Demiurge : Open RP

**Eleutherophobia** · 07/25/2007 23:08:43

    Her hat turns first, a worn heel, then the rest of her delicate frame, a threadbare tailcoat twisting backward before a gloved hand pulls it inward against a growing wind. She leans heavily on the raven umbrella in her left hand as she steps, her hedonistic physique balancing on its acute tip. The girl approaches a telephone booth; men and women dressed in dark suits and expensive ties walk past callously, but a handful of miscreants wearing tight leather and unnecessary sunglasses loiter near the Plexiglas cubicle.

    A man nods stoically at her, and she replies with a grin just too wide for her face, her impish nose curling upward slightly. One eye, the right, opens broadly as she extends a humble, leather hand to meet his; the left stares bored at him, its glazed over appearance granting the girl a history. She can't be over twenty. The man meets her grasp with a firm handshake, feeling each finger collide with the next, though relieved to no longer hear the subdued, wet crunch of used bandage.

    "I heard you've left your employers, Miss Yazin," he smiles, tilting his head down toward the girl. His coal black sunglasses hold double reflections of her ivory white fedora.

"It'd seem that whatever synapse obstructions our benefactors'd constructed previously've since deteriorated. It'd be foolish not t'take this opportunity, yes?" she rasps childishly, her voice a non-confrontational, bastardized Anglican English.

    He nods, inwardly doubting her psychological normalcy. "How," he pauses, puzzled, "are you broadcasting a signal? I would have expected them to have confiscated your hovercraft following your resignation."

Her sheepish grin exposes an ample amount, no, too many gleaming white teeth. "I took it," her right eye glances timidly up at him, reading how much justification she has to give. "It's my ship, after all. Th'Equinox was registered t'Fara Kerrigan Yazin, variable case three-four-one-one-oh-two," her right eye squints, taking on a manic posture, "It's my ship."

   "Be that as it may," he mutters, glancing at himself in the sunglasses of those around the two, "I don't know how wise of an idea it was to steal machine property, Miss Yazin. I'm sure that Zero One is aching for a reason to make you disappear, and you've certainly given them one in doing this." His gaze lands temporarily on the fluttering skirt of a young businesswoman walking by, placing an ungraceful interlude in the speech. "You are going to need t'find a way to make your existence up to our benefactors, a big way," he clears his throat, reestablishing visual contact with the girl's bleached hat. "Moreover, you're going to need a crew; I won't doubt your...vocational prowess, but you certainly can't expect to get anything done on your own."

   "That's why I cuh-ahntacted you," she states matter-of-factly, brushing a stray nacarat curl from her vision, "I'll need help getting this idea mobile."

   "Idea?"

   "Privateerism."

   "You're kidding, of course," he chuckles apprehensively. "You of all people should know how difficult it can be to get Zero-"

   "I've already contacted those necessary, and am doing e'rything I can t'become sanctioned." She shifts her weight off of the umbrella's painstakingly ordinary handle, smiling at the sunrise's blinding reflection in the thin stretch of water isolating Richland. "Th'Equinox'll be th'first, but it won't stop there," she walks past the man, gently resting a fragile leather hand on the chain-link of a fence. "Too many people have aligned themselves wit'his simulation's dinosaurs. They're archaic political establishments suited only for a prior generation's cold war. This is what needs t'be done."

   Her hat turns first, a worn heel, then the rest of her delicate frame, a threadbare tailcoat twisting backward before a gloved hand pulls it inward against an ebbing wind. She checks the time hastily on a broken silver wristwatch before confidently drifting into a polished sedan. In her place lies a scribbled name and telephone number.

Eleutherophobia
305-XXXX

**GoDGiVeR**

((Soon isn't soon enough SMILEY

))

Cystil-MxO · 12/04/2007 13:46:37

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[face="courier new,courier"]
[/face][align=left][face="courier new,courier"]//12.3.23.1.11.ProxyDevide.
//Connecting.sys.exe
//LineOne.wav[/face]
[face="courier new,courier"]
"Hello?"

