Love your thief! Feel free to call and ask Joergen Zimmerman for a job if your character knows him. ; )
Thanks (for the compliment of my character). : )
Hopefully he'll be accepted and hopefully I will play him well.
PS. Love your thief! Feel free to call and ask Joergen Zimmerman for a job if your character knows him. ; )
SKILORD
Insurgent
((OOC: We will have to figure out a way for the characters to meet, but I'm open to the idea))
Raul parks his car in a lot near to his apartment. There are problems to owning a car in New York, it is outlandishly expensive. Here in Washington Heights nobody but the drug dealers own a car, why bother, who can afford just to park? These are not concerns for Raul, frankly he doesnt care, and his own pockets are filled with gangster rolls brought from Cash for Gold pawn shops or websites.
In a vacant lot next to his building Raul picks up a brick, another worthless scrap in a city full of them. Nobody cares if the brick can organize well enough to create a building, and if it fails then it is just too bad.
Raul is familiar with all of the casual yanqui expressions for poverty, but he cant imagine why he bothered trying past the first one or two, he got the picture, its their own entire fault, if they really had wanted to make a living they would have had the foresight to be born rich and white.
Raul caresses the brick and watches it flash into Gold before he chucks it back into the pit.
Worthless.
Bullet shots ring out in the air. It is not an unfamiliar sound in this hood, and it is distant enough that Raul is not worried for his own safety. He simply worries that another life is being extinguished, probably not even for a good reason. If Raul had his way then he would turn all the guns into wood, he would turn all the bullets into foam, but Raul is nowhere near that powerful, except for his first desperate attempt he has never been able to transmute things outside of his line of sight, that he couldnt focus on at least a little.
Another brick, Gold, into the pit.
Buildings here in Washington heights are all falling apart, there are more than enough broken bricks. And the people who watch it happen from afar and never even consider making an investment into making things work or to protect the futures, they all blame the bricks for not holding together.
Another brick into Gold, tossed into the pit.
Youre a mutant, you are a slave, your European Ancestors mixed breeding with the American locals and the lineage has been polluted. You have been disqualified. You are a worthless bit of scrap humanity in a city of wealth and power.
Another brick.
Raul turns it to Gold, tosses it into the pit.
Now he has to go looking for the bricks, he has turned all of them on the top of the hill and he has to hold on as he slides just far enough to reach the next brick.
Gold, tossed into the pit.
Because, you know, Gold means something. Gold is valuable. Gold has exchange worth. Nobody ever explains what makes the Gold so much more valuable than the bricks. You cant build a city out of it. At least not since the Spaniards tore it all from the walls of Cuzco, Raul smiles to think that at least SOMEBODY used to have some goddamn perspective on the value of Gold.
Another brick into the pit, golden, perfect. Worthwhile.
Another.
Another.
Raul hopes that in the morning all of these bricks who live in all of these horsehockey little buildings will wake up to discover they have been turned to Gold. And he turns, to walk home.
Raul parks his car in a lot near to his apartment. There are problems to owning a car in New York, it is outlandishly expensive. Here in Washington Heights nobody but the drug dealers own a car, why bother, who can afford just to park? These are not concerns for Raul, frankly he doesnt care, and his own pockets are filled with gangster rolls brought from Cash for Gold pawn shops or websites.
In a vacant lot next to his building Raul picks up a brick, another worthless scrap in a city full of them. Nobody cares if the brick can organize well enough to create a building, and if it fails then it is just too bad.
Raul is familiar with all of the casual yanqui expressions for poverty, but he cant imagine why he bothered trying past the first one or two, he got the picture, its their own entire fault, if they really had wanted to make a living they would have had the foresight to be born rich and white.
Raul caresses the brick and watches it flash into Gold before he chucks it back into the pit.
Worthless.
Bullet shots ring out in the air. It is not an unfamiliar sound in this hood, and it is distant enough that Raul is not worried for his own safety. He simply worries that another life is being extinguished, probably not even for a good reason. If Raul had his way then he would turn all the guns into wood, he would turn all the bullets into foam, but Raul is nowhere near that powerful, except for his first desperate attempt he has never been able to transmute things outside of his line of sight, that he couldnt focus on at least a little.
