Board Writing :: Apocalypse Revisited :: Page 1
Dec 14, 2006
[OOC: And as RPex died it shall now be rekindled, and soon to be burning away not unlike the Phoenix… Here is the setting and outline of the world… let’s begin]
The year was 3020, 20 years after what many thought was the end of all human life…
An ultimatum was set by the united nations of the world, forcing people to join together to keep their planet alive. Of course this last ditch effort did nothing to help the world's problems, in fact it caused them to spiral out of control into what can only be described as The War.
The War was a titanic shock to the system of the world, nuclear explosions blowing away parts of the large land masses and fusing them together, the smaller ones swallowed up by the ocean. It tore gashes in the sky, leaving a murderous red tinge and constant jagged lightning on the atmosphere. It was claimed world’s population had been decimated by up to 70%. And with the nuclear explosions came certain mutations, which came upon those humans and animals born after the year 3000, when the war started.
And with the fusion of the land masses some of the population had drawn together into a city of gargantuan proportions, which had at one time a name that no one remembered or really cared for, most simply referring to it as ‘The City’. There are other settlements at the far sides of the new continent each controlled of one racial sub group. No one controlled The City; it was filled with vast amounts of people from all races and so, was in the midst of a power struggle, which filled it with a constant chaos. The City was also home to a large percentage of the mutant population and was home to a new breed of people, more dangerous and cunning, having been born in the midst of a war, where only the strong survive…
Falken shifted the bike into top gear and twisted the throttle as he sped down the side road towards his destination a neon lit bar known as Last Sanctuary. He parked his bike around the back of the bar, in his usual place. Removing his helmet, stark black hair flowed onto his dark overcoat, the hilt of a sword glinted from within the folds of the coat, along with a carefully hidden holster. Falken nodded to Venus, the lady owner of the bar as he took his usual place on the far side of the bar. He was brought his bottle of whiskey as he sat and waited out the storm.
[OOC: So what do we think? Oh and hybrid fuel technology has long since been mastered, and while there may/may not be space travel it is not going to be involved in the story line… now it is up to you to introduce characters and further the plot line
|Story Splinter: The plot diverges at this point. You can continue down the current path or read one of the alternate storylines.|
Dec 1, 2007: 2 Posts
Dec 21, 2006
As Falken's bottle was placed on the bar in front of him, he surveyed the tavern. It was a big, sombre, wooden affair, with surprisingly high ceilings and dirty windows. It sat in the street amidst a couple of run-down shops, none of which he'd ever entered. They were probably cover for various drug rings anyway.
He examined the glass. Then, satisfied that it was only moderately dirty, he poured some of the whiskey into it. While Venus was a friend of his, she couldn’t give him clean glasses when there were none in the place. She did usually make an effort to give him the least grimy ones. Just as he was about to drink, the bar shook with a sudden explosion, one that rocked the tavern and caused several of the windows to shatter. The biker put down his glass with a sigh, and swore.
"Not again..." he said fiercely.
Street gangs were another common occurrence in this part of the City. They roamed around, looking for an easy mark. Sometimes they got bold enough to attack places like the tavern Falken was sitting in. He caught Venus' eye, and nodded as she took a gun from under the counter. He silently turned to face the door, and suddenly threw himself to one side, landing behind a table where the Gatling gunner couldn't see him.
Since when did street gangs have access to Gatling guns? Hell, usually only the top gang members even had reliable handguns. He swore again as he removed his sword from his scabbard, and his own gun from its holster, he ran from table to table, reasoning that they provided him with at least some protection. In fact, the guy manning the big gun seemed incompetent. He hadn't hit a single person, and appeared to be shooting into the air on the other side of the tavern from where Falken was. He took another look at the gunner, and saw that he was sprawled away from his gun, dead, his hand in a death grip on the trigger. The coated one had no time to wonder over this, however. Other gangsters advanced on him, holding weaponry that no gang should ever be able to afford. One pointed at him with a machine gun, but he placed a bullet in his skull before he could be targeted. Jumping behind a pile of rubble from a building demolition that took place years ago, the dark-haired fighter saw a gang member spraying fire over the building with a flamethrower. The hairs on his back stood up, and he whirled around to find himself looking into cold, steel-grey eyes.
