Demiurge : Open RP

**Eleutherophobia** · 09/10/2007 20:38:15

    The telephone rang once, its monotone warble bouncing energetically off of each warm drop of rain. With a resigned stumble, she melted into the alley, drawn like a gnat to the buzzing orange light of a restaurant’s fire door. A practiced glance found only the vacuous shell of a drunk collapsed under a tabloid timeline of the past week. She brought the receiver to her ear, a light, tinny sound like scraping silverware against a plate climbed through her head, beat at the back of her eyes. Her projected self-image methodically fissured, replaced for a moment with millions of tiny white-green fireflies, then nothing.

    Waking up always felt like your whole head was vomiting. The Italian woman, Systemic, firmly twisted the panic clamps folded around Fara’s neural jack and pulled the impressive spike from her head. Thin blood dripped from the girl’s ear, got lost in her ratty tangerine hair. Systemic rested a ginger hand on the girl’s clammy, off-white forehead, pushing a knotted lock from her clamped, fluttering eyes.

    “She scares m’half t’uh de-huff when’uvver she does this,” barked the thickset operator, Ooidal, watching the girl’s neural spike shoot her heart rate over two hundred beats-per-minute. Nervous sweat pooled over her upper lip as Ooidal’s nostrils flared. “*poop*if we wait any longer, th’bit-chuh won’evver get outta’ that seat,” he croaked to the woman, expecting a frantic nod of endorsement. Instead, she held open a bronze palm, staring serenely into her salty reflection on the man’s quivering, fat forehead. That chick must bleed steel, he thought to himself for a half-moment.

    “Do it,” she commanded firmly, not a trace of panicked urgency in her voice. The operator’s pudgy fingers danced over a double-handful of keys; the mechanical bleat of a depressed hypodermic plunger was drowned out by a shrill wet cry, powerful narcotics flooding out from an intravenous cuff.

    Fara felt as if a scab had ripped from the front of her brain as her eyes opened to Systemic’s gentle smile. Her half-vision sharpened as the girl lifted herself from the chair – landing silently – the rough cloth of her thick socks letting in the aggressive cold of a steel-mesh floor.

    -And without missing a beat-

    “If we get ‘uh heading now, we could theoretically reach Bah-bylon in seventy hours, sixty-five, if we duh-n’t care about getting there in one piece,” chirped the girl, swallowing in wet hiccups between cadence.

    “Iesce sole! Are you alrigh-“

    “Don’ bot-hurr. Th’brat’d jus’ ignore it anyway-“

    “Where did you get that disk, captain?”

    “Ignore what?”

    “Nun sputa n’ciele ca n’faccia te torn,” muttered the woman, ducking between two large piped that halved the height of most of the catwalk.

    “I’m not ignoring anything; I’ve tod’ju before, I don’t speak Italian.”

    “See wh-ut I mean? And what did’juh give t’uh that guy?”

    “I’m not a brat,” grinned Fara, brown outlining her teeth. The improvised space took on the illusion of late evening, as powerful illumination gave way tosubtle, discreet operation bulbs. Four of the ship’s six keel-mounted hoverpads spindled into position and began to purr, tiny servo beacons whirring in excitement.

    Shayel’s spectre landed lightly in the pilot’s seat, not pressing any buttons as Vinia neglected to crawl through the gangway, rubbing her forearms off with an oily rag. Even Jouzu failed to appear as he always had – his dark, immense figure blocking the hatchway, an impressive hunk of filthy machinery tuck under each arm. That was another lifetime. In rude contrast to the nostalgic non-reunion, Systemic reappeared, matter-of-factly asking who was supposed to pilot the ship.

    -And without discussion-

    Fara measured her own ability for a moment, and graciously stepped aside. The ship whined pathetically as it fell back into fluorescent dormancy. Ooidal’s seat groaned as he got up, lumbering entertainingly toward his quarters – everyone’s quarters – returning a moment later stretching the seams of a tent-sized sweater. Though deep enough underground, the New Antigone encampment was a straight drop down a former Arctic mine. Fara pulled on an itchy woolen facemask and bubbly glass goggles with deep imperfections that made her look like a restless fruit fly.

    Over a threadbare sweater she pulled the now-grey coat she had received after the great big battle of Paradise. It was grey because she had worn it on every operation since the great big battle of Paradise. She had gotten it just after the great big battle of Paradise because of her undying, albeit unwilling, loyalty to whatever cause for which the battle had been fought. Since then, wearing it on every operation since then had conveniently torn the pressed white insignia of the Tetragrammaton from its sleeve; at some point, she had scribbled the Equinox’s three rings onto the shoulders.

    Ooidal grunted and kicked at the corroded metal hinges of the ship’s small escape hatch – now the only door now locked shut by thick frost. With one impossible heave, he pulled himself through the rotary opening, Fara clambering nimbly out behind him, slipping on her elbow. The duo admired their surroundings as they had each time since their former crew had politely stolen themselves and left for greener pastures. A ragged scar of sky tore across the wide canyon they found themselves in, sporadic, spidery lightning pulsing through the wound.

    -And without an exchanged glance-

    The two started toward the thin grouping of whitish dots through the greyish limestone fog. In the tiny population of freeborn extremists, which had been mysteriously robbed of supplies just days prior, was the new pilot of the Equinox.

(The part of any New Antigone local is open to anyone.)

**XElite** · 09/12/2007 22:54:00

Their business concluded, the tall figure with spiked, red hair, dressed in an all black suit, bowed his head to both the woman and man still sitting at the table from which he had arisen, in turn. They each bowed their head back, remembering how odd they found it that someone would wear sunglasses indoors... in a fully lit room.