Another brick, Gold, into the pit.
Buildings here in Washington heights are all falling apart, there are more than enough broken bricks. And the people who watch it happen from afar and never even consider making an investment into making things work or to protect the futures, they all blame the bricks for not holding together.
Another brick into Gold, tossed into the pit.
Youre a mutant, you are a slave, your European Ancestors mixed breeding with the American locals and the lineage has been polluted. You have been disqualified. You are a worthless bit of scrap humanity in a city of wealth and power.
Another brick.
Raul turns it to Gold, tosses it into the pit.
Now he has to go looking for the bricks, he has turned all of them on the top of the hill and he has to hold on as he slides just far enough to reach the next brick.
Gold, tossed into the pit.
Because, you know, Gold means something. Gold is valuable. Gold has exchange worth. Nobody ever explains what makes the Gold so much more valuable than the bricks. You cant build a city out of it. At least not since the Spaniards tore it all from the walls of Cuzco, Raul smiles to think that at least SOMEBODY used to have some goddamn perspective on the value of Gold.
Another brick into the pit, golden, perfect. Worthwhile.
Another.
Another.
Raul hopes that in the morning all of these bricks who live in all of these horsehockey little buildings will wake up to discover they have been turned to Gold. And he turns, to walk home.
das
Regeneration In Process
He appeared in the bad part of the city one day, apparently out of nowhere.
No one knew who he was or where he lived or what he did for a living. He must have found some place to stay, though – or maybe he kept moving from one vacant lot to another run-down hotel? In either case, every day, from earl y in the morning till late in the evening, people saw him all over the city: the man in the yellow rain-coat, who called himself “Mikael” – or more often, after encountering people’s confusion, “Michael”.
The man in the yellow rain-coat walked all over the city, but usually spent most of the time in the slums. He ate at the soup kitchens and listened to street preachers. He saw how people lived and he saw their destitution and despair. He saw wealth and luxury in some parts of the city, and poverty and violence and in others. And at all of that, he beamed and smiled.
He listened to the news, and sometimes asked strange questions; he had no accent, but nevertheless he seemed like a foreigner from how naively and innocently he asked them. He was curious about what was happening in the world and in the States. Was there a war coming? What would the President get along with the House of Representatives? Was it true that life was getting harder lately, and – did they need help?
And, of course, he asked about the mutants, but there was hardly anything odd about that. Who didn’t ask about the mutants these days? They had never left people’s attention since at least the Seventies, not really, but lately they had been all over the news, and people were divided – bitterly.
“So what do you think?” One of Michael’s unwitting informants once asked.
“I think that those who attack those people are wrong,” said Michael, smiling. “And so are those who defend them, and attack the attackers, saying that there is nothing to fear from those people.”
“Then who is right, wise guy?”
“God is right.”
“Get out!”
“He gave them miraculous powers and set them aside from the rest,” – smiled Michael, unperturbed – “Why shouldn’t people be scared of them? But to lash out against God’s Messengers is also a grave error.”
“Everyone will come to their senses soon enough, though,” – he added before leaving, the rest of the people in the dirty bar looking after him. What he said did not make much sense to them. But for some reason they could not help but feel that there was something to it they simply couldn’t understand.
As for Michael, his smile briefly faded as he stepped outside. He sighed, then smiled again and got back to work. He had a lot to do – he was working for two, after all. But he put his faith in God and in himself, and so he soldiered on.
No one knew who he was or where he lived or what he did for a living. He must have found some place to stay, though – or maybe he kept moving from one vacant lot to another run-down hotel? In either case, every day, from earl y in the morning till late in the evening, people saw him all over the city: the man in the yellow rain-coat, who called himself “Mikael” – or more often, after encountering people’s confusion, “Michael”.
The man in the yellow rain-coat walked all over the city, but usually spent most of the time in the slums. He ate at the soup kitchens and listened to street preachers. He saw how people lived and he saw their destitution and despair. He saw wealth and luxury in some parts of the city, and poverty and violence and in others. And at all of that, he beamed and smiled.
