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Post by Blade Knight on Sept 27, 2009 13:24:24 GMT -5
Freaky old woman. Bad sign.
The dread rose up again the instant Misty laid eyes on the stranger, and her fears were realized when she removed her sunglasses. She couldn’t help but gasp. Yes, she now knew that there was…something… unnatural happening. Her father had confirmed that much. Yet, knowing this was real and not a bad dream was not exactly comforting.
Misty’s eyes swept over the store. It was a small-time local grocery store - it wasn’t very large and she had been here countless times before. She knew that the coffee was here in the front so that regular customers could simply pop in, grab some, and go. Why she felt compelled to get that coffee for her dad instead of running away first she couldn’t tell, but the objective gave her focus. She would be brave for him. She would not let this…entity, force, whatever… beat her.
She darted the short distance to the coffee, where bags were arranged in rows on the shelf. Her fingers clutched as many as possible before quickly turning back to the counter.
“Leave me alone!” she shouted, flinging it all at the crone and Frank’s talking head, but keeping one for herself. As they were pelted with a hail of coffee bags, Misty ran as fast as she could and burst out from the store.
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on Sept 27, 2009 14:29:25 GMT -5
As Misty ran to the door, the crone would just smile. "You can't run forever, Misty. You'll get tired. You'll go sleepy bye, just like your daddy. Just like your daddy."
Frank's head would leap at the glass, ramming it as she shut the door, and the glass would crack just as it had at her house, the crack spreading like an infectious flu, but with so much more purpose. "Freak" would scrawl itself across the surface, marring it, and this time it didn't disappear in some strange reverse-break. This time, it just glared at her. Glared and stood out against the clear, shining surface of the glass, barely glinting her reflection back at her and showing that crone's smiling face, that store owner's severed head. And a few, terrifying words would ring out in her head, said so nonchalantly by this old woman. "You'll go sleepy bye, just like your daddy."
Terror would grip Misty's heart, and some part of her would scream with ferocity, "YOU HAVE TO GET HOME!"
And inside the store, the crone would laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
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Post by Blade Knight on Sept 27, 2009 15:27:12 GMT -5
She watched over her shoulder as the head smashed into the glass door behind her, but she wasn’t thinking about Frank anymore.
You'll go sleepy bye, just like your daddy.
“No… no it’s not true…” Misty gasped. Her father… she had left him alone at the house! Yes, she was scared for herself. But the thought of anything happening to the only person who loved her was worse than whatever might happen to her. She flew down the sidewalk back in the direction she had come.
But, before she had gone more than five strides, she stopped cold. Something her father has said to her suddenly sprang into her head.
…And if you see anything like that again, just run. Just like before. Run as far away from it as you can. Don't come back here until it stops, alright?
She stood frozen in place, torn. On the one hand, the old crone had clearly threatened her dad. But on the other, her dad himself told her not to return home until the nightmare stopped. What should she do? If it came to a choice between listening to her own father or some hell-bent phantom…
“I’m sorry, daddy…” she whispered, a single tear falling from her green eye. Without another moment of hesitation, she crossed the street, turned around, and sprinted further downtown.
I can run forever… she thought hopefully. And I will. I won’t let it get me. I won’t let daddy down.
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on Sept 27, 2009 18:10:57 GMT -5
Misty ran far, very far. Nearly to the borders of the town, in fact, before she ran out of breath. She could feel her heart pumping like a workman's hammer on a nail, and her vision was cloudy. Exhaustion crept over her. It seemed, however, that the nightmare had ended at the store. Whatever it was that now frightened and stalked her, whatever it was that mocked her with those cruel, weird eyes so exactly like her own, had now left her. She could hear ambulances in the distance, and a feeling of sickness would form in the pit of her stomach as she realized they were heading away from her.
Toward her home.
Toward her father.
Toward the only person she loved.
A vision of the crone would flash in her mind. "You'll go sleepy-bye, just like you're father." she felt her mouth move, but the crone's voice came out, and she realized that she hadn't caused herself to say this. Dread would rise in her as she realized, horribly... that whatever it was, had just made her speak like a well-trained dog at the end of a short leash who's been taught that command.
Toward home she heard the sirens go.