As the two made their way towards the still busy, illuminated sidwalk through the lightly brushed, metal doors which they had used to enter the restaurant; the man in the black suit made his way towards the swing door which led to the kitchen, removing a black cell phone from his inner coat pocket as he went.

Once on the other side of the door - a flood of Cantonese shouts for orders and ingredients blending into the buzz of chatter from the main dining area for a few seconds, as it swung gently back and forth - he answered the ringing phone and put it to his ear...

XElite: This is a secure line, go ahead...
Voice: I hear you've seen Ele?
XElite: Why d'ya ask?
Voice: Because I haven't.
XElite: I see...
XElite: I'm guessing you were hoping to have a word with her?
Voice: A word, a hug, a tearful reunion... take your pick.
XElite: Hmm... I could let her know you were looking for her, if you want?
Voice: Yes. Do you know of anything I could do to help her?
XElite: I'm not sure what could be done although... I could let her know of your offer....
XElite: Where things go from there would be up to her.
Voice: I just hope she hasn't abandoned us completely.
XElite: I'd doubt Ele's decision would have been made solely on a... personal basis.
Voice: This is the problem. I don't really know what she's thinking these days.
XElite: How so, do you mind me asking? A loud hiss from several woks and steam pressure cookers can be heard in the background
Voice: How what?
XElite: What would be preventing you knowing what she's thinking, that wouldn't have before.
Voice: People grow unfamiliar when you don't see them for a while.
XElite: Yeah.
Voice: Anyway, keep me posted huh?
XElite: I'll let Ele know what you've said.
Voice: Thanks.
XElite: See ya around.

*click*

**Eleutherophobia** · 09/16/2007 20:13:08

    New Antigone had been settled twelve days after Dante was killed. The colony’s entirety was only three small craft and a labyrinth of canvas walkways. It was the nearest place to heaven.

    With Dante gone, there had been no one left to lead the group, so Noone graciously took command. When a client demanded his presence, Noone would reserve a table, taking his steak medium-rare with an 1860 Veuve Clicquot, and toast to the community’s progress. The triad of craft was traffickers of whatever needed to be trafficked. As such, Noone most often took his meals in the company of Flood, who had placed several competitive prices on his head.

    Twelve days before the settlement, Dante had been fiddling with a set of car keys when a single bullet, followed by many more, severed the equal exchange between his projected self-image and his hovercraft which was ripped to shreds by a team of sentinels moments later. Moments later, his hovercraft was ripped to shreds by a team of sentinels. The reasoning behind Noone’s cut ties with the machines was, therefore, obvious. While most of the population of New Antigone was freeborn, Dante, and his successor were both awakened, and angry; so, they found it fair to wreak havoc upon whatever world they had decided false. The ships settled in a valley of dying stars, a hollow valley, the broken jaw of lost industrial kingdoms, able to play out their role away from the interests of both their benefactors and adversaries.

    Ooidal had been trading war stories on a public channel when the opportune signal made itself known; this was when the ship still had a pilot. It was, as he described, a simple impulse function; a repetitive bit of chatter that broadcast, theoretically, to infinity. Fara was nearly immobile when the decision to follow it was made, having been rebuilt for a second time, but when they finally had found the mine, it had been her decision to bring the ship inside, because, as she had said, it looked hungry. The Tetragrammaton’s fat, pretentious flagship Archon would later have difficulty making its way out of the gaping passage with Fara’s crew on board.

    The Equinox had set down far enough away from the camp proper to make Ooidal’s bad knee ache, and Fara’s nose turn bright red, even underneath it’s thick hood. The two avoided conversation, having made the trip carrying overstuffed sacks of stolen supplies three days earlier. This time, they arrived at an improvised night, finding no one but Noone in the tented hallways between the hovercraft.

    He was beautiful. Dark, windblown hair trickled down his forehead masking two piercing, hawklike eyes. His skin was tanned, and looked like it was pulled too tight over his face, leaving him with thin, defined lines at his cheek bones. He wore a thick black scarf around his neck, hiding the messy hairs on his chin and neck. With a swift movement, he cracked an ungloved fist against Ooidal’s pudgy face, knocking him dizzily against a tarp wall.

    “Who th’ell are you?” his thick, stately drawl demanded. He snarled at his reflection, staring at the girl’s filthy goggles.

    She was sightless, until she allowed her eyes to reappear, resting the blackened bug-eyes on her cloth forehead. One silent moment allowed her to gain composure. “We apologize. There’s apparently some sur-ruff high-brow, choice guest-list ‘ere, yes? How is it that upstanding ah-n forthright individuals such as ourselves weren’t invited?”

    “You fuh-“

    “I’ll ask-“

    “-kin’ broke-“

    “-you wuh-“

    “m’nose.”

    “-ince more, before I ‘eff you garroted, and used as food, kid. We’ dah-em well need it,” he barked, nostrils flaring. A tall, thin woman with a bandage on her nose and half a left arm stepped through the chuckling opening of a zippered doorway at the noise.

    “We, being only empty men,” she began to step from side to side, “women, have come t’beg ‘huff y’er charitable and benevolent community the hope of a navigator. In return, we offer-“

    “Are you-“

    “-the supplies that-

    “-out of your-

    “-so mysteriously-“

    “My nose.”

    “-vani-“

    “-mind?”

    “-shed from your camp three days ago.”

    “You stole our supplies, you bih-“

    “Have, not stole your supplies.”

    “You’re dead.”

    “I’m probably too chewy, and he’s mostly fat,” she motioned to Ooidal, whose pathetic form was slouched over itself, blood dripping off his chins.