He listened to the news, and sometimes asked strange questions; he had no accent, but nevertheless he seemed like a foreigner from how naively and innocently he asked them. He was curious about what was happening in the world and in the States. Was there a war coming? What would the President get along with the House of Representatives? Was it true that life was getting harder lately, and – did they need help?
And, of course, he asked about the mutants, but there was hardly anything odd about that. Who didn’t ask about the mutants these days? They had never left people’s attention since at least the Seventies, not really, but lately they had been all over the news, and people were divided – bitterly.
“So what do you think?” One of Michael’s unwitting informants once asked.
“I think that those who attack those people are wrong,” said Michael, smiling. “And so are those who defend them, and attack the attackers, saying that there is nothing to fear from those people.”
“Then who is right, wise guy?”
“God is right.”
“Get out!”
“He gave them miraculous powers and set them aside from the rest,” – smiled Michael, unperturbed – “Why shouldn’t people be scared of them? But to lash out against God’s Messengers is also a grave error.”
“Everyone will come to their senses soon enough, though,” – he added before leaving, the rest of the people in the dirty bar looking after him. What he said did not make much sense to them. But for some reason they could not help but feel that there was something to it they simply couldn’t understand.
As for Michael, his smile briefly faded as he stepped outside. He sighed, then smiled again and got back to work. He had a lot to do – he was working for two, after all. But he put his faith in God and in himself, and so he soldiered on.
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Take a paper out of the official file. Fold it. Make a paper airplane with it. Let it fly.
Watch.
The boss comes by. A non-mutant in a supposedly all mutant organization. He thrusts a folder into my hands. Throws it, more like.
"You have a new job in NYC," the man barks. Wince, the physical enhancements that gave you your power also gave you a better sense of hearing and eyesight. See the individual spittles as it launches out of the boss's mouth in slow motion. Briefly nod.
Drive now. The capital city seems bleaker than usual. Perhaps because of all the picket signs in front of the Bureau of Mutant Affairs. Somebody throws a stone at the door. Some guards begin to move in, and you lose interest in the whole thing.
Do a little salute as you press the giant needle poking the eyes out of God.
Pass in silence near the graves of veterans.
Wonder if walking is faster than driving. It probably is for you at the very least.
Drive like a little spy sneaking into a foreign nation.
Drive for hours.
................................................................................................................................
"So," Sylvia, another field agent said as she flipped through the file in the car. "We are looking for a Caucasian Female, 5 foot 6." She shakes her head. "Jesus Christ, how many 5 foot 6 Caucasian females are in this city again?"
"How many of them shoots lightning?" you drone on sardonically. "Cute," Sylvia replies. She opens her palm. Electricity sparks between her fingers. "Wanna be shocked again, boyo?"
"Just saying," you reply hastily. "You sure you didn't do it?"
Sylvia sighs. "Oh no!" she suddenly yells sarcastically. "It seems you have got me! Yes! I confess! I confess that I was the one wearing that ridiculous NYU hoodie and accidentally sabotaged the entire NYC metro. I hope that the court will have mercy."
"It was a joke," you gruff. "It was a bad one," Sylvia replies.
You nod. You will give her that.
"Where are we going again?" Sylvia suddenly asks. "This would be where I get off the car. You go and find out what you can in the area the girl was found the last time. I will go and get the files off of the NYPD."
......................................................................................................................................
You examine your prize: a file on the case that you are working on. Currently requisitioned from the NYPD. They tried to pull off a BS with no mutants allowed, even authorized ones, in the headquarters without further instructions. Besides, it was always easier to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission.
Running on rooftops. It's what your power lets you do best anyways. The rush of air welcomes you.
The walkie-talkie crackles to life. "Cody? You there? It's Sylvia, I...umm...I just got some words from the NYPD. They say they want to know why somebody broke into their files. Uhh...this is gonna be hell when we get back to D.C."
You turn the machine off. Such things feel trivial. There's only 14 mutants working in the field for the Federal government anyways. Nobody was hurt. It's not as if they could fire you.