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Post by Blade Knight on Sept 28, 2009 13:39:59 GMT -5
Misty thought she had done it, thought she had finally outran the nightmare again. She was an excellent runner, having been involved in track and cross country as recently as last year, but everyone had their limits, no matter how determined they are. Weary with exhaustion, she stumbled around town. She had only intended to stay in the downtown area, but must have somehow ended up at the edge of town itself. But, to the best of her knowledge, the haunting darkness that was her stalker was gone.
Then, she noticed the sirens. Were they… no, it had to be some other house. Close by perhaps, but not… or were they? Yes?... No?...
"You'll go sleepy-bye, just like you're father." She said unconsciously. No sooner had the words left her mouth did she gasp and cover her mouth with her hands. She said them, but they were not her words.
Tears were forming by now. She was deathly afraid for her father, but didn’t know what to do. Was she still under the influence of whatever horrid force was after her? Was this another trick? Or… was it real? If it could affect her, why not her father? He had alluded to experience with this phenomenon before. Maybe it had come back for him and… no, it was too painful to imagine.
Her instructions were to not return home until the nightmare had stopped. In her attempt to lure the darkness away from home, maybe it had gone directly there.
Misty was tired. She was scared. And she was alone. She did not wish to do anything that might endanger herself or her family. But what if she already had? In any case, no outwardly spooky stuff was happening, so it was with a heart heavy with dread that she jogged back home.
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on Sept 28, 2009 14:24:21 GMT -5
Misty would pound her feet against the concrete in rapid succession. Tears would stream down her face, landing in little droplets along the ground. She was thankful to find that the tears were both the same color, that at least the color of eyes didn't matter to them. She could feel the unforgiving, cold sidewalk beneath her shoes, and it jarred her feet with every strike as she ran, but she kept going, determined. She turned towards her house, and her fears were confirmed, but her legs kept carrying her. On the second floor of her home was a broken window. A large crowd of people stood around in a circle near this window, one woman screaming, loudly. It sounded like her mother.
She would feel compelled, though why she didn't know, to push through the crowd, to see what lay there. Somehow, she already knew.
As she pushed through, her lunch would threaten to return to the sunlight as she saw her father's face, cuts and scratches from the glass all over it. His eyes were open, staring into the sky, his lips hanging open with pure terror. His eyelids appeared to have been burned off, and there were a number of deep gashes all over his body. Worst of all, though, was the great, gaping wound in his chest, a huge, gaping wound. Nearby, she saw a place where a shotgun had been held. It lay on the snow, the heat of the recently fired barrel causing the surrounding snow to rise in thin streams of steam. It looked at her cruelly, mockingly. She looked down at her father, and though he was clearly dead, the eyes moved. They stared into her's, her very soul. Blue and Green.
'You'll go sleepy-bye, just like your father' swept through her mind again. And another thought, another thought that chilled her worse. The crone's voice, fresh, spoke in her head, pretending to be her thought though it clearly wasn't. 'I didn't do this, Misty. He did.'
The crone's cackling rang out in her head, and she would feel the strength begin to leave her legs as she realized... the crone was right. Looking back now, she could see... how urgent he had been to get her out of the house, how he had told her not to come back, despite the fact he had been the one thing that had saved her. How he couldn't bear to look at her too long after she had told him, staring out that window, knowing what he was about to do.
She looked, why she did not know, into the wound, and with horror she saw the worst part of all: Little holes where bits of buckshot had fully penetrated, spelling out one, big, word. Later, when the police removed the body, it would be tattooed on the ground in frozen, crimson fluid.
Freak
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Post by Blade Knight on Sept 29, 2009 11:27:18 GMT -5
She arrived on the scene in a daze, mindlessly pushing past the crowd and discovering the body. So, it had happened. It was real. The only one who really cared about her… gone.
Misty’s legs gave out and she sank to her knees in the snow beside her father’s corpse. This was too great a blow for her to deal with, so she simply stared at the broken figure with a blank, expressionless gaze.
I didn't do this, Misty. He did. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! ha…
A chill breeze swept through the air, causing her hair to sway in the wind and get in her face. She didn’t care. She did not move. She just knelt there, paralyzed, like a statue. The world did not exist. There was no crowd, no house. It was just her, the snow, and the dead man that used to be her father.