"Your still on the job. Get moving."[/face]

[face="courier new,courier"]//1.3.3.443.2
[LINE FROZEN][/face]
[/align][/align][i] [/i]

**Eleutherophobia** · 07/25/2007 21:28:56

    Roman Carrington was both a man whose name trumped his consequence, and a terrible cook. His wife has been great in the kitchen, which had probably been the reason for his atrophied culinary skills, but after half a decade of divorce fallout, he didn't have much of an appetite for self-reliance. As such, Roman was known in nearly every grimy restaurant and nasty bar west of the aqueduct. Not so much as Roman Carrington, but as the lecherous old dead-beat who tipped too much, hoping to get a false phone number, a mumbled first name, or a bashful smile in return.

    He trudged his way wearily out of the poorly lit shell of a cafeteria masquerading as a casino. It had been closed early again - some issue with the custodial union. He never saw the place getting cleaned, but enough time on this earth had taught him not to complain about a full-day's pay for a half-day's work.

    It rains too much.

    He grabbed a worn newspaper off of the sleeping timekeeper's desk - an overturned supply crate with a handful of clipboards strewn across. Roman stepped outside with the paper above his thinning greased hair, looking up at the obnoxiously overcast sky, he decided it felt late enough in the day to get a drink; his watch was in for repairs, and he had made a habit of telling time by the lack of sun.

    A drowned, bruised, fractured cement staircase led downward between two long abandoned office suites, running into a corroded, crumbling door. The place was a prohibition-era hideout for the city's mob personae and politicians. Whatever grandeur it had held then had been lost to property taxes and salmonella lawsuits. Still, it had the old-world charm that only comes from rat-infested pool tables and the acrid smell of fissured asbestos.

    And a Kirsch that'll knock y'on your *CENSORED*.

    A tattered crimson coat stepped out of the crypt nodding a hello, leaving a chuckling, choking trail of smoke behind before making its way uncaringly down the street. The door screamed as Roman entered, alerting the basement's ghosts and roaches to his presence. Frank "Tiny" Garrison, the yeti of a bartender, nodded knowingly as the man sat down, laying a bargain windbreaker on the counter. "Tiny" clutched an unlabeled glass phial in a massive paw, dropping two tumblers next to it.

    "Long day, Roman?" smirked the bartender, glancing at his watch. He placed a glass full of the thin yellowish liquid in front of the man, the bottle standing guard next to it.

    "Lay off Tiny, if you ever settle down and lose a family ‘huv your own, you'll crawl into holes like this e'ry chance you get," ushered a raised glass and a tawny grin. Roman glanced at a framed magazine cover hanging just above Frank Garrison's shoulder - some undersold cultural rag that chronicled the few-and-far-between attractive aspects of Westview. The magazine's cover held a glossy picture of the bar's front door, the inside. It was the place's original door, a two-inch thick slab of some dry wood, apparently housing a quarter-inch ceramic sheet through the middle. Etched into the door was a multitude of passwords and pseudonyms - a frantic index written by forgetful watchmen.

    The door buckled. The action must have come before the sound, because for a moment, Roman thought to ask "Tiny" if his contact had shifted out of place. Next came the thought to settle up on a bet that there actually was no ceramic in the door. Then a piercing crash as the door splintered through the middle into hundreds of aborted toothpicks. There had always been some less-than-legal practices in the byway at the top of the stairs; it was probably the carcass of some used up fighting dog.

    To smash through a door that thick? Either one hell of a dog, or-

    "What th'ell was that?" howled "Tiny," washing his hand with the former contents of a glass. The dog, a red-haired girl tripped backward across the floor, catching herself in an improvised half-kneel. A sable umbrella skidded through cigarette butts and peanut shells into the foot of Roman's stool. Lead scissors tore through the remaining scraps of door, peppering the opposite wall with dusty holes. One, four, three black suits poured in through the doorway, pistols hammering, copper jackets pummeling discarded napkins. Roman's glass burst, along with most of his hand; more rounds raced each other toward his torso, painting a zigzag path of ruddy punctures. He yelped just before a slug fissured through his jaw, leaving him with a lopsided half-grin as he collapsed into himself.