So run. In your mind, there's nothing left but the hunt.
Watch.
The boss comes by. A non-mutant in a supposedly all mutant organization. He thrusts a folder into my hands. Throws it, more like.
"You have a new job in NYC," the man barks. Wince, the physical enhancements that gave you your power also gave you a better sense of hearing and eyesight. See the individual spittles as it launches out of the boss's mouth in slow motion. Briefly nod.
Drive now. The capital city seems bleaker than usual. Perhaps because of all the picket signs in front of the Bureau of Mutant Affairs. Somebody throws a stone at the door. Some guards begin to move in, and you lose interest in the whole thing.
Do a little salute as you press the giant needle poking the eyes out of God.
Pass in silence near the graves of veterans.
Wonder if walking is faster than driving. It probably is for you at the very least.
Drive like a little spy sneaking into a foreign nation.
Drive for hours.
................................................................................................................................
"So," Sylvia, another field agent said as she flipped through the file in the car. "We are looking for a Caucasian Female, 5 foot 6." She shakes her head. "Jesus Christ, how many 5 foot 6 Caucasian females are in this city again?"
"How many of them shoots lightning?" you drone on sardonically. "Cute," Sylvia replies. She opens her palm. Electricity sparks between her fingers. "Wanna be shocked again, boyo?"
"Just saying," you reply hastily. "You sure you didn't do it?"
Sylvia sighs. "Oh no!" she suddenly yells sarcastically. "It seems you have got me! Yes! I confess! I confess that I was the one wearing that ridiculous NYU hoodie and accidentally sabotaged the entire NYC metro. I hope that the court will have mercy."
"It was a joke," you gruff. "It was a bad one," Sylvia replies.
You nod. You will give her that.
"Where are we going again?" Sylvia suddenly asks. "This would be where I get off the car. You go and find out what you can in the area the girl was found the last time. I will go and get the files off of the NYPD."
......................................................................................................................................
You examine your prize: a file on the case that you are working on. Currently requisitioned from the NYPD. They tried to pull off a BS with no mutants allowed, even authorized ones, in the headquarters without further instructions. Besides, it was always easier to ask for forgiveness than ask for permission.
Running on rooftops. It's what your power lets you do best anyways. The rush of air welcomes you.
The walkie-talkie crackles to life. "Cody? You there? It's Sylvia, I...umm...I just got some words from the NYPD. They say they want to know why somebody broke into their files. Uhh...this is gonna be hell when we get back to D.C."
You turn the machine off. Such things feel trivial. There's only 14 mutants working in the field for the Federal government anyways. Nobody was hurt. It's not as if they could fire you.
So run. In your mind, there's nothing left but the hunt.
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Inventory.
A pneumatic dart gun.
15 darts, 5 of which contain enough drugs to knock out a full adult human, 5 of which contain enough to knock out a lion, and 5 of which contain enough to knock out an elephant. Command loved to be sure.
A .50 caliber pistol.
2 clips of ammunition.
A black suit and a black tie, bought off a nearby clothing store for 40 dollars.
A phone cord borrowed from the same store.
A sunglass.
...................................................................................................................................
"What the heck are you doing, wearing that ridiculous suit?"
You glance at the nearby window. You are wearing the same black suit and a black tie that you bought off the store. "Do you really think," you said to Sylvia. "That it is ridiculous?"
"Yes!" Sylvia moaned. "First you steal some documents from the police, then you buy some suits from a street vendor or something?" she pauses. "The suits are a really bad one too, I might add."
"Oh, good," you answer. She blinks, and throws up her arms in resignation.
There are only a handful of field agents in the Bureau of Mutant Affairs. That meant that most agents worked with one another at least once in their career. When she worked with you the last time, she was much more energetic. But then again she was pretty new to this job.
"So," you say, changing the subject. "Did you find any leads in the metro?"
"No," Sylvia answer. "None at all."
You raise an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yeah really. Listen, it's been 2 days since the incident! Of course the trail goes cold there!"
You nod. That was sensible. "Anything else you found?"