Thinking back to the last time she saw him alive, the last time he hugged her, the sad look in his eyes, the more Misty realized that this was no accident. Her mind had been clouded back then, blocked with fear and confusion. If it was not, perhaps she would have noticed what a stupid request that was: get him coffee from the grocery store? Come on. Who would honestly immediately send their kid away after hearing what she’d been through? He did that on purpose. He kept her away from the house, he sacrificed himself. He saved her.
Die…
"Ru-u-u-un..."
Freak…
"This place is strange, sweety... people see things nobody should see, do things nobody should do."
Die… Die… Die…
“You can't run forever, Misty. You'll get tired. You'll go sleepy bye, just like your daddy.”
Freak… Freak…
“I can't think of anything I'd hate more than to see you get hurt, so don't let it catch you, alright?"
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! ha…
“I love you, sweety."
FREAK…
She couldn’t hold it in any longer. Misty hung her head, shut her eyes tight, and began to cry. It felt like she spent an eternity weeping. It was all so wrong. So unfair. And none of it was even her fault. She did not choose to be born with two different eyes, didn’t choose to be rejected, didn’t do anything to deserve all this. And so she cried.
Her eyes, both the green and the blue, felt raw from expelling so many tears, and still more came. As she cried, her hands balled into tight fists. She still did not know what was going on, or why. She did not know why it was after her, or even what it was. But she did know one thing. She knew she would not rest until she found out.
She swore by her dead father that she would find the truth about this thing. She would find it.
And she would kill it.
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on Sept 29, 2009 15:57:19 GMT -5
And now we go leave Misty, and check in on Tyrone, the thug of Odech... One of Tyrone's gang, he couldn't tell which over the blaring music in their crappy little apartment, yelled out, "Hey, Tyrone, come check the TV, man! Its actin' all screwed up, I can't tell what the hell's goin' down with this shit!" He could vaguely hear static in the room. He also vaguely heard Twitch knock over a beer bottle, the third one he'd accidentally wasted today, and he thought angrily that he was gonna make him pay for those one day. Before he could walk in, however, he heard a knock at the door, and the sounds of the other room went dead. A voice he had hoped to never hear again drifted in to the room. "Tyrone, its your mother! Open the fuckin' door!" He noticed with a kind of diluted fascination that the world had gone black and white, mute, like an old TV show. Something, though, suppressed his mind. Something, some outside force, clogged the air like smoke, but with calm instead of choking fumes. He could see the shadows beneath the door, hear his mother beating on that door, but everything else in the world seemed like some kind of movie set the night before the old-time, silent-picture, black-and-white would begin shooting, in preparation of the actor's performances. Again, the voice called out, and this time, another one beside it. "Tyrone, you open the door for your mother RIGHT NOW. We need to talk." "This is your father, young man. Open the door or we're coming in. Now."
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Post by Blade Knight on Sept 30, 2009 12:19:34 GMT -5
“Whoa… trippy,” Tyrone remarked with a thoroughly simple, uninterested tone at the apparent lack of color in the world. He blinked a few times, but the color scheme did not change. Must have had one beer too many…
Suddenly, before he could check in on the stupid TV again (acting all screwed up? Wasn’t it just broken? Even more trippiness), he heard the knocking and the voices. It made his jaw drop like a cartoon.
“Wha…! Aw hell… Guys! Hey guys, we gotta split!”
He raced into the next room without bothering to check the door, his golden chain necklaces jingling. “Guys! Pack it up, we gotta go! Now! Guys?”
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on Sept 30, 2009 18:24:04 GMT -5
Where Tyrone's pals had sat, now there was nothing. The room he walked into was not the room his friends had been bickering in, in fact; It was his old room, back when he had lived with his parents. And when he looked back to the room he had just left, it was the hallway outside that room which had led into the living room, and beyond that the front door. He recognized one of the scraggly trees outside of his old home. He blinked once, and his parents were standing in the door-way, looking at him sternly. "We said to let us in." they said in an odd, unnatural chorus. "Why don't you ever listen, Tyrone? Why do you always have to talk to someone, but never have enough time to listen?"
His mother frowned deeply at him. "We want to help, Tyrone, but if all you're going to do is talk..."