    His jaw set, searching for some way to beat the girl. “We’ll speak inside,” he turned before finishing, walking toward the RcCft Hestia.

**GoDGiVeR** · 09/17/2007 07:20:17

FaraRose wrote:

Twelve days before the settlement, Dante had been fiddling with a set of car keys when a single bullet, followed by many more, severed the equal exchange between his projected self-image and his hovercraft which was ripped to shreds by a team of sentinels moments later. Moments later, his hovercraft was ripped to shreds by a team of sentinels.

((Repetition. The Sentinels ripped the HvCrft two times into pieces. Er... is intended?))

**Eleutherophobia**

(Not a typo, repetition. Read Catch-22.)

**Eleutherophobia** · 09/20/2007 20:24:45

    A tall slit in the hovercraft’s bantam stomach jerked open at the crank of a frozen metal toggle. The one-armed woman ducked fluidly through the opening, the tumor of Ooidal’s form squeezing through in tow. At the rear was the tired leader, disallowing the girl unchecked reign of his colony. Comparative warmth burned at the girl’s cheeks as a disguised hand pulled the itchy mask from her face, impish features stretching upward for a moment. Noone hesitated, dumbfounded and nearly awestruck by the intruder’s youth – then more than curious as to the odd scars along her face. Shaking the thoughts, he willed the door shut, and the one-armed woman complied, a vacant distance in her big azure eyes. The woman politely asked Ooidal to move, and he collapsed onto an overturned crate, pushing at either side of his swollen nose, knocking a homemade deck of cards to the mesh floor.

    An aged groan placed Noone slumped onto a weathered chair, his wise boots landing loudly next to a keyboard whose characters had faded and been redrawn, crossing. “You’re just a kid,” he declared after several pensive breaths.

    “Sorry?” the girl furrowed her thawing brow, offended by the statement.

    “I expected the harbinger of our demise to be some brute from the syndicates, or maybe a pile of Neonite terrorists; I would’ve guessed a hun’red things before some brat an’ her father,” he motioned to Ooidal, whose head was leaned against a precarious shelf of discs.

    “Harbinger ‘huff-“

    “I’ll ‘ave y’know that I’m not some brat,” her voice was a raspy, childish whine, “and that man is th’most talented operator this sie’duv th’Euphrates dih’vide.”

    The man chuckled omnisciently, “I’ve no doubt.”

    “Eih wuddn’t call us th’harbingers ‘huff y’er demise,” gurgled Ooidal, spitting a wad of dark brown jelly to the ground, “We’re jus’ here f’er th’sightseeing.”

    “Did you start the fire?” queried the one-armed woman, her voice a constant C-sharp with no discernable origin. Ooidal stopped wheezing, and the girl studied the stitching pattern of her gloves. The woman climbed through a cluttered gangway, disappearing from conversation.

    “Why did you start my camp on fire?”

    “We needed t’distract y’while we borrowed supplies.”

    “Borrow?”

    “Take.”

    “Why did you take my supplies?”

    “We were running out.”

    “Why did you not simply ask for supplies?”

    "There was a fire, nobody was free t’speak with.”

    “That’s not what I meant,” he uttered, his voice painted with peeved resignation. Through a hole only visible when pointed out and squinted at came a short man with unfortunate eyebrows. Unfortunate because an odd stripe through the middle had grown in blonde, contrasting his black hair, and giving him the appearance of having four eyebrows. He mourned the corruption of a databank, eliciting an irate roar and a slammed fist, sliding a small tucked drawer slightly open. “This is your fault,” a long finger accused the girl, “This is your fauh-“

    “An’ we’ve every intention t’repay you ah’soon as we can. However, that can, being our ability to repay you, hinges only and entirely upon y’er willingness t’supply us with a steersman – which, in prospect – will require a larger reimbursement in th’pile we’re creating,” she paused for a moment, head spinning in her own doubletalk, “Whereby upon said reimbursement, folluh’wing the pivotal can on y’er behalf, aforementioned steersman will remain in our employ. Call it a finder’s fee f’er th’compensation it is you’ll, in all graciousness, ‘ave us find, bring t’you, and lose. Yes?” One jittery eye scanned the blank expressions surrounding it.

    “You’re asking for a favor?”

    “An investment.”

    “You broke into my community. You started my homes on fire. You stole my food.”

    “Creative negotiation. Moreover, I hold severe doubt that th’food stockpiled in this loveliest of communes was originally yours, and that ih’t’was in fact stolen. Ergo, our theft ‘huv that very same food is not your crime t’prosecute or punish.”

    “You overestimate your leverage.”

    “Y’underestimate my resolve.” The one-armed woman returned, slightly thicker from a bald sweater, its left sleeve hanging limply at the shoulder, an erupting rucksack slung tightly over the right. She wore an unpleasant look stretched across her face, like some terrible taste refused to leave her mouth. The vibrant canary of the woman’s tensely ponytailed hair showed thin traces of lost colour, age. Her faded black pants bunched at the top of her ankle-high boots with broken clasps. Thick twine laced one taut to her leg.

    “I’m not sorry,” she stared blankly through Noone’s dark, judicious eyes, no inflection, no emotion. He nodded and the man with unfortunate eyebrows grasped the girl’s wrists, holding them tightly in the small of her back.

    The comment invoked no manifest response, the chieftain’s jaw still set. “Domino will pilot your ship; she’s more than competent.” He frowned deeply for a moment, his eyes crawling to the toes of his boots, and took his leave by means of a fold-down ladder, climbing to an unseen tomb above. Domino reopened the wall, allowing a pitiful Ooidal to step out before her. The girl was shoved forward into the console Noone had been sitting at, an opened shelf shoveling into her abdomen, before being commanded to get back up, and promptly shoved stumbling through the craft’s frigid jaw.