"Except for a rumor of a governmental conspiracy to train electricity wielding mutants as saboteurs to wreak havoc on other countries like Zimbabwe, no."
"Ah,"
"But I found another lead."
"Where?"
"It is easier to show you than to tell you," she smirks. "Follow me."
.......................................................................................................................
"Your lead..." you intone emptily. "Brought us to Washington Heights? In particular, this hell hole"
"Yeah," she pauses to look at the map. "You have to go into that alley over there."
"Have you eaten," you say, ignoring her completely. "A red herring recently?"
"Haha, very funny. Trust me, I lived in New York before. Come on, let's get this job done."
You sigh and begin to walk into the alley that she pointed towards. A Caucasian female in a gangster neighborhood, who was also a mutant and wore NYU hoodie. It was more surreal than a Dali painting.
You turn a corner. A dead end. "Hey, what the..."
Then it hits you. The Boss said that Sylvia insisted that she took this job. Sylvia also said that she lived in New York before. She had lightning powers. The target had lightning powers.
"Don't -ing move," you can hear the crackle of electricity behind you. All the hair at the back of your head rise
"You had a daughter?" you blurt out.
"Sister actually," electricty crackles again. "Now kneel. Pass me the guns."
You take out the dartgun and raise it into the air, holding it by its nozzle. "And what..." you say. "Do you think you can achieve by doing this?"
"Give up the case, Cody."
"No."
"Damn it Cody, stop thinking about yourself for an instant. If you expose her, you will expose her to a life full of xenophobia. I ran out of her life and joined the Bureau when they found out that I was a mutant, to protect her from the same kind of hate. Do you think you can just waltz in here and rob her of a peaceful life?"
"The police are looking for her already. Sooner or later they will catch up to her. When they do, she will resist. She might hurt people."
A pause. "That's ridiculous and you know that."
"It must run in the family."
"Damn it Cody, it was an accident! She didn't mean to stop the train!"
"People don't mean to kill other people in a car accident."
"Shut up. Give me the gun already."
"So what do you think you will achieve...by going rogue?"
"I don't know. There are plenty of mutant rights organization though."
"Ah, so you plan to hide. You know I will find you one day," you smile.
"Give. Me. The. Gun." she snapped each word as if they were thunder.
"Sure sure... but what if I don't? What if I continue the investigation?"
"Then I'll..." a long pause. "I'll have to kill you."
"Oh good. That means I can do this," you whirl around and chuck the dartgun at her face.
She screams out. Lightning shoots out from her fingertips and is immediately absorbed by the metal in the dartgun. The dartgun is flung over the rooftop to somewhere. A pity, you will have to get a new one off the boss. The report's gonna be a killer.
She's still charging up for her next volley. As if you're going to let her do that. You kick her to a nearby brick wall. She crashes against it with a crunch. She must have broken her leg.
You draw your .50 caliber. "I don't need to read you your rights, do I?"
"Ha," she manages to say. She coughs up blood. Internal injury, she must get medical assistance soon.
"You really shouldn't have done this, Sylvia," you say. "That was stupid."
"Yeah...? Well.... who says that..." lightning starts crackling again. Oh no. "that this is over yet?"
"Sylvia?" your eyes open wide. Please don't do this.
She raises her hand.
Don't make me shoot!
A gunshot.
And it's all over.
The gun is still smoking. The hand holding it falls to the side. A window opens and a woman leans out of it. She looks at the mess and she quickly leans back, closing the window behind her.
You look at the body. "Why?" is all you manage to say.
The voices of the dead did not reach the living.
You take out the police files. Then you chuck the darn thing into the sewer.
..................................................................................................................................
"...Sylvia went rogue?" the voice behind the phone asked.
"Yes sir," you answer.
"...any reason why?"
You consider telling him. "I...do not know the reason, sir."
There's a sound of rustling papers. "By the way, Cody," the voice says. "The dossier says that Sylvia had a sister..."
"Yes sir." Does he know?
"But it doesn't say whether or not she's a mutant. Is she in any ways related to the case?"
"No sir, I investigated that personally," you lie. You are bad at lying, you know that. But it's over the phone, the man does not seem to notice.