    Ow.

    Frank Garrison threw his two hundred and fifty pounds of hair, sweat, skin, fat, muscle, bone over the bar, a single barreled rifle in hand. He toppled one man over, gilding the ground with his left shoulder. The redhead franticly clawed for the handle of her umbrella, spinning it around her wrist, shoving herself upward on three legs. She fell forward serenely, swimming against a stream of lead. "Tiny" saw the world flash white with each bullet that ripped through his tree-trunk body. The girl maneuvered her way fluidly into the barrel of a gun, the cold steel kissing an exposed midriff.

    "Look at this, Ele. You can't even maintain yourself; how d'you think you'll ever maintain a revolution? Hell, even a hovercraft?" snarled a woman, digging the handgun agonizingly into the girl's stomach. She hesitated, glancing at her reflection in the girl's false eye for a half-moment. "If it we're up t'me, Ele, you'd be leaving here in a dozen little plastic bags. I couldn't care any less about the ship; let it go nuclear right where it sits. If the fallout doesn't wipe out whatever pirate haven you're using as camp, the resulting EMP certainly would." A man groaned, his bygone shoulder leaking thick rust-colored goo, a dead giant crushing his near-carcass. Another stood stoic, his handgun wavering silently an inch from the girl's head, brushing against her ivory hat.

    "And what'd that do f'er you?" queried the girl, her lower lip quivering in childish fear, but her voice remaining callous and calculating. "You've seen the public relays, yes? Y'ave bigger issues than a group of bandits, don'chu?" Time grew liquid as she dropped to a side, one gunshot skinning her abdomen, the other tearing at her fedora. She let the umbrella slip through her hands, re-tightening her grip on it as she reached the dull aluminum end; a practiced spin brought her eye level with the man's knee as she drove a rounded handle into his chin, his teeth colliding with train wreck force as she shifted the umbrella to his throat, cutting his breath short and knocking him to the blackened ground.

    The woman had regained herself, realigning her aim toward the girl's impish nose. A clock's tattoo flared back to life as the two engaged in a bastardized sword fight. Rounds escaped the gun's barrel haphazardly as the umbrella repeatedly batted it away from its target. Finally, the two met, the umbrella's tip lodged in the beretta's barrel. The woman grinned, pulling the gun's trigger. With a click and a crash, the ersatz shield shattered, brass confetti streaming backward. The girl frenetically grabbed for a shard of the sword's flimsy metal frame, a leather hand found one and clamped down. Instinctively, she limply wove behind the woman, holding the mock-knife to her neck.

    "The cold war is over," she said with a feigned blunt tone of finality. With those words, she dropped the weapon and bolted into the claustrophobic freedom of a crowded street and fat, bored rain. At a safe distance, she reached tensely for her telephone, checking her SMS messages.

(OOC: Okay, we're now officially open. Sorry about the delay getting my second post up, but I was out of town. Of course, it is not necessary to write a novel, but to simply keep the storyline progressing. As always, feel free to use characters of whom you've had permission (feel free to use Eleutherophobia); no god-modding. Oh and yes, I did change tenses between posts, sue me.)

Cystil-MxO · 12/04/2007 14:09:11

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A man in a grey suit and victorian overcoat was walking slowly upon the pavement through a dimly lit street, Richland way. From his mouth a plume of smoke billowed and followed him, wrapping and covering his face in a shroud of inconspicuous mirth. He began treading on the gaps in the slabs, and whilst he did so his body seemed to transgress and thin out, making his appearance seem not altogether there, but vacant or hollow. However, on closer inspection his masculine body seemed to be framed in the shell of a hunched sailor, his shoulders rounded into his chest, his hands in his overcoat pockets. Meat evidently lay somewhere beneath the fabric of his coat, which rippled against his pectoral muscles. His jaw was covered in gristle, and his mouth seemed to omit an inquisitive grin. Through the tip of his fedora, his obsidian eyes winced, seemingly in search for something distant.