    The wind slapped coldly at their faces, a large portion of the canvas enclosure having been taken by fire. It was the kind of angry wind that stampeded through a fractured nostril, cushioning a resocialized brain with a frigid halo of stinging air, and tearing the thin twine from loose boots that left cold feet exposed to the icy abuse. The long walk back was frighteningly reminiscent of the silence that had brought two to New Antigone; the only difference now, a light gasping noise from Ooidal’s nose, and a third pair of footsteps on the cracked ground.

**XElite** · 10/02/2007 18:48:39

*phone rings*

"The Eastern part of Magog is lovely this time of year."...

Entering into the Eastern part of Magog, the wind formed the rain to a diagonal slant which cut through the abandoned storage houses and high rised tenement blocks which stood on either side and all around.

Nearing the designated Hard Line for the area, he could make out a luminous white jacket in the background, hiding under a two laned freeway which carved its path above. The green glow from the phone booth behind created an oinous glow around the silhouette of the wearer of the white jacket, patterned - he could now see - with several swirls sewn in black.

"It is." he said.

"It's a run down, over populated pit." she hissed with a sigh.

He held out a small, light blue object which she placed directly into her jacket pocket.

"As always time is h'uv the essence and --" she informed him...

"...only if it is allowed to be." he smiled.

A frown came across her determined face as she asked if he had been able to find out anymore about the contents of the data disk. It was another surveillance report although no names, locations or dates were mentioned - traditional practice for one of a number of intelligence agencies, both officially and... some less so. He found it of note, however, that such a report would be compiled onto a disk...

"Almost h'as if it were meant t'be published?"

"Mm. If not publicly..." he replied.

Several moments of silence passed...

"I think I'll go fer a cup of tea in a coffee shop north h'uv ‘ere." she said distantly.

Walking out from the shelter of the motorway overhead, he removed a small, light blue cell phone from the left pocket of his beige cargo pants and dialled the number for its identical copy which he had earlier given to Fara...

It was answered. "Cadsuane was asking for you..."

**Eleutherophobia** · 10/08/2007 20:50:13

### Validating Screened Signal ###

...Complete ; )

/Key…………
/Filter…………
/Recompile………
>Sys: [Warning: Security failure at 34.11.02]

Exchange: operator@ equinox.1879.nAntigone/secureSSH.socket
With: operator@[private].[private].[private]/secureSSH.socket

> I just want to know what we are up against before she tries to kill us again.
> I told you, two of them have stopped broadcasting. My guess is that both will be around somewhere; just keep an eye on your *CENSORED*.
> Yeah, thanks.
> Sys: [Message: Channel Frozen]

    The monitor danced in snowy, amorphous white for a moment, bathing a bandaged nose in temperamental light, and fell to inactive black. Ooidal grasped a small, complicated object in his giant paw, absently attempting to again fix what he failed to recognize as broken. It seemed a drug enough to shield him from aloneness with his own mind.

    Domino was far from sleep; the cramped, unprivate bunk coughed with every fidget. There was a woman with sympathetic eyes and tanned skin who had politely neglected to introduce herself laying on the bed above. It was difficult to discern whether or not she was asleep, as no sound, no movement radiated from the bed. It was as if the woman willed her body to die for a few hours occasionally in order to maximize the output of her sleep cycle. With a tired heave, the thin pilot leaned out of bed, padded lightly to the heavy turn-crank of a door, stepped into a claustrophobic steel-grate hallway with a ladder at one end. Climbing down silently, she nearly gave Ooidal a heart attack.

    “Y’uh nearly gave m’uh heart attack!” he yelped, dropping the useless, intricate mechanism to the cold ground. Worn joints and suspenders groaned as he slowly bent to retrieve it.

    “Sorry. I did not expect anyone to still be awake,” she declared, staring ashen-faced at the bank of dancing screensavers of poly-patterned light updating in rectangular flashes. There were old pieces of haphazard tape half-peeled under some of the screens. “What do the rats eat?” queried one, “Where to nowhere?” another. Both sent uneasy chills down the woman’s back, making the hairs at the small of her neck stand attentive. “Is the captain crazy?” she appealed, her face showing no real concern of interest, plain, blue eyes still squinting at the trickles of emerald nonsense.

    Ooidal hesitated, faced with a question he was not ready to answer. He pushed at his nose for a moment, and with a grunt, fell into a swiveling chair. “I’d hate t’uh have t’see th’uh world through h’urr eyes,” he finally remarked, after a silent, uncomfortable void.

    Domino blinked slowly and stared into another time. “Who is she?” Ooidal stared at her thin lips, confused. “She looks young.”

    “She’s’uh brat,” he glanced backward, half-expecting to see the short girl bounce down a ladder and disagree. She was instead stretched across the floor of the ship’s communal dormitory, aggressively asleep. Domino’s unchanged expression implied that this was more than appropriate an answer. No doubt she was withholding any intense questions so as not to warrant any in return.

    Somewhere far away there was a war going on.

**Eleutherophobia** · 08/01/2008 23:03:00

“Where do we go from here?”

“I don’ think that’s up to me.”

“If there was a way…a way to take it all back. You know, start fresh from the beginning-“

“I wouldn’t.”

“No, I didn’t think so. But, it never hurts to ask.”

“Would’ju?”

“No, sir.”

“Hey, you keep calling me sir ‘round here and we’ll both end up with an extra mouth in the back of our heads.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“I wonder if they still have my earring. It was lucky you know – the only reason I made it out alive.”