She drew from her pocket a bloodied needle, black, metal threads tyed to one end. Worse yet, they both then began to smile, and in unison, his parents who had so long ago forgot about him, walked forward with thread in hand. If all you're going to do is talk...
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Post by Blade Knight on Oct 1, 2009 11:14:30 GMT -5
Tyrone was dumbfounded. What the hell was this!? His old room? In his old house? This wasn’t just trippy shit anymore… now he was starting to get genuinely freaked out. And this was only the beginning, because in the blink of an eye, his parents were here! Talking together all creepy-like… something was definitely messed up here!
“Uh… wassup guys?” he said, nervously eyeing the needle and thread. “Look, I… uh… was gonna call y’all, honest! I just… whoa… what yo doin’ with that needle-thing… Hey… hey stay back! Don’t yo come any closer…”
That horrible bloody black needle… metal thread… “If all you're going to do is talk...” things were adding up in his mind, and he most certainly did not like where this was going! But what could he do? He watched them approach, his mind spinning, trying to find a way out of this. He could charge past them… aw, who was he kidding? That wouldn’t work, they might grab him. How about the window? If he jumped through… no, that wasn’t realistic. Who did he think he was, a Marine or something? Ha, maybe in another life.
Damn… trapped! Tyrone thought. This is bad…
“Hey, I don’t think y’all wanna be doin’ that,” he protested. He kept his distance from them, shuffling backwards as they came closer. “I… uh… I don’t know how to sew! Yeah! I think maybe yo should just, you know, keep me out of this… and… uh… Oh, ma, that thing don’t look very… uh…sanitary… and… hey, would yo mind not coming any closer? Come on, quit it. I’m serious. Cut this shit out guys… I’m warning you…”
Despite himself, Tyrone found himself beginning to sweat. He looked around the messy room (everywhere he went seemed to be messy for some reason…), his long dreadlocks swishing around as his head snapped from side to side. There had to be something, anything he could use…
He was out of time. His parents were within arm’s reach, and he still had nothing. He reached back and grabbed the first thing he could touch, which turned out to be the blanket that lay disheveled on his old bed. He whipped it at his folks, throwing it over them like a net. Then he skirted way over to the other side of the room, not willing to be anywhere near them as he moved around them.
“I’m outta here!” he shouted at them, “Enough of this shit, yo! I’m gone!”
He bolted from his room, heading out into the hallway to the living room, going straight for the door.
Gotta get out of here… he thought desperately. Gotta get out…
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Post by Captain Gojira on Oct 1, 2009 19:25:41 GMT -5
Wolfgang slowly moved down the dark sewer path in a lurching walk, clutching his wounds and trying to make as little contact as possible with the surrounding murk. Earlier, after being pierced by bullets in several areas, he had ripped a few strips of cloth off his shirt sleeves and wrapped them around the most severe of wounds, those likely to be infected first. The threat of infection wasn't overtly concerning to him, however; he could always find an "associated" health specialist in another town and seek treatment.
When Wolfgang had made a dramatic exit from the Mob, he didn't leave empty handed. In addition to the few followers he recruited in his defection, he had also raided the manor of the Capo Regime and stolen a few hundred in cash, straight from the most protected safe. Most of it had already been spent on the Black market, primarily for non-domestic ammunition, but Wolfgang always had some money available for bribes and other unexpected finances. It was hard to find the right places where these would be accepted, but it was safe from law enforcement and he could never complain about quality of service.
As he awkwardly made his way down the sewer, searching for the closest possible manhole or exit, he reminisced over the horrifying experience and scowled angrily at the unbelievable proportions. Zombies, dead mobsters. Karl. None of them were alive anymore. They certainly weren't when he encountered them again.
"Karl..." Wolfgang muttered through a low breath.
"Karl.... you were my own flesh and blood, but that just meant nothing to you, didn't it?"
Gritting his teeth, the black-shrouded man growled and continued to wade with the motivation of fury, vengeance, and the will to survive. But surviving wasn't all he was going to do: Wolfgang wanted more than that, than anything even, to settle a score.
"Karl..."