Starlight was now boring down through the aubergine red haze of the street, casting diamond eyes on whoever deemed themselves worthy of wandering.

Cystil cast his cigarette on the floor, red ash erupting over his black suede shoes. He paused from taking another step to curse softly in the air.

Wiping his grey overcoat of a little rain that had fallen earlier, he removed it from his back and slung it loosely over his shoulder. He readjusted his hat and sighed, his jawline raising, as his eyes looked skyward. He took a step forward, onto another paving crack.
[i]
Somethin’ wrong again, seems such.[/i]

Out of the corner of his eye, his smirk growing, Cystil caught a pink sign that hung from a wall down an alleyway to his left erupt in a volcano of sparks. They dribbled onto the floor and down the brick walls of another building opposite. The letters on the sign that signified it was a bar melted into a new word.

[i]Ooh. Pretty.[/i]

He steadied his foot on the paving crack and pushed it harder into the masonry. The vision down the street ahead of him remained – and just under the brim of his hat he caught but more sparks erupting from where the sign had been; yet there was no sign there, it had burnt onto the walls and fallen on the floor a while ago, and now the sparks seemed to originate in mid-air.

Brushing over the masonry he continued down the street, taking the tarmac in the central reservation instead.

[i]They ain’t got no time for little matters… fixing stuff.. no no, war on their hands now.. But they still want us no where near them... treading on their matters, it seems...[/i]

Disappearing into darkness, he flicked his phone open and wrote an SMS to Ele.

“I'm being traced. I need to find you. Where are you?.”

**XElite** · 07/13/2007 12:26:41

The weather was still cloudy and overcast as it had been for the past few days - an almost constant grey...

It was still raining when XElite stepped out of the Hardline, not that he minded - he was well used to it by now. He took only a few steps along the pavement when something caught his eye... down one of the narrow staircases which led off of the main street into its own world lay a trail of empty shell casings and blood; painted on the surface of the surrounding walls.

As he proceeded towards the narrow staircase, he withdrew his SMG and armed it with a metallic click.

Edging along the wall of the staircase, the true extent of what had taken place no more than a few moments ago became apparent... The front door which looked to have, at one time, been a sturdy, wooden structure, now lay in splinters and fragments all over the entrance way. The spatters of blood were beginning to turn into pools, some with motionless persons in their centre... Bottles and glasses now lay in shards upon the floor. Tables and chairs were turned on their sides towards the entrance - probably by the establishment's former patrons, in the vein hope they would provide cover from the stray bullets of those caught up in the fighting.

So many innocent lives...

He heard a shuffling from behind a table close to one of the far walls which too, had been turned on its side and was heavily laden with silvery, metallic objects. XElite aimed his SMG a little above the leg of the rounded table and made his way quickly but vigilantly towards the noise...

"Help..." he heard faintly as he drew closer.

As the person laying in the pool of blood behind the table came into view, they let out a scream as soon as they saw the weapon aimed at them.

XElite quickly lowered the weapon and kneeled down next to the wounded man.

"It's OK, I'm here to help."

"..." the man remained silent.

"... what happened?"

"A woman... barged in. Bullets flying everywhere!"

"A group in black suits came in after her. I could only make out two of them, a guy and a lady."

"What did the woman look like?" XElite asked.

"I dunno, reddish hair, pretty well dressed, not too many folks round these parts could afford that kind of tailoring... Oh! and a really strong accent but I couldn't really make out from where."

Fara... XElite immediately thought to himself.

The man looked down towards the centre of his chest but remained silent even through the obvious pain.

"Thanks... I'm gonna get you some help. Hold on." XElite tried to reassure him.

As the sirens grew nearer, XElite decided it was time to get out of the bloody battleground...

---Incoming Message---

From: XElite

To: Eleutherophobia

Subject:

Hey Fara, it's X. I heard what happened at the bar. Are you OK?

Cystil-MxO · 12/04/2007 14:05:24

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[i]Keep running.

Stay on the job.

Find Ele.