“What happened to it?”

“Some no one ripped it clean through my ear.”

“Why?”

“’Cause he was sick of being some no one. Y’ever get a pin ripped through your ear, kid?”

“Uhm…no. No, sir.”

“Stop callin’ me sir, or I’ll rip that earring straight through your ear.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“You bet you’re sorry. If you keep callin’ me sir like that we’ll both end up with an extra mouth in the back of our heads. And call me sir when you’re sorry, or I’ll rip that earring straight through your ear.”

“Right, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“And stop apologizin’. You know what’ll happen if they hear you apologizin’ to me?”

“Sir?”

“We’ll both end up with an extra mouth in the back of our heads.”

“Sorry.”

“Didn’t you hear me? Don’ apologize, and say sir when you don’t.”

“They’re here, sir.”

“Took ‘em long enough. Nobody’s on time anymore, it’s all about bein’ fashionable. Not me, as long as my feet stay dry, I’m happy.”

“Dante, it’s been too long.”

**Eleutherophobia** · 10/22/2007 19:38:25

(If anyone is still reading this, I urge you to please join in. I feel as if it has become a two-person operation with me and XElite. Please, PLEASE, join us; it is never too late.)

    It was supposed to look like a complicated goldfish, or maybe a koi – the length of a car key, and spotted with pretty white blotches where the paint had fatigued. The frame was a complex maze of twisted golden wire clutching shards of verdant brass. If she held it by the mouth, each interlocking piece to the tail would twist and fall according to that position of its predecessor. A flexed pin jutted from a loop at the top, as if the fish had swallowed a fishing pole, but was smart enough to leave the hook. Its two scarlet, faded eyes cried, mourned. After a period of quiet deliberation, she decided that an ear piercing could not hurt very badly, and would, in fact, be pretty.

    A quivering yelp reached Ooidal’s ears, and he assumed that the brat had tried sleeping on the top bunk again. She pulled a small, shaking, terrified, leather hand from her ear, brown-red blood dripping between its fingers. Her brow tightened and her skin paled, and she fell out of time.

    Twin trails of mascara paved Fara’s pale cheeks; there was something heavy in her hand. Her finger traced backward along “oh-five-point,” and she pulled tightly at the cold metal trigger. Each shot dug something painfully into her wrists, bent her arms another way, the recoil overbearing for her delicate arms. A round climbed excitedly from the barrel, ripped through the silk of his tie, shattered a plastic button and cleaved through cross-stitched cotton. Hair, sweat, skin, fat, muscle, bone fissured. The boy gasped shallowly, eyes tearing at the powerful warmth spreading through his abdomen.

    Time was unclear, and she spun around slowly at the soft, wet thud. Robert fell into a pool of his own blood, moaning frivolously, staring in vacant disbelief at the girl. She collapsed onto his limp body, crying, and was pulled away screaming by a black suit. There was blood on her hands.

    The weeping hole in her ear felt like a bee sting that refused to subside. Fat, salty tears gathered in one eye, and paved a path to her pointed chin. The girl wiped at the side of her face with a slack, threadbare sleeve as a heavy door opened, plunging the cabin into radiant light. Ooidal stood silent for thirteen seconds before erupting into a robust, cathartic chuckle. The girl began to grin, and laugh as well; the bittersweet taste of a tear fell past her lips, mixing with old vomit.

    She was at the diner, drowning a smiley-face pancake in syrup; her fiery orange hair was pulled into adorable schoolgirl pigtails. It was September twenty-sixth, 1999 – the last Sunday before a new school year. The girl was eight, and her father had taken her out for breakfast. In the kitchen, a tan man with large black hair, and a cumbersome black overcoat buried his fist into a veteran’s stomach. He was wearing a blonde wig, a red cocktail dress, and a head full of secrets.

    Ooidal had to lean onto the steel frame around him, doubled over in laughter, clutching his stomach. Fara laughed too, her face flushing a cherry red.

    “Wh’ur th’ell’ju get that?” As he said it, he was stepping out through a thick metal frame, the cold air biting at his freshly thrashed nose. He heard a thick, wet thump, and saw a man’s fist in the brat’s stomach; she fell backward. Her side hit an opened drawer and a covert hand trickled inside, removing something shiny, green, and she dropped to the floor. He watched her hands as she fell; they were nimble, somehow graceful, the black gloves demanding some form of reverence.

    And he was aboard the Lethe, one war ago, his inexperienced fingers danced wildly across a faded keyboard. A black haired woman put a hand on his shoulder assuredly before planting herself in a worn armchair with a gaping hole in its headrest. He watched the codestream update in blinding, rectangular flashes. A tan man in a dark coat dug a thick, powerful fist into a flowing red gown. Ooidal prayed that she would get there fast enough to plant a bullet in the unlucky veteran’s head. A door burst open, and the man’s form wrinkled, falling into itself, the blonde wig falling into his eyes.

    Errant strands of knotted, rusty hair fell into the girl’s eyes. “I found it,” she managed through a giggling wince, “wha’d’y’think?”

    “I ‘fin’g you shoul’ clean dis’suh’p before Systemic sees tha’chu bled all ov’ur her bed.” He stepped out of the dormitory, making his way through the cold, grate hallway to a claustrophobic ladder.

    While Dante stepped over a pile of inaccurate newspapers, his hand hitting the door, pulling himself from the hallway. Lethe strode a few steps behind him, on a cell phone. “Days like these,” he breathed deeply, the crisp, autumn air, “we’re lucky to be alive.” He wanted badly to find the kid and be done, but nobody seemed to know of an one-eyed redhead with a stolen ship. That X-whatever, he seemed to know something, but was not going to give it up easily. Hopefully the exile chick he contracted would beat it out of him.

