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 21, 2006: 11 Posts
As the biker's hand passed to his drink, the label pulled off and stuck to his palm. His orange eyes rolled back into his head as a deep sigh poured out of him.
"Somethin' the matter, sugah?" asked the busy barkeep with a coy look over her shoulder.
"Y... yeah. I didn't order this," mumbled Falken. His tone hid his rage, but his burning eyes let the truth out. She gave the regular one of her charming smiles.
"Why now, hun, you just looked like you could use it," Venus explained while fetching more brews for her other customers.
"But I quit... drinking," stressed the rider, biting his tongue. "I quit two months ago." He pushed the bottle away.
"No no, sug'. You never stop drinkin'," she sang melodically. "Just one more for me?" She wrapped her large, russet hands around the smaller man's and glided the drink back to him. Her pleasant smile was only met with a stern, hateful stare. "Thanks, chile."
"... Bitch." Left alone, he sighed again before looking into his palm. He knew what it was: directions. They weren't how to get there or what to do, just a hint. She was cruel like that. Venus always tried to keep it interesting, at least, varying the methods so he never knew when one was coming. This one she wanted to be clear, however. The loose label was how he got it the first time, his first "odd job".
"Follow the music."
He had received worse. Crumbling the paper in a tightened fist, a swig of spirit was used to calm his nerve. He was out, done with the life, or so he thought. He didn't need this, not now or ever. Amidst his despair, a shrill whistle cut through the stale air. The cheery tune rang over the gasps for life of the drowning drunks.
"Music," he thought. "Damn." From his vantage point, his usual seat, the whole of the bar was taken in with a quick sweep of his eyes. The whistler was identified, and things continued to get worse from there. The song poured out from a freak, a mutant of the worst kind. Their genetic changes were far more severe than their city dwelling brethren, and the changes they made onto themselves further set them apart. Falken detested their kind deeply, not that it set him apart from anyone else. Everything about them was unsettling, and this one wasn't whistling through his mouth, if he even had one.
There was more of their kind out here, closer to the Wastes. Where civilization ended, there was only lawless, hazardous land. Last Sanctuary stood between these two zones, living up to its name. A mix of folk came through its doors, and their mutual disdain normally prevented any violence.
The biker needed to weigh his options and took a peek out the window to see how the storm had progressed. The bloodied sky ripped down a bolt of energy and left a smoking crater in earth outside. With a gulp, he knew the clearer path. With another long drink of his whiskey, he rose to his feet in a feigned drunken stumble. The bottle wobbled and crashed onto the floor, a "thank you" present for Venus. His path, although staggered, headed straight for the outcast. And passed right by. His chances were better out there. Almost at the door, a gravelly hack from the freak clearing his throat demanded the rider's attention.
"Forgetting something there, Falk?
His burning gaze drifted back to the squat little monster perched at a lonely table with one spare seat. The polluted pygmy peeked out from a patchwork cage which surrounded his single-segment body, carefully training his sights on the rider. The round one continued to wheeze out the tune from his protected, external lungs, waiting for his new hire to say something. If Falken's eyes weren't telling enough of his rage, his flat, stern voice was.
"Forgot nothing, stranger. My bike's outside, I'm right here, and my booze is on the floor. That's my entire world."
"But in the rest of us's world," gurgled the freak from the wide slit that parted the slime dripping down his face, "if you here go outside there, the storms'll do terrible things." Its one remaining real eye stared up at and through the human. "Aren't you afraid?"
"No," returned Falken. "Of course, I don't like them, the storms, but," he began, allowing his dingy coat to fall open enough to hint at the arsenal within, "I'm sure as Hell not afraid."
"You should be." The entire flat mound atop the rotund thing raised up, revealing a sharp steel smile; however, the jagged jaw of the miserable little creature was not the threat. Nothing about this mutant was frightening -- just disgusting. The frail arms he used to nudge a welcoming seat were common among his race, although it was more common to see replacements of some ingenuity. In a fight, these underdeveloped limbs would make the filthy thing far less dangerous, but right here and now, all it meant was that the freak had less to lose and plenty to improve. No, the pointed, polished grin was just a courtesy to the biker, to let him know that the information he had was bigger than either of them.
Grudgingly, Falken took the creature's invitation. He thought a moment on some new intentional accident to torture Venus a fraction of what she was doing to him -- a weapon discharge into the furniture or a random decapitation. The barkeeper knew the dark man to be capable of far worse, true, but too much attention had already been drawn to the two in the tavern. And as much as he Falken wanted to get revenge on Venus at the moment, he would never compromise her entire outfit.
"I like this coat," Falken felt he had to explain as he sat down calmly, "and you people have a history of 'pop'ping, so we'll do this the peaceful way."
"'Pop'ping? Where the ever did you hear that?"
"Who said I've only heard?" he answered with a smug air. Deciding not to press the human further, the flat-headed freak pushed a small card across the table. "What's this?"
"This," the sickly one slurped, "are tickets -- one there, and one back. The rail leaves midnight. You'll arrive early morning, unnoticed by most and hopefully by them, as long as you hide that ugly face of yours."
"And who exactly is this 'them'?"
"Don't know. I only tell what I am told."
"I don't trust a damn thing that comes outta your mouth, you toad," the rider attacked, prompting a gruesome grin extending to the glands on each side of the messenger's neckless lump. "You wouldn't come to me unless you thought I'd be good, and you can't think I'd be good unless you knew something about the job."
"You were recommended to us."
"Why? Because I like scenery?" he retorted, brandishing the magnetic card.
"No, because you hate mutants." Falken quit his rage, struck by the vile thing's words. "Perhaps you can guess why that's important to the job."
For the first time since stepping into Last Sanctuary, Falken was the one smiling