"Hmm..." the man seems uncertain. "Well, did you find anything else?"
"No, sir. The trail's gone cold sir. We came here too late. I recommand that we give up the case until another occurrence of unexplained power surge happens, sir." Another lie. You would have found her no matter what.
More sound of rustling paper. "Yes, I think that's the best course of action here."
"Sir?" you say.
"Yes, Mr. Tepper?"
"May I have a vacation sir?"
Even more sounds of rustling paper. Then silence. "The file says that you haven't taken a vacation in 4 years."
"Yes sir. Never requested one."
"That's still against some laws, isn't it?"
You shrug.
"Request granted. Take this month off."
"Thank you sir." the phone hangs up. You have no idea why you just did that. You glance back at the alley. Police secuirty tape blocked the whole area. A chalk outline is all that's left of Sylvia. They cleaned away even the bloodstains.
You notice that you never got Sylvia any Christmas gift, nor have you gotten one for anyone else in the Bureau. You know you didn't get one anyways.
"Yeah yeah, I know." you mutter towards the chalk outline. "You are probably yelling why I didn't do this in the first place. Well, ridiculousness runs in my family. Think of this as a late Christmas gift. Ho ho ho, and happy new year too. See you later."
A pneumatic dart gun.
15 darts, 5 of which contain enough drugs to knock out a full adult human, 5 of which contain enough to knock out a lion, and 5 of which contain enough to knock out an elephant. Command loved to be sure.
A .50 caliber pistol.
2 clips of ammunition.
A black suit and a black tie, bought off a nearby clothing store for 40 dollars.
A phone cord borrowed from the same store.
A sunglass.
...................................................................................................................................
"What the heck are you doing, wearing that ridiculous suit?"
You glance at the nearby window. You are wearing the same black suit and a black tie that you bought off the store. "Do you really think," you said to Sylvia. "That it is ridiculous?"
"Yes!" Sylvia moaned. "First you steal some documents from the police, then you buy some suits from a street vendor or something?" she pauses. "The suits are a really bad one too, I might add."
"Oh, good," you answer. She blinks, and throws up her arms in resignation.
There are only a handful of field agents in the Bureau of Mutant Affairs. That meant that most agents worked with one another at least once in their career. When she worked with you the last time, she was much more energetic. But then again she was pretty new to this job.
"So," you say, changing the subject. "Did you find any leads in the metro?"
"No," Sylvia answer. "None at all."
You raise an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yeah really. Listen, it's been 2 days since the incident! Of course the trail goes cold there!"
You nod. That was sensible. "Anything else you found?"
"Except for a rumor of a governmental conspiracy to train electricity wielding mutants as saboteurs to wreak havoc on other countries like Zimbabwe, no."
"Ah,"
"But I found another lead."
"Where?"
"It is easier to show you than to tell you," she smirks. "Follow me."
.......................................................................................................................
"Your lead..." you intone emptily. "Brought us to Washington Heights? In particular, this hell hole"
"Yeah," she pauses to look at the map. "You have to go into that alley over there."
"Have you eaten," you say, ignoring her completely. "A red herring recently?"
"Haha, very funny. Trust me, I lived in New York before. Come on, let's get this job done."
You sigh and begin to walk into the alley that she pointed towards. A Caucasian female in a gangster neighborhood, who was also a mutant and wore NYU hoodie. It was more surreal than a Dali painting.
You turn a corner. A dead end. "Hey, what the..."
Then it hits you. The Boss said that Sylvia insisted that she took this job. Sylvia also said that she lived in New York before. She had lightning powers. The target had lightning powers.
"Don't -ing move," you can hear the crackle of electricity behind you. All the hair at the back of your head rise
"You had a daughter?" you blurt out.
"Sister actually," electricty crackles again. "Now kneel. Pass me the guns."
You take out the dartgun and raise it into the air, holding it by its nozzle. "And what..." you say. "Do you think you can achieve by doing this?"
"Give up the case, Cody."
"No."