    “Remember the diner, Dante?” Lethe covered the receiver with his hand, smiling broadly, a streetlight illuminating his glasses. “Back then, we could get things done, you and me. We could really pack a punch.”

    “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he laughed to no one in particular. “Maybe I’m just getting old.”

**Eleutherophobia** · 11/15/2007 20:20:21

(OOC: As usual, I'm sorry it's been so long. I don't really even have an excuse to make up this time other than the fact that I'm not certain that more than two people other than myself even bother to keep up with this. Once again, I urge you to join in. The ship is mobile now, so we could run into you, yes? If you still like this, please voice your opinion!)

    “Where are we going?” Domino queried, uncurious. A nimble, cold hand like that of a starving child pulled at a leather-padded handle with a small split that irritated her fingertips.

    Ooidal grunted, heaving a bundle of poly-proportioned rods from a hideaway compartment. “Who curr’s?” he replied, not looking up. And he dug a pebble of white chalk from a pouch of the same, marking every few centimeters down the largest pipe.

    Domino did not care where they were going. They were leaving New Antigone behind, and that was what she cared about. “I do not. But, does the captain?” Somewhere, an anxious fuse popped, cutting the life support to a row of lights, causing them to flicker derisively, then die.

    “She’suh bright girl,” Ooidal continued his tedious chore, “She’s ah-ways played it har’ ‘n close. But there’s one thin’ she’s grasped: yuh’ don’ make omlettes wif’out breakin’ eggs – an’ rules. Th’brat’s broke more than h’urr shar’ruff eggs, an’ makes a dah’um good omlette.” He furrowed his heavy, hairless brow, made heavier by the now uncertain shadow, and ground his twisted little yellow teeth, satisfied with the metaphor.

    The gaunt woman nodded her head downward, feeling like she had missed a history lesson. Her head felt heavy, and her big blue eyes looked drained and glassy. Ooidal held the same desperate, haggard appearance. His big, fat lips looked like pulled pieces of bacon fat hanging limply below his bandaged, violet nose.

    The girl’s off-white eyelids fluttered, her jaw tightly set. Two powerful vises wrapped around the sides of her face, congregating at the stem of a thick spike that drove into her skull, and gently weeped a clearish red gunk. She had worn a grubby camisole shirt and a ragged sweater before falling out of this reality. Since, a thin shawl with makeshift sleeves, and two blankets had been draped over her small frame. A cruel looking cuff held two syringe heads in place, their cords trailing to two intravenous bottles that were switched every few hours. Her tangerine hair was darker from blood and filth, each stylus was knotted and unkempt, with frayed recessions where she had pulled at it nervously.

    Inside, it was much brighter, livelier. Her salmon locks smelled the way they always had - a clean, well-washed, little-girl-ready-for-a-party smell. They sat under a whitish Panama with a black stripe, slightly damp at the bottom for autumn sweat. Big, bug-eye sunglasses masked the hue difference in her eyes, taking attention from the watery purple of her too-wide grin. Her shirt was a pale white, and wrinkled slightly, like the skin of a drowning victim. Over it, she wore a dark grey vest in thin kevlar and velvet, laced in corset fashion by a handful of cheap belts. Outside, was a faded tailcoat, in a swatch of dark grey silk masquerading a mannish cut that clung, by another pair of belts to a waist just the width to hint that one could span it with an open hand. Her adolescent hips were trimmed in black, and pinstriped – pointing downward to impatient toes in black leather.

    She had been in the simulation for a marathon six-day stint. One hundred and forty hours without sleep, even illusory sleep, had allowed the girl to daydream more than usual. The sensitivity of her senses had blunted, and she had begun to find herself unable to concentrate, hold a vein of attention. Sleep deprivation is like a big party that nobody is invited to. The people that show up do not know each other going in, spend some time vomiting and getting dizzy, and do not know each other afterward.

    Perfect.

    “There’s some’fink I need t’find out,” she chewed at her lip as she spoke, the reflection of the fire of New Antigone danced in her saffron-tinged, pupil-less milky eye. “Once this’us done, I need t’find someone. Y’understand, right?”

    Ooidal was unpacking large, sodden boxes of newly stolen supplies. “Yeah. I und’uh’stand. Bef’urr I w’huz assigned t’th’uh Equinox, bef’urr th’war w’huz over, I–“

    -It sounded like fireworks exploding under a picnic table. The thick shell exploded, sending obese lead roaches boring through the apartment’s thin door. The plated sole of a snakeskin boot kicked at the remaining hinge, knocking the door to its ochre carpeted ground. A tattered crimson coat stepped in, surrounded by a chuckling, choking aura of cigarette smoke. Underneath the coat was an unzipped leather jacket in deep burgundy that framed the rippling, ardently tanned muscle of a olive patterned shirt. The man wore oval glasses in the same shining not-brown of his jacket. They matched his dark cheeks that were slightly reddened from the crisp fall air. His black hair jutted outward in every direction, like a big, egomaniacal lion’s mane.

    He walked in alone, but both he and that redheaded pirate knew that someone else had strode in next to him. A professional looking main in a suit, which no light could escape, grinned into his cellular phone.

    “Hello there, friend. My name's Dante.”

**Eleutherophobia**

**GoDGiVeR**

FaraRose wrote:

(OOC: As usual, I'm sorry it's been so long. I don't really even have an excuse to make up this time other than the fact that I'm not certain that more than two people other than myself even bother to keep up with this. Once again, I urge you to join in. The ship is mobile now, so we could run into you, yes? If you still like this, please voice your opinion!)