In this age, many people had mutations. Generally, they showed as the ability to do things that others could not, like moving things with the mind’s power or lighting fires without any means of doing so. Falken himself had mutations of this sort. But the man who stood before him… Well, he had wings. The biker was incredulous. The winged man sighed.
“Are y’gonna keep starin’ forever?” he asked, “The bar won’t be saved. That can’t be helped. We can, however, take out this trash.” The inn collapsed on itself as he pointed to the gangsters with an almost talon-like finger. The newcomer was tall, with short-cropped white hair. Despite this, he didn’t look old. He dressed in loose, dark blue clothing, with a sash of knives across his chest and a grey vest to match his wings. Falken found he still couldn’t speak, but as he nodded, he galvanised himself to action. He rolled around the corner of the rubble, killing several gangsters with his pistol before running to another pile. The white-haired man spat.
“Damn guns…”, he muttered before beating his wings and flying straight towards two gangers. They seemed not to notice him before a knife appeared in his hand and he ended both their lives.
A yell from the coated man drew the newcomer’s attention as a car sped towards him, guns blazing from the windows and the turret gut into its roof. Cursing his lack of caution, the winged man barely managed to escape being shot by jumping behind a burning pile of tavern-rubble. From this vantage, the winged one leaped into the air, flying over the vehicle and dropping something that stuck to its roof. As the car exploded, the remnants of the gang disappeared into the woodwork, their mission complete. The knife-wielder landed next to Falken.
“The name’s Rai, by the way. Wanna ask some questions?”
The remaining crippled gangsters yielded information, even a picture of their employer that had been used to help them identify him themselves, though only after Falken blew off some heads. Apparently the man looked like some sort of executive, apart from his long red hair and tattooed face. The man had never said who he worked for or what he did, but he had paid for the destruction of the bar, not only in money but in the weapons that would be needed. Falken looked at his newfound companion searchingly. When the winged man shrugged, he went to get his bike. Thus equipped, the two looked at the picture they had gleaned, and studied each other, trying to work out what the other had to gain from this venture. Then they set off in search of this man who had flamed the bar, each for his own reasons
Dec 21, 2006
Dec 23, 2006
A slight drizzle began hailing down upon the duo as they traveled through the dark side of town, extinguishing the flames of the ruin they'd left behind. The sky grew darker and darker as the two rode onwards, a harbinger of an oncoming storm. A chilly wind blew through the streets for a moment, although neither of the two companions seemed to be bothered at all. Of course, perhaps this was solely because of the coldness they hosted within themselves.
"Where are we going?" asked Falken, trailing slightly behind the winged man as he pulled his thoughts away from Venus, the whereabouts of whom he didn't know.
"Ta meet an ol' frien' o' mine," responded his new ally, "He's an information dealer. He knows everythin' that goes on 'round these parts. He shoul' be able ta tell us who the guy in the picture is." Falken nodded to his companion as a sign of his acquiescence, although he wasn't sure if he trusted the mutant's words at face value. The winged one certainly wasn't someone who seemed exactly trustworthy. Of course, was anyone really trustworthy these days?
Some fifteen minutes later, the companions arrived in front of an old decrepit shack, homogeneous with the rest of the neighborhood. The windows had long since dusted over, and the lights were off. In fact, the entire building looked as if it hadn't been used in ages. Despite this, Rai went ahead and turned the handle of the door only to find that it was locked. Not the least bit discouraged, the winged one pulled a hairpin from his pocket and inserted it into the knob where a key would normally go. It was when the door simply clicked once and opened wide that Falken began to doubt the morality of his companion's past--not that he was one to speak.
"Just another one o' my skills," explained the lock-picker as he entered the seemingly abandoned building. Cautiously, Falken went ahead and followed.
The heavy, filthy air inside the building caused Falken to have a slight coughing fit, although Rai didn't seem fazed at all. As soon as the sword wielder adjusted to the environment and stopped coughing, his eyes began to wander around the run down room, taking in everything they saw. Old books were scattered everywhere amidst empty shelves, although there seemed to be little else except for the occasional cobweb or cockroach scampering to and fro. Was it really possible that anything lived in this dump? The answer was about to reveal itself...
"The apocalypse fades from the human mind..." boomed a heavy voice from around the shack.