Freedom?
[/i] [/align]

Cystil-MxO · 12/04/2007 13:48:38

Cystil-MxO · 12/04/2007 14:12:33

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[face="courier new,courier"]
[/face][face="courier new,courier"][Two days prior to Cystil's phonecall.][/face]
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Cystil took the parchment from the quivering hand and held it a little while, studying and observing the petrified mess below him. Ochre wallpaper, moist with sweat and blood from the fight, fell from the sodden walls onto the cheaply laminated kitchen floor. The pale creatures face pulsated under the neat leather sole of his foot, its black hair greasy and lice riden trailing over the floor. Upon the paper, a beautiful spidery writing had made out a name and a number.

[i]Eleutherophobia. 305 ...[/i]

He had what he wanted, but not what he desired.

Seven or so mintues before aforesaid human trash lay strewn on the floor quivering and begging for mercy, cypherite Thomas Crawley had bragged about having the ability of tracking and succesfully finding, one Miss Yazin, on a private forum. For Cystil, Casting his mind back was never easy, but he imagined the thread that led him to the present once more.

[face="courier new,courier"][b]

Epanokamelavkion[/b]: "Demiurge, that's what they called it. They were infidels. I know that each one terrorized the system and awakened hundreds, probably, not intentionally though. They all got infected at some stage, too. If bluepills saw that, they would have awakened stone cold in their pods. I got us a link, anyway. FaraRose/Eleutherophobia/Yazin. I have her number. We should be able to cleanse the lot of her number."
[b]Bartser[/b]: "A telephone number. Pfft. What'll that do us for? How we tracking her?"
[b]Epanokamelavkion[/b]: "We'll sort something out. It's still unsafe to post details here. Get Cystil on it, he's a detective.. infact, he's anything you want him to be!"
[b]Bartser: [/b]"He's here because I have something he needs. His life. He's jacked in and I wont let him jack out. He has to live with it."
[/face]

[i]I should have thought about this. It's a trap. They want me to find her, like everything else. Lazy bastards.[/i]

Clutching the tiny paper close to his pocket, his foot still on a squirming face, he pulled on the trigger of his shotgun. The cartridge echoed a loud bang throughout the kitchen making two tiles dislodge from above the cooker hood. They shattered on the floor and dust flew silently over the legs of the table and chair in the centre of the room. A little blood had flecked over Cystils mouth as a torrent of flesh and cartelidge swilled across the tiled floor.

Silence wrapped the room in a short while, and all was normal again. Dabbing his mouth with an silken handkerchief, he made his way past the kitchen and into the sitting room. Cystil sat on a filthy brown sofa, which enveloped his thighs and crunched his shoulders.

[i]Why am I still doing this? Is dea...[/i]
[b]
[/b]...[b]
[/b]
[i]What was that?[/i]

The computer in the far corner of the sitting room began typing for itself.

[face="courier new,courier"]

Good evening, Cystil.[/face]

[i]What the..

[/i][face="courier new,courier"]The girl is worth your life, remember. Find her, and dispose of her.[/face]
[color="#336600"][size="xx-small"]

[/size][/color]

Cystil typed into the machine.

[face="courier new,courier"]Find her yoursleves![/face]

[i]If they follow me, I'll shake them. I know I can.[/i][i]
[/i]

**Eleutherophobia** · 07/25/2007 23:06:19

    She hesitated for a moment, glancing backward, breaking a double-handful of self-important lawyers’, brokers’, prostitutes’ strides while silently catching her breath. Insincerely apologizing, the girl inched her way out of the crowd at an intersection, ducking past the missing gate of a private alcove. An embarrassing gash in the seam of her ivory hat gave the girl an ethereal, otherworldly aura; a loosely feathered halo atop her fiery hair. Though, a more apparent rip in her stomach was making itself more known with each step. Her cleaved shirt allowed the apathetic world to view a weeping cleft just below Fara Yazin’s navel. The combined scars painted an one-eyed grin across her abdomen: a poetic caricature.