((I like it. But it's kind of ... above my limit of understanding the english language. You're writing pretty advanced, making it hard for me to understand. All those metaphores and stuff make it very colourful, but although I've learned english for 10 years now, that's pretty hard to understand, still. =/
Need to read each text at least twice to understand the overall plot. Yeah, I've always been bad in languages, except programming languages.
One question: Is this going on in-game too, or just on the boards?))

**Eleutherophobia** · 03/01/2009 20:03:45

(Thanks for the comments GodGiver, I'll try to tone down the language in spots. Yes, some of this has happened in-game, and even if I'm too lazy to write it sometimes, I know what is going to happen next, so if you care to jump in, and you notice either Eleutherophobia or 2ante online, give them a ring and you'll end up as a major character in some way or another. Thanks for reading, and please start writing! By the way, writing this scene made me realize how long it had been since I had attempted an action sequence.)

    There they were, Dante with his big happy grin and his fire-engine red jacket, and the girl with cracked pockmarks on her purple lips. And it was like that big cathartic sneeze after a winter of sniffling. The spittle and phlegm flies everywhere and makes a terrible mess and you stand there with closed eyes and open nostrils in a moment of insurmountable clarity.

    “I heard you were dead.” Fara stared at him with one useless, glossy eye, and another that was hazy and bloodshot. Her black heel made a sharp, bright clicking on the hardwood as she stepped forward, holding her small shoulders back elegantly, carrying her red-cheeked, bee-sting lipped, innocent little face lifted to the gaze of the other man, the one that walked in with Dante. He met it through rimless sunglasses.

    “He was,” escaped him in a lyric baritone. He stood there with a slight grin crooked on his face and a pad of paper tuck under one smooth arm, the coat sleeve jammed elbow high. His other arm rested comfortably against a hip, the shy cuff of a white blouse peeking out from a black jacket, more youthfully fitted than a Machello. The buttons hung open, a black tie pointing downward to the silver glint of a belt buckle on black pants that flared slightly above black shoes. He muttered something under his breath and waved his black hair out of his face.

    “You don’ seem at all surprised to see me, miss,” Dante leaned his head back lazily, giving him the appearance of a rooster looking for a mate. For a moment, he ran through the laundry list of people he had asked about the girl. “Ecks, right? That sun’va’bich told you, didn’t he?”

    Fara nodded bashfully, pulling at the hem of a tight leather glove, clenching and unclenching her fist.

    “Well, I reckon we don’ need to waste time catchin’ up then, huh?” he licked his lips and started to yawn.

    The man in the glasses nearly giggled, and stepped forward, pulling the papers from under his arm. “Former machinist operative Fara Kerrigan Yazin, alias Eleutherophobia,” his voice oozed omnipotence. “We have been contracted by a private party to apprehend you and bring you to,” his smile broadened, and his breath caught in his throat “Well, you’ll know soon enough.”

    “Former ma-?“

    A few stories below, a police siren whined poignantly. Dante’s features bulged powerfully for a moment, and he lunged at the girl full of adrenaline. He started with a thick, crushing punch that landed in her outstretched glove, the rest of her silken form already feinting leftward. She countered instantly, bringing her own small leather fist into his stomach, which backed acrobatically out of reach a moment before. Their limbs danced through each other, and knotted tightly.

    The girl stared torridly at herself in his sunglasses; he grinned at himself in hers. For just a second, nothing moved, then everything did. Fara’s raven shoe shoveled into Dante’s red gut and she pushed herself into an ungraceful backflip that scraped her back against the apartment’s low ceiling as Dante pulled a beast of a handgun from his jacket, unleashing fireballs of lead that screamed past the girl’s blurred frame.

    She landed stumblingly, and kicked a wooden endtable at the man. He batted it away callously with a strong elbow and shot explosive footprints into the ground, wall behind the girl’s spastic movements. One jacketed arm lifted the girl over an overstuffed chintz couch and she circled around a corner on the room’s outer wall, stepping lightly on a window before it shattered. Eggshells of drywall painted the floor involuntarily as the girl met it, rolling. The man pounced, grabbing her by the shoulders, and somersaulted in a bear hug into a wall, flattening the girl’s hat into the molding. A picture fell, shattered.

    Dante straddled the girl, pushing one hand down on her neck and raising his other again and again to pummel her; her crossed wrists blocked each attempt. In a lapse, the girl held tightly to his arm and slid out from under him, pulling two small revolvers from her tailcoat. Her wrists bucked with each shot; she watched as his vermilion form swam fluidly through the lead, coming out unscathed. At twelve shots she spun the pistols nimbly around her fingers, grabbing them by the still-hot barrels, and raised the left to beat into him. Their arms tangled again; the guns fell from her hands, and he grabbed them, then back again – each using the complicated steel as surrogate shields. Finally, Dante’s dense mitt broke through the foray and crumpled Fara into her aching chest.

    Before a thought of pain, she ducked to his left, and with a sweeping motion from her outstretched leg, broke him from the floor. He fell loudly, and Fara dove over him, scrambling for the hole where the door used to be. She leaked through it, and gained a few steps before Dante burst out behind her. He grabbed for his gun again and unleashed fervent hell upon her as she reached a confined stairwell. They were on the fifth and top floor, and could choose between an ancient cast-iron lift or the cramped staircase that snaked around it. The girl ducked right, then left, and tucked herself, for a moment, in a corner, hoping to gain an upper hand on the man.