"Damn it Cody, stop thinking about yourself for an instant. If you expose her, you will expose her to a life full of xenophobia. I ran out of her life and joined the Bureau when they found out that I was a mutant, to protect her from the same kind of hate. Do you think you can just waltz in here and rob her of a peaceful life?"
"The police are looking for her already. Sooner or later they will catch up to her. When they do, she will resist. She might hurt people."
A pause. "That's ridiculous and you know that."
"It must run in the family."
"Damn it Cody, it was an accident! She didn't mean to stop the train!"
"People don't mean to kill other people in a car accident."
"Shut up. Give me the gun already."
"So what do you think you will achieve...by going rogue?"
"I don't know. There are plenty of mutant rights organization though."
"Ah, so you plan to hide. You know I will find you one day," you smile.
"Give. Me. The. Gun." she snapped each word as if they were thunder.
"Sure sure... but what if I don't? What if I continue the investigation?"
"Then I'll..." a long pause. "I'll have to kill you."
"Oh good. That means I can do this," you whirl around and chuck the dartgun at her face.
She screams out. Lightning shoots out from her fingertips and is immediately absorbed by the metal in the dartgun. The dartgun is flung over the rooftop to somewhere. A pity, you will have to get a new one off the boss. The report's gonna be a killer.
She's still charging up for her next volley. As if you're going to let her do that. You kick her to a nearby brick wall. She crashes against it with a crunch. She must have broken her leg.
You draw your .50 caliber. "I don't need to read you your rights, do I?"
"Ha," she manages to say. She coughs up blood. Internal injury, she must get medical assistance soon.
"You really shouldn't have done this, Sylvia," you say. "That was stupid."
"Yeah...? Well.... who says that..." lightning starts crackling again. Oh no. "that this is over yet?"
"Sylvia?" your eyes open wide. Please don't do this.
She raises her hand.
Don't make me shoot!
A gunshot.
And it's all over.
The gun is still smoking. The hand holding it falls to the side. A window opens and a woman leans out of it. She looks at the mess and she quickly leans back, closing the window behind her.
You look at the body. "Why?" is all you manage to say.
The voices of the dead did not reach the living.
You take out the police files. Then you chuck the darn thing into the sewer.
..................................................................................................................................
"...Sylvia went rogue?" the voice behind the phone asked.
"Yes sir," you answer.
"...any reason why?"
You consider telling him. "I...do not know the reason, sir."
There's a sound of rustling papers. "By the way, Cody," the voice says. "The dossier says that Sylvia had a sister..."
"Yes sir." Does he know?
"But it doesn't say whether or not she's a mutant. Is she in any ways related to the case?"
"No sir, I investigated that personally," you lie. You are bad at lying, you know that. But it's over the phone, the man does not seem to notice.
"Hmm..." the man seems uncertain. "Well, did you find anything else?"
"No, sir. The trail's gone cold sir. We came here too late. I recommand that we give up the case until another occurrence of unexplained power surge happens, sir." Another lie. You would have found her no matter what.
More sound of rustling paper. "Yes, I think that's the best course of action here."
"Sir?" you say.
"Yes, Mr. Tepper?"
"May I have a vacation sir?"
Even more sounds of rustling paper. Then silence. "The file says that you haven't taken a vacation in 4 years."
"Yes sir. Never requested one."
"That's still against some laws, isn't it?"
You shrug.
"Request granted. Take this month off."
"Thank you sir." the phone hangs up. You have no idea why you just did that. You glance back at the alley. Police secuirty tape blocked the whole area. A chalk outline is all that's left of Sylvia. They cleaned away even the bloodstains.
You notice that you never got Sylvia any Christmas gift, nor have you gotten one for anyone else in the Bureau. You know you didn't get one anyways.
"Yeah yeah, I know." you mutter towards the chalk outline. "You are probably yelling why I didn't do this in the first place. Well, ridiculousness runs in my family. Think of this as a late Christmas gift. Ho ho ho, and happy new year too. See you later."
erez87
Lord of Random
- Joined
- May 16, 2002
- Messages
- 13,500
Perhaps I must find some others like me, some that can do something more entertaining. This age also seems to be all about money - I must find what this age calls job.
ooc- sorry if my "stories" might look more like Facebook/tweeter messages, but I actually think that could work.
ooc- sorry if my "stories" might look more like Facebook/tweeter messages, but I actually think that could work.