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LoneWolf
Warrior
Companions are a luxury I can't afford|--|Lime gr
Posts: 249
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Post by LoneWolf on Oct 1, 2009 20:59:58 GMT -5
SO Friggin' sorry i couldn't post earlier dudes, i've been totally swamped with homework for the past week or so. I'll try to make it up to you guys ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Connor Dodgson scratched tiredly at his scraggly gray beard, just before sinking his teeth into the delectably juicy fish sandwhich. Enjoying food this good was a rare occasion, and whenever he did, that piece of crap called Simmons would always steal his food. If it wasn't Simmon's it was them darned kids with them piercings taunting him, when he'd done nothing to them. But Connor knew better than to spoil the good moment with thoughts of his enemies. So he munched on his sandwich, shoveling in crispy French Fries, chewing slowly, enjoying the stimulating flavors that dwelled inside his chewing mouth. After eating most of his sandwich, he gently stroked the warm fur of his only companion, Goliath, while feeding his friend slow gulps of the remaining sandwich. But he felt like somebody was watching him, forcing him to check his surroundings. He was leaning against the wall of the dark alleyway, his back pressed against one of two trash cans. To his left was the Fish N' Fowl back door. To his right was a video rental place that he'd never been to before. and straight ahead was the end of the alley, where he waited anxiously to see if ihis gut was correct, or if it was something in the fish.
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lostsoldierofpaya
Unblooded
Of all the helos of the Army, remember Strength and Courage!|--|Red
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Post by lostsoldierofpaya on Oct 2, 2009 16:32:39 GMT -5
Devon woke with a start, his heart pounding. In his dreams, he had been in the bathroom of his house cleaning when shadows began racing in and out of corners, laughter and giggling and the sounds of children echoed through the house. He didn't have children and the only other person was his girlfriend Brandi Posillo. He had investigated and found nothing as he entered the kitchen, the den and finally each and every hallway. He heard the laughter again and this time it was closer, coming closer. He bolted for the front door, heading for the driveway where he kept the weapons in the back of Army truck he owned.
His fingers had barely touched the doorknob when he heard a thump come from the bedroom. He crept down the hallway being careful to make as little noise as possible. He reached the bedroom door and hiding out of sight along the wall, he heard the creapy laughter again. It sounded earily unlike anything he'd ever heard in all his life. He peeked around the door and felt his stomach drop. His girlfriend lay across the bed covered in blood. She had been ripped to shreds. A bloody smiley face was painted on the wall. He thought he had picked a decent town, not one filled with nut cases. Now he sat in his bed shaking and covered in sweat. "Come on, Devon. Relax! You're a God damned soldier. You're braver than that!" he said aloud to himself. He shook the images out of his head and reached for the pack of Camel Filter cigarettes and the red lighter on his nightstand. He pulled one out and lit it feeling the tension leave him, his heart racing to catch up with the sudden stimulant. Looking to his left, he realized Brandi was not in bed and her side of the sheets were ruffled. His heart beat harder as he took a breath and reminded himself that it was only a dream and she was probably out shopping. An empty bed was nothing to get worked up about.
He stood up and walking to his closet, picked out a set of faded jeans and a white t-shirt. He headed for the bathroom. Grabbing a medium sized white towl from the rack, he placed it and his clothes on the top of the toilet lid. He looked into the mirror. At age 23, you'd think you'd rather young but he had the face of someone who'd been through hell and back. His eyes were distant, his face had a few scars from falling into razor wire far too many times on muddy hills, he had a scar in his shoulder from when he had been shot with an AK-47 while in Iraq. He had four misaligned vertebrae that had been surgically corrected along with the shattered cartilidge in his kneecap and an out of place rib. All tha that had been paid for by the Veteran's Administration out in Phoenix, the city of his birth. He had been discharged for Bi-polar disorder. He had been emotionally "broken" once he got to his unit, not during basic training as was common among most soldiers. It was not untill he got out that he had the "urges" of a killer.