"...Only to be rekindled again," finished Rai.
"Huh? Rai? Is that you? I didn't think you'd come back so soon. Weren't you just here this morning?"
"Yeah, yeah, well, I nee' some mo' infomation."
"You've got the payment, right?"
Hearing this, the owner of the voice opened a door near the back of shack, ushering a small glimmer of light into the room. Falken glimpsed at the information dealer, who wore dark blue jeans and a purple hoodie, his face hidden behind the darkness of the hood. The dealer was short and slightly tubby, but these were the only things the sword wielder could discern about the secretive man.
Without any further command, Rai walked through the door and Falken followed, the hooded one immediately snapping it shut the moment they passed through. The new room they were in wasn't much better than the old except for the fact that there was actually some variance in the furniture--a desk and three chairs--as well as a light source--a candle. But what was a candle doing in this day and age? Falken give the wax stick a perplexed look. Noticing this, the hooded one simply responded, "Well I can't well use electricity or they'll find me, you know? Anyway, would you two gentleman like a seat?"
Falken nodded as the duo both took a seat on one side of the desk, the hooded man taking his own on the other.
"So what did you need me for so soon?" croaked the dealer, idly twiddling his thumbs around as he leaned back in his chair.
"We need y' ta identify this guy," requested the winged one as he tossed the picture atop the desk. An audible gasp could be heard coming from the information dealer as he saw who was in the photo.
"Well, this is gonna cost you some more but..."
Rai nodded, signaling his consent to the hooded one.
"Alright, well you see, this guy is...
Dec 27, 2006
Dec 27, 2006
A clattering sound to the speaker's left interrupted him, and all three occupants of the room immediately darted their attention toward the source. "It was just a couple of books," the informant determined after a moment, gesturing toward a couple of fallen books on a shelf, which had apparently knocked a half dissembled piece of electronic equipment to the floor. Satisfied, but still slightly wary, Falken and Rai turned back around and the hooded man continued, "This man is, or rather, was Tristan Radcliffe."
"Tristan Radcliffe," Rai repeated slowly, as if turning the name over in his head.
The dealer explained. In the pre-war days, Tristan Radcliffe was destined to become one of the most powerful men in the world. Son of ruthless business tycoon Cameron Radcliffe, Tristan was a billionaire at birth. By the age of ten, he already possessed more business skill than most adults. By the time he graduated high school, he was one of the most cunning businessmen in the world. Although he admired his father's legacy, Tristan hated the idea of working for him, fearing that he would never be respected on his own and chose instead to use his father's money to fund his own business ventures. His brilliant dealings, wealth of capital and resources, and charismatic personality quickly brought him success; by the year 3000, when he was only 22, he had amassed a small empire with influence in nearly any field imaginable and a growth rate that threatened to soon rival that of his father's. But war respects no man. When The War broke out, Cameron Radcliffe disappeared and hasn't been heard from since. Tristan Radcliffe was killed a month later. This is the most recent known photograph of him.
The dealer pulled out a yellowed magazine clipping and slid it across the desk to the pair.
The clipping was very similar to the photo. Both men were sitting in the same general position. Both were wearing the same expensive-looking suit. In fact the only obvious difference was Tristan's shorter, slicked back hair and clear face.
"So you think it's a fake," Falken stated after a moment. "Someone got a hold of a picture of Radcliffe, doctored it a bit, and passed it off."
"That makes sense," Purple Hoodie agreed, "except I have a lot of experience with editing photos, and this picture shows no signs of being messed with."
"So the real question is," Rai mused, "why would someone go ta the trouble o' fakin' a picture like that? Seems like a lotta unnecessary trouble ta cook up fake information like that."
"There is one other thing I should mention," muttered the dealer. "After Tristan Radcliffe died, his corporation dissolved, but certain divisions were large enough to stick around independently. One of the largest was the weapons division, which of course flourished during The War. It's one of the few surviving companies from the pre-war days that remains successful today, mostly due to the large number of high-profile gangs and private citizens it supplies."
Rai perked up a bit at this bit of information. "This may be worth checkin' out," he grinned. He turned to Falken, "C'mon tough guy, let's move out."
"I don't recall signing up for a partner," responded the biker slowly. "What makes you so sure I'll be joining you?" Despite his words, Falken wore a hint of a smirk indicating that he did plan on sticking with the winged one, for the moment.
