The Demiurge Confederacy : Machinist Privateerism (Heavy RP)

**Eleutherophobia**

    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 has 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.

**Eleutherophobia**

"The world has achieved brilliance without wisdom, power without conscience. Our is a world of nuclear giants and ethical infants."
-Omar N. Bradley

**Eleutherophobia**

There is a small island in the Mediterranean Sea that does not appear on any map. It cannot be seen from any other island, nor can any other land be seen from it. On this island is a lighthouse, rotting from age and sea water, that is never lit. There is nothing inside it, save for a spiraling staircase that leads to the top, and an ancient, dusty bookcase.

The case is filled with unmarked books, bound in ancient leather, save for a single space. If you remove a book from the shelf, it will fling itself open in your hands, and the words inscribed in it shall start screaming to the air. You must wrestle the book closed and shove it back on the shelf, or the immortal evil contained within its pages shall break free, and you will be forced to take its place, with pages, ink and binding crafted from your own flesh and blood.

However, if you bring the correct book to the island, and place it in the empty space, the lighthouse will light. As long as it is lit, the world shall enjoy an unending paradise, for all the evil in the world will be contained in the lighthouse. And while it is lit, nothing can go in or out.

The only problem; you will be trapped for eternity with all the evil ever known or conceived, by man or god. And the only way to escape is to douse the light.

**Eleutherophobia**

Would you douse the light?

**Eleutherophobia**

I met you at the café, remember?

**Eleutherophobia**

Havocide

Awesome RP faction. JOIN them if you want great fun!

**XElite**

호랑이도 제 말하면 온다

**Eleutherophobia**

Phoenix.

**Eleutherophobia** · 01/30/2008 19:40:11

The Demiurge Confederacy: We party hard...

...And post mildly offensive pictures.

So, that is to say, The Demiurge Confederacy: You can laugh, but you'll feel bad afterward.

**Eleutherophobia**

17-14

**Eleutherophobia**

Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.

**Eleutherophobia**

Cystil-MxO

while we softly while away the hours //
waiting for the decline ..

**Eleutherophobia** · 02/18/2008 09:38:08

Cystil-MxO wrote:

while we softly while away the hours //
waiting for the decline ..

And so he returns with a chip on his shoulder,
    and a feather in his cap,
        and the powers that be give a slap on the back.

And he waits,
    and he waits,
        and he bleeds,
            and he waits.

And the horse strays away from its trough.