    A random patter of water on cement slowly grew to the rhythmic drumming of a thousand simultaneous droplets saturating every surface available; the girl’s thoughts dwelled sodden on the corpse of her umbrella as every inch of clothing began to cling to her pallid, taut skin. She gingerly plunged a leather hand into the ashen pocket of her soggy coat, resurfacing with a gleaming telephone. There were still two messages; the uncaring black text scrolled lustrously across a dulled white screen.

    Sender: Private/[Unknown]
    “I'm being traced. Where are you?”

    Sender: XElite/[Alias]
    “Hey Fara, it’s X. I heard what happened at the bar. Are you okay?”

    The first elicited a childish frown from the girl, as she wondered where private caller got the audacity to ask her location on an unsecured line. The second deepened the expression, as her intensely recent escapade had already reached the ears of a colleague. Both, however, received the same collected, emotionless response. Her glistening black fingers skipped carelessly across the small keys as Fara’s right eye stared needles into the mobile’s tiny screen.

    Reply: Inbox/[Recent]
    “The Demiurge Private Commissioning Agency was unable to process your message, please feel free to speak with an associate at our newest location on the boardwalk of Ikebukuro.”

    The message sent, and she reburied her telephone with one hand, hailing a taxi with the other as she stepped back into the congested traffic of a crumbling square of sidewalk. The coughing yellow coupe pulled halfway onto the splintered curb before coming to a stop, its leather-faced driver cranking a window down an immeasurable sliver to ensure his upcoming income. The girl placed her war-torn fedora onto the imprint of an overweight man’s wet trousers as she climbed into the cab’s back seat. Rasping directions in a pseudo-pubescent cough, she gazed haggard at the faceless heads of dark suits ducking between canopies.

    “Y’new in town, kidd-o?” choked the driver, his smoke-ravaged voce the grating whine of an ill-tuned saxophone. He stole a drooling look at the girl in an adjusted rearview mirror, thanking the rain for its unreserved effect on her clothing.

    “Always,” she quipped bitingly, catching her own reflection in that of his eyes. Her unlikely frame leaned itself toward the window, ducking behind a passenger seat.

    “I’d say get out while ya’ can,” he advised her, switching seamlessly from suitor to mentor. “This town…it’s like a big ship, and the water’s on fire. You know what I mean?” The man laughed inwardly at his poor excuse for wisdom, not expecting a reply, as he scarcely knew what he was saying. The rest of the ride to an address in Ikebukuro was silent, but she knew what the saxophone meant.

(OOC: I apologize for taking so much time to update. I've been embarrassingly ill-organized lately. But, such things pass, yes?)

**XElite** · 07/28/2007 06:25:51

There were a myriad of individual canopies scattered along the sidewalk of the narrow sidestreet, each with an individual stand underneath and occupant stood beside. There were usually one or two people on the other side of each counter, stopping to see what new merchandise or ingredients had been brought in with the day, though this always increased to a handful when it rained. Those which dispensed a hot meal or beverage were especially popular as the heat they generated always provided a soothing warmth to those stood close enough.

It was under one of these that he withdrew his cell phone to check for any new messages. The screen gave a warm glow in contrast to the intersections of darkness which shrouded the distance between each canopy. The hanging lanterns danced on the screen as each new drop of rain changed its shape and pattern. Oddly enough, these sidestreets always seemed to grow busier as the day progressed instead of quieter. A chef rushing past with a crate of fish. A figure in a dark suit talking loudly on their cell phone with a brief case in the other hand. An old lady stooped over with her cardigan pulled tight to ward off the attacking weather.

But time stood still on the screen...

There were a few new messages but one in particular which drew his attention was a reply from Fara. It seemed almost like an automated response. Perhaps the line on which she was currently was not secure? If so, then couldn't any names or locations be monitored by whoever had taken an interest in Fara's goings on? Perhaps.

He replaced the source of light back into his pocket and left a single note for the proprietor.

Leaving the warmth and shelter of the canopy behind, he made his way to the familiar boardwalk of Ikebukuro...

Fatmop

Why am I devoting cycles to this?