"Oh, I'm pretty sure ya don't wanna abandon this li'l mystery jus' yet," Rai replied, pulling out his knife and eying it thoughtfully. Falken's expression went flat.
"We'd better get going then.
Jan 13, 2007
Jan 16, 2007
The Hooded One turned to Falken and handed him a piece of paper with the words 'Forty second pier, three am' scrawled in the center. "Word on the street is some kind of deal is goin' down there.Y'might wann' be checkin' tha' out" Falken grunted in reply and moved through the door, never noticing the rest of the exchange between the hooded one and Rai.
The Hooded One shook his head and turned to Rai "where'd you find that one?" he asked. "Never mind. Y'know, those guys are pretty dangerous, I hope you know what you're doing." Rai looked back as he approached the door "I'm going to scope the place via their internal database, with some help from one of our old friends, Hahn."
Outside, Falken gunned the engine on his bike, neither caring nor knowing what was happening back inside, almost as if he had never known the location of the informant at all.At the rear of the shack Rai exited cautiously and with one mighty downstroke of his wings, ascended into the sky.
Falken went over the plan in his mind, kill two of the weapon company's high ranking employees with minimal damage in order to gain their identification and infiltrate their central ranks. He left his bike hidden in the shadows of a warehouse and started to snoop around the area.
Forty second pier seemed a dark affair, with the only light emanating from warehouses on either side of the pier, and fair amounts of cover from large piles of pipes scattered around. Falken observed the location from a vantage point on the roof of the eastern warehouse.
He waited for a short time, and exactly on three am a dark limousine followed by a heavily armoured truck entered the area from the east side.And on the west side, an equally dark limousine approached the drop off spot. Out of the first limousine stepped two large men, in expensive black business suits, closely followed by another man in a combat uniform sporting an armoured vest. Out of the second limousine stepped a balding man in a white suit with what appeared to be his personal guard. After them came a striking figure, with long blood-red hair and two scars, one going over and the other running perpendicular to his eye. He kept his arms hidden beneath a large trench coat that concealed his form.Falken was familiar with this figure. He was an underground hit man known as E. Dusk. Dusk was notorious for the guns he carried and the cold, calculating skill with which he used them.
The man in white suit walked towards the center of the area, closely followed by his guard, who was carrying a large silver briefcase. They were met by the two large executives who examined the contentsof the briefcase, obviously satisfied they turned to the man in the combat uniform, who threw them a key ring. They in turn handed over the briefcase. The deal made, each group returned to their respective limousines. Dusk climbed into the truck along with the security guard while the combat guy went to the passenger side of the first limousine. Each party drove off. As the first limousine rounded the eastern warehouse, Falken chose the moment to strike.
He leapt from the pinnacle of the roof, timing his jump to land on the roof of the limo. As he hit the apex of the jump, Falken unsheathed his sword and drove it through the roof of the limousine, into the driver's head. The vehicle skidded sideways into the wall of the warehouse, and Falken performed a quick flip onto the hood of the car, re-sheathing his blade in the process. One side of the car was jammed against the wall, thus giving Falken a large attacking advantage. The executives were not stupid though, they stayed inside the limousine forcing Falken to take a different approach.
He stood next to the side of the car and placed his hand on the door. His eyes began to burn with a white blinding heat and the frame of the car went from being black to glowing red. Then the screams began. Falken poured on the heat of his mysterious mutation. The frame of the car began to warp, and the screams
subsided. Falken stood back to let the car cool. It was then he heard three shots coming from far west in the direction the truck had gone. This was no surprise to him, as Dusk's reputation preceded him.
Once the hull had cooled, Falken opened the door of the Limousine and dragged out the two unconscious executives. After snapping their necks and removed their clothes, he dumped the bodies back in the car, and placed a time bomb (care of Rai) in with them and returned to his bike. Falken stowed the clothes and rode out of there. A satisfying boom filled the distance as Falken left the docks and headed to the Rendezvous point...
High up in the darkened expanse, Rai followed the beam from Falken's bike with his eyes, banking to his left he headed toward the weapons division owned by a friend of his, a long time militant engaged in profiteering in private small arms and technology sales...
** There is still more to this story.
Continue to the next page