    He was met with an elbow to the face that knocked his glasses off and blurred his vision. On instinct, his big hand snatched her thin arm before it had retracted, and he pulled her into a knee to the stomach. Her balance shattered, and she tumbled agonizingly to floor four. Dante vaulted down the staircase, landing on a knee and an elbow where she had been. Fara rolled out of the way and got back to her feet, spotting a newspaper-shielded window at the next turn.

    The man with the glasses slowly made his way to the staircase, and called the elevator, scribbling a few points of interest into his pad. He was about even with the girl when she sprung through the window, twisting her cute little hips from the odd angle from which she had jumped. There were still police sirens outside.

    The cement cracked angrily as she landed, crouching, the force of the fall reverberating through her entire body. She had formed a bad habit of closing her eyes when she jumped, and she opened them to a greyish sunrise, and a double handful of Richland’s Finest.

    They yelled all the typical things police yell, and she slowly brought her hands to her head, the situation running through her mind in slow motion. Two of them, fat ones, walked up to her, one with handcuffs jangling limply from his sweaty pink grasp. The first pulled her pulsing arms down behind her while the other placed a cuff around her right wrist. She narrowed her eyes and tossed back her elbows, catching them both in the stomach, and raised her left fist to one’s face. Spinning, she ripped herself from the grasp of the other, and landed a series of jabs across his front. The rest came at her with curses and batons; there had to be at least ten.

    The fastest yelled and swept his nightstick out like a bat, and she ducked under it, the two behind her recovering. She latched onto either of their inside shoulders and jumped, the sole of her shoe shattering the man’s teeth. The trio engaged in a deadly ballet, Fara ducking and weaving between their clumsy blows. The girl fell into a split and swing both her legs under the men’s, pulling at the backs of their shirts. As they struck the cement, three more joined the skirmish. Fara landed a slug on one, and her arms rubberbanded between the three.

    In a moment of unfocus, a strong jab hit her nose, and she stumbled backward into the arms of a different. He squeezed tightly around her arms and waited for the rest to begin taking shots at her stomach. Instead, she planted her feet and pushed forward, throwing him over her shoulders, bowling through two others too slow to dodge.

    The door behind Fara burst open, and Dante raised his gun to her, eyeing her like a bull eyes a matador. Suddenly, two of the police officers looked as if their skin no longer fit correctly, and squirmed uncomfortably in place, their residual self images being overwritten by two frowning men in dark suits, each unholstering frightening handguns. Fara and Dante ducked behind opposite cement dividers as the men emptied entire magazines in their direction.

    They stopped, and Dante sidled around the barrier, distracting the agents with a haphazard eruption of gunfire. Fara, meanwhile, compressed herself against the wall tightly and wondered for a fleeting moment if an agent had trained his aim on her. The grout next to her splintered at a gunshot wound. A snarling police officer appeared next to her with a smoking barrel. As she weaved to avoid another shot, a hole jumped through his chest, then another, and he fell to the ground. Dante abruptly moved his aim back to the agents.

    Realizing the futility of the firefight, the four lunged simultaneously at each other. Fara locked limbs with Dante, and bounced a kick between his abdomen and a dark suit. A fist reached her face, another her navel, and she flipped backward, her foot colliding with a chin. Dante did his best to deflect the onslaught of fists, wrapping his hand around one while batting away another. The girl landed, grabbing a black pant leg before it reached her head, jumping over a low-aimed kick. Her fist reached Dante, and he leaned backward, avoiding the jabs of an agent. A still-conscious police officer radioed for backup.

    Dante spun his back toward Fara in adaptation to the movement of his assailant; she did the same. They leaned against each other while shifting their weight fluidly to parry attacks, and Dante reached behind himself, wrapping a trunk of an arm around the girl, throwing her over himself, at the agent. She planted her feet in his black lapels, and kicked off, knocking the tanned man onto his red back. As he fell, he rammed a snakeskin boot into the girl’s abdomen, knocking her breath out into the early morning dew. Fara landed headfirst on the gravelly asphalt and skidded across the ground on her cheek; she did not get back up.

    Dante recognized the opportunity and doubled his efforts with the agents, picking a gun from a downed officer and distracting the two with lead confetti. He heaved the girl over a muscular shoulder and thrust a hand into his back pocket, fiddling around for a key. His hands met brass and he snaked the key into its nearby door.

    It opened to a pristinely white corridor that looked, almost, like it went on forever. Lumbering through the door, he dropped his fidgeting cargo and slammed away the world behind him. Lethe was leaning against a grey door a few feet down, chewing at an apple; looking at the crumpled mess of a redhead, he nodded.

Cystil-MxO · 12/04/2007 14:13:59

Cystil was now running quicker than ever, his feet rhythmic to the pavement like a hummingbird in spring. Gravel and dirt was spitting up his trouser legs, greying them even more, into a sorry, sunken mess. Sweat poured down his long, tapered nose, until it dripped onto his chin and splashed onto his neck. He had tried, earlier, to outrun his past. He was as sorry for that reason as any man. He couldn’t escape anything - he could only embrace it.

He was still aware of being followed. He was still aware that he needed to find Fara.

Carousing past a corner shop, he brushed an italian lady and swore under his breath -- something he did well out of her hearing, before speading on through the suburbs of whatever part of the city he was in.

### Validating Screened Signal ###

...Complete ; )

/Key…………
/Filter…………
/Recompile………
>Sys: [Warning: Security failure at 34.11.02]

Exchange: operator@ equinox.1879.n.Eleutherophobia/secureSSH.socket
With: operator@[private].[private].[private]/secureSSH.socket

Number traced. Displaying co-ordinates.

> Sys: Interspersed ping will continue until target becomes inept.

[Message: Channel Frozen]

Cystil was at a full sprint - as quick as he could physically, toward Eleutherophobia’s position.