From the roof of a dilapidated building, Kellner had a good view of the entire street. It didn't take much concentration anymore to focus his whole being on something - he could stare unblinkingly at a computer monitor for hours, looking for anything that might be the key to the destruction of Zion, the end of the awakenings. He could bathe himself in blood, even if most of it was his own, battling tirelessly to achieve something. Yet they had found him, and they had told him he would be allowed certain liberties only if he worked with them more closely.

He was currently spending his time monitoring. His eyes never left the man in the grey suit and victorian overcoat, despite the things that others might deem interesting happening all around on the street below. It wasn't challenging - the man was simply walking, taking time to stomp out a cigarette, using his cell phone.. Straining his eyes was no good, Kellner couldn't make out the number he dialed or the message he typed. These things could be traced, however, and he was sure he would hear of it sooner or later.

Arrogantly, he took some of his concentration away from watching Cystil. It's easy enough, keeping the eyes following him. The rest of me can be thinking about something else. Something like the treatment of our latest prisoner, perhaps. And as gruesome images played through his mind, Cystil disappeared.

Kellner shook his head, bringing the multitasking to an abrupt halt. He played the images his eyes had taken in over again, but he could not determine where his target had gone..

**Eleutherophobia** · 08/27/2007 20:44:33

(I had written a whole drawn-out piece to illustrate Ele's ride to the docks, but felt that this portrayed what I was going for so much better. Sorry for the long delay, everyone. School and Cross Country have eaten my life.)

The girl stepped onto the wooden eastern seam of Ikebukuro, an early-evening breeze spraying salty mist into the fat, humid air.

Paradox

This post has moved:

/mxo/posts/preList.m?topic_id=36300..._id=36300312535

Spam.

**XElite** · 08/30/2007 14:27:48

A reflection of the setting Sun hovered over a pool of water resting upon the boardwalk. The rain had only moments ago stopped and already there was little evidence that a rain storm had, at all, happened - could ever have happened.

He walked further along the wooden platform. The Sun grew brighter, its rays resting on his black sunglasses.

A white Fedora slowly came into view...

"Hello Ecks. Glad you could make it." Fara greeted him with a gravely serious tone in her voice.

"Is it safe to talk?" XElite replied.

"Prob'ly not, but we're going to anyway?" She said with a grin on her face.

XElite smiled for a moment but it began to fade as he moved on to discuss what had happened at the bar...

Not long into talking about what had happened, her demeaner changed. The confidence in her voice suddenly disappeared and what was left was shaky and uncertain. A dark crimson stain began to appear on the surface of her tailored jacket at which she looked upon with an almost surprised expression.

"Do you know the severity of th'situation we're in, Ecks? My ship, my crew... We're pirates. There's more than one organisation we've met th'disapproval of..."

"You're not in contract with the machines?" He inquired, glancing at her quizzingly.

"Of course we are! We're the Demiurge Confederacy. Privateers under the g'huvernship of the machines." With this statement, she had suddenly returned to the very confident and professional Fara Yazin that had greeted XElite on the boardwalk.

Throughout the rest of his time on the boardwalk, Fara continued to flit between the "Captain of the Demiurge Confederacy" and the young girl who had stolen a ship and was on the run, fearing, at every moment, for her life. Several times.

Apparently she recognised one of those dressed in all black suits, who had attacked her at the bar, as a former associate.

"I'm... sorry to hear that." XElite said at discovering this news.

"It's the way it goes..." She replied. Although he was unsure which Fara had said it.

She stared at him blankly for several minutes and XElite looked around to see if there was anything which had caught her attention; which had rendered the area suddenly unsafe...

Nothing.

"I'd better let you get back to work then." ... turning to leave.

"I..." she said.

Turning back to see Fara cautiously holding out what seemed to be a thin, black square.

"I've been unable to decode the encryption on this disk... I was hoping you may h'uv more luck with it?"

"Was there something in particular you were looking for on it or rather just to see what's there?" he asked, while placing the data disk in his pocket.

Her response was a smile and, again, a blank stare...