He knew he could easiliy kill someone without blinking but he also knew that if he went ahead with it, there would be consequences, dire consequences. He reached up and opened the medicine cabinet and took out the tooth brush and tooth paste. A ritual he had gotten into, perfection, when he had been in the service. Everything had to be immaculate. He brushed his teeth, cleaned off the counter top of any water or dirt and turned the shower on, the sound of water raining against porceline and fiberglass. The water grew warmer and he stepped into it. He could feel the dream, the stress of daily life, all of life's worries wash down the drain along with the water and residual dirt from yesterday. His muscles relaxed and he stood there for nearly a hanf an hour letting the water pound into his back. It wasn't untill the water started to grow colder that he realized he had dozed off standing up, he was relaxed to such a point. Turning the water off, he grabbed the towl hanging on the rack next to the shower door. Drying himself off while still inside so as not to track water everywhere, he wrapped it around his waist and stepped out, grabbing his clothes as he walked back into his room. He could hear nothing but the birds outside and an empty quiet house. It was peaceful. He pulled a pair of boxers out a drawer and changed into the clothes of the day. As he was walking out the door, he reached in and pulled a pair of socks out of the drawer also and pulled his boots from out under the bed. These boots were pretty heavy. Standard leather punk boots with a three inch sole and plates on the front and back of the sole of the boot. Walking downstairs, boots in hand, he dropped the boots by the front door and walked into the kitchen, placing the socks on the counter top. They were clean so why worry about that?
He reached into the fridge and pulled out a can of instant breakfast. He was in no mood to cook this morning and this can would suffice till he could pick up something to eat from somewhere or other. He grabbed his socks from the counter and walked to the front door, slipping his socks on as he went. He stopped at the front door and pulled his boots on, tying them up. He stoop and up and grabbed the keys from the hook next to the door. He opened the door and stepped out. It was sunny and there was a light breeze. The temperature wasn't too bad. He could deal with it, easily. He closed the door and locked it and turning around he walked the concrete pathway for his truck. This was a big truck. It was a ten wheeled troop transport truck but he had bought it at an auction. This truck was outdated. Needed new parts and they didn't want to replace them, maybe. He didn't know. He had the truck. That's all he cared about. He unlocked and opened the door climbing inside. Starting the truck, he backed out of the driveway and headed towards town. Let's see what he could find to do out there. Maybe there would be a shooting range.
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on Oct 5, 2009 15:34:33 GMT -5
Sorry for the extraordinarily long wait everyone, but my homework seemed to exponentially increasing in size and I had to stem the tide. Now, to continue our tale. Also, trying out a new writing style a little bit, italicized parentheses equal back-of-the-mind thoughts. A bit like the little voice in the back of your head. Not sure if I'm the only one who gets those or not, but if I'm not, you'll get what this is. ;D ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Tyrone: As the blanket flew at Tyrone's parents, the young man would observe that the two of them seemed to flicker, like a television with a partially blocked signal just before it went to static. The sound seemed to be coming now from far away, and there were no smells. It wasn't just a common, backdrop smell anymore, like the smell of beer, sweat, and many weeks old food left in front of an open summer window. There literally were no smells within the confines of that chamber. And as the image of his parents seemed to jump like static electricity from side to side, the blanket would pass through them, land on the floor. His legs kicking into full gear, he would bolt out of the door, and the smells, sounds, and sights of the world would return to normalcy like a tide of water, white, frothy spray tinging the great walls of blue as they slammed against the interior of his nostrils. He would realize with a start as the door slammed behind him, that he was back in the apartment again. At the end of the hall, an old, white, very pale woman with bags under her eyes and a cigarette clasped between two wrinkly old talons looked at him with a raised eyebrow, curiosity lacing her expression. Tyrone would become aware that a cold sweat had broken out over his forehead, his temples, his lip, his armpits. His chest was heaving. The old woman's voice would ring out, cracked and dusty across the old, run-down apartment hallway. "What's da matter witchoo, kid? You look like ya've seen a ghost." Seen a ghost...