Omega124
Challenging Fate
"40 Years Now. Everything's been the same since Uncle Sam left. Just me camping out in the jungle, killing some small-time politicians or military officials. Slightly useful, but not anything to cause a dedicated manhunt. Besides, hey think they're isolated attacks, those dumb***es. How many Vietnamese is going to kill people with, let alone own, a vintage M16? Or a M1191 from the 60s? They don't grow on trees".
These thoughts were cycling upon John. It seems like 40 years was nothing but a week. It was always the same thing, with the same equipment, with the same targets. The only thing that reminds himself that he's alive are graphic flashbacks to when he was actually fighting, with enemies that put up a fight against him. His squadmates, some friendly, some racist against him, charging and falling, one by one.
A Helicopter was flying above John's head. It didn't worry him; few people knew his location, and he was in a thicket of a jungle. However, a box fell off the heli, and started to fall. It landed on a branch, its contents safe. By now, he knew that this was the 'feds giving him more supplies for a rampage.
John climbed up the tree, retrieved it, and brought it down. He then took a knife and opened it. Inside was some food, medicine, grenades, and first-aid kits. However, it was mostly filled with ammunition of all sorts. There was also letter inside, the way he got his next target. The contents read:
"We thank you for all the deeds you have achieved in this special tour of duty. We know the sacrifices you have done in order to help our country. However, with the recent tensions of Korea, the Pentagon has come around to re-evaluate your position. They have determined that, while unrealistic to pull you out immediately, it is now costing more to keep you there than what it is worth.
Therefore, we have no choice but to discharge you at March 31, 2011. We shall provide an escort, to be determined at a later date. However, we have one final mission for you.
Assassinate Nguyễn Tấn Dũng."
The Letter went on explaining why the mission, but John crumpled and, according to procedure, burned it. "God, I can't believe they're sending me on a suicide mission. I know they expect me to die on this mission. ****ING CHRIST!!!!!"
He started to kick a tree and vent his anger in other ways. After a while, he went down and thought up a plan to kill his new target. "3 Months to kill the Prime Minister. I need to be resourceful, and kill anyone else that would get in my way..."
These thoughts were cycling upon John. It seems like 40 years was nothing but a week. It was always the same thing, with the same equipment, with the same targets. The only thing that reminds himself that he's alive are graphic flashbacks to when he was actually fighting, with enemies that put up a fight against him. His squadmates, some friendly, some racist against him, charging and falling, one by one.
A Helicopter was flying above John's head. It didn't worry him; few people knew his location, and he was in a thicket of a jungle. However, a box fell off the heli, and started to fall. It landed on a branch, its contents safe. By now, he knew that this was the 'feds giving him more supplies for a rampage.
John climbed up the tree, retrieved it, and brought it down. He then took a knife and opened it. Inside was some food, medicine, grenades, and first-aid kits. However, it was mostly filled with ammunition of all sorts. There was also letter inside, the way he got his next target. The contents read:
"We thank you for all the deeds you have achieved in this special tour of duty. We know the sacrifices you have done in order to help our country. However, with the recent tensions of Korea, the Pentagon has come around to re-evaluate your position. They have determined that, while unrealistic to pull you out immediately, it is now costing more to keep you there than what it is worth.
Therefore, we have no choice but to discharge you at March 31, 2011. We shall provide an escort, to be determined at a later date. However, we have one final mission for you.
Assassinate Nguyễn Tấn Dũng."
The Letter went on explaining why the mission, but John crumpled and, according to procedure, burned it. "God, I can't believe they're sending me on a suicide mission. I know they expect me to die on this mission. ****ING CHRIST!!!!!"
He started to kick a tree and vent his anger in other ways. After a while, he went down and thought up a plan to kill his new target. "3 Months to kill the Prime Minister. I need to be resourceful, and kill anyone else that would get in my way..."
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