---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Wolfgang: As the former mobster, clad in the black shroud of his trench coat, with muck clinging to the bottom and its entirety soaked in blood, made his way through the corridors, muttering, he would hear something above him. Almost an echo of his thoughts, said in a thin, cold, and distinctly feminine voice. "Karl, your brother Karl." the voice was mocking, a sharp, shrill laugh lacing it, tightening on the words like a heroine addict's makeshift tourniquet, the words bitingly cold as a razor blade. "Karl, Karl, in the drink." it began to sing. "Karl, Karl, down below, with a gun, stalking fro. Karl, Karl, here he comes. Karl's comin', fun, fun, FUN!" On the last note, a great splash would echo out. Wolfgang would see the water explode upward from the slowly rushing surface of sewage that cascaded around his drenched ankles and shins. He expected, almost hoped in his mind, that it was some new trick of Karl, some new trick of the dead. What he saw, however, was a lot worse than anything he'd seen in the firefight. A young, teenage girl, perhaps 15, stood up, her brow bloodied from the fall and her entire body soaked in water. She stared up with watering eyes at a shaft of light that came down from an open manhole above. He could see that her hands were tyed behind her back. She was screaming, "Dammit, why are you doing this? What did I ever do to YOU!!" A harsh, male voice would say from above ( That sounds like Karl, dead old Karl, almost, not quite, maybe a little) "Shut up, girl, or I'll put this here gun to your head and blow ya sky high." "You wouldn't dare." she would mutter out weakly. But she had quieted down now, and her head was bowed. It didn't appear that she had noticed Wolfgang yet, standing there in the sewer shaft and watching the spectacle unfold. "I wouldn't DARE!" the voice mocked. "I. wouldn't. dare." A shot rang out, and the water a few feet to her left exploded as the bullet plunged into its depths. The shot was cut short, almost a whistle of air, and Wolfgang would find himself thinking ( Can't get your mind offa Karl, huh, Wolfy, my boy, no no.) that it sounded a lot like the pistol Karl had always carried, that silenced pistol. And then a rope would descend, and Wolfgang would realize that this man was coming down. ( Coming down to the sewers.Coming down with a gun.Coming down to the sewers with a gun.Coming down to the sewers with a gun with me standing right here.I gotta hide.) --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Connor: The homeless man stared through the crack between the two garbage cans with unrest, that feeling of being watched. He could place precisely that feeling. Of course, so could Goliath, and as the dog finished the last of the sandwhich, it turned to look at the crack as well. It let out a high-pitched whine, then licked Connor's face twice, its wide, wet tongue leaving a six-lane highway of saliva that dripped along his face in a gooey film. The wet kiss of a dog. Then a shadow would pass across the opening. For just a second. He didn't see anything moving, but that shadow passed there. And he heard the patter of something sharp and bony striking cement. His heart beat quickened. The dog seemed not to notice anything, still alternating between looking towards that crack in the giant, metal garbage cans and licking his master and friend's face with a great, pink, and very wet tongue. He didn't even appear to hear anything. Connor, however, did, and what Connor heard chilled him to the bone. The sounds of tiny, sharp, bony little claws cracking on the concrete, invisible claws, and an image came into his mind, an image of shallow slashes appearing on his and Goliath's face, rapid-fire, no culprit in sight. Tiny little claw-marks making their way across the dirty face, sending a trickle of warm, red blood down his cheek with a single flick. The image went away just as quickly as it had come, but he realized his mind had not made that vision. It appeared foreign to his mind, as a remembrance of a picture by Van Gogh might appear certain. Oh, his mind was the medium for the viewing, but it wasn't his image, his picture, he had seen. And unlike the beauty of a clearly insane man, this image was one he had not chosen to see. Not one bit. ------------------------------------------------------------- Devon: The truck would sail smoothly along the black, concrete streets, barely swaying at all as it hit the occasional bump or pot-hole. The smell of exhaust would fill the air behind it, a smell that would cause any environmentalist's stomach, oh-my-that-is-killing-the-ozone-it-smells-horrible-so-insensitive mentality, and their very fiber to flip. As he made his way along the road, his eyes would dart along for an oh-so-familiar sign, "Buck's Sporting Goods and Shootery."One of the few places that sold guns in the town, though there were quite a number for such a small place as this, Buck's was owned by one Buck Brookwaters, a slim man with short, blond hair coated in grease, a great Adam's apple that stuck out from his neck and moved up and down in great, sweeping arcs as he talked, and a red, redneck shirt that was reminiscent of Larry the Cable Guy, Blue Collar Comedy, the South, and an old beer keg with a tap in the musty interior of an over-warm barn. He also happened to be one of the best shots in Odech, a real crack-shot. Nearly as good as a trained man, well enough for a self-trained marksman. After nearly a half hour, Devon found his way into the parking lot of the Shootery, and even as he opened the truck door he would hear the muffled cracks of 12-gauge shotguns and .22 shots coming out of hunting rifles. More than that, he could smell the smoke that issued from a spent case as you ejected it, smell the sweet, sweet smell of gunpowder smoke coming from the tip of a barrel. Despite the fact that the first time he had smelled that had been in the heat of combat, with bullets ricocheting around him, it didn't bring back unpleasant memories or nostalgia for Devon. Instead, he found himself thinking of long days spent, lost in the thrill of hunting in the woods or just a single afternoon at the range, drinking a few Buds and talking it up with complete strangers, gathered together for the fun of testing their respective skill. A warm nostalgia. Certainly not the cold that lay over the rest of the town. Not the cold of long, silent dinners or awkward looks in the grocery store. Not the cold of loneliness. Not the cold.
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Post by Blade Knight on Oct 6, 2009 9:25:59 GMT -5
Tyrone blinked stupidly a few times.
“Huh? Wha…”
Now he was back. What happened to the old house? Was it… all just a dream? He was sweating like hell. That was some wicked scary stuff, and it left him too confused to try to reason it out.
“Uh… Sorry,” he awkwardly apologized to the old woman. Embarrassed, he turned around to go back into the apartment. His hand touched the doorknob, but suddenly froze. A childish thought struck him – what if he opened the door, and his old house would still be on the other side?
Very slowly, he opened the door just a crack and cautiously peered inside, just to be safe.
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Post by Captain Gojira on Oct 6, 2009 18:28:21 GMT -5
As the erie chanting of Karl's name lofted on the air, Wolfgang ignored its soft, haunting tone, instead choosing to focus on his own thoughts of his deceased brother. They only further angered and bothered him, but at least let him remain sane, something the former certainly be trusted to.
Then the water ahead erupted in a pattering splash, and instinctively, Wolfgang halted, stiff and motionless, to observe what it was. With a surprised yet hardened scowl, he glared ahead and distinguished the girl that seemed to have fallen in, and then cautiously reached one hand into his coat for his knife. In his few years with the mafia, Wolfgang had learned something of importance in the family business: If something unexpected happens, become a ghost. And never try something radical. One other soldato had been stupid enough to break that taboo, and Wolfgang scarcely remembered him being torn apart by an Mk 24.
The same applied here, even though the kid that had been thrown into the sewer looked as much a victim to Wolfgang as he'd ever seen. It almost reminded him of a clever crime scheme he'd heard of a few years back, and one he nearly fell for once.
"Shut up, girl, or I'll put this here gun to your head and blow ya sky high."
Karl's voice. Nearly snarling with rage and disgust, Wolfgang gnarled his lips, gripped the handle of his United fighting knife, and cautiously shrunk back into the shadows with one hand still hidden in his coat. It obviously wasn't Karl - terrorizing defenseless kids wasn't his type of behavior - but whoever it was that shouted down the manhole unfortunately sounded too much like him for Wolfgang to forgive.
Blade handle in grip, he took a few slow steps backward, at least until he was sure the darkness was concealing him, and looked for any adjoining tunnels in which he could better hide from sight. Then, watching the scene from afar, he crouched and observed the situation carefully, waiting for the unseen attack to appear. If Wolfgang could bypass - or maybe take him out - then the rope would be suitable for an escape.
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lostsoldierofpaya
Unblooded
Of all the helos of the Army, remember Strength and Courage!|--|Red
Posts: 8
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Post by lostsoldierofpaya on Oct 10, 2009 11:46:58 GMT -5
www.imfdb.org/index.php?title=Image:LAR_Grizzly.jpg He pulled the Grizzly anti-tank rifle from the bed of the truck, he'd been itching to find a use for the rifle since he bought it. This rifle was the "big mother" of all rifles. 20 millimeter shell, high powered, and could pierce the side of a tank like paper. He slammed the truck door shut, smiling. This is what he had been missing. There was no happiness quite like a high powered hunting rifle going off in his hands. He walked to the door to the range and entered, smiling at the clerk. He paid the fee for the range and Devon grinned. This would be intresting. He secured the Grizzly to his back walked out to the range, grabbing a set of ear protectors as he walked through the door.
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LoneWolf
Warrior
Companions are a luxury I can't afford|--|Lime gr
Posts: 249
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Post by LoneWolf on Oct 11, 2009 17:43:04 GMT -5
Connor gasped, wrapping his hands in his face, curling into a ball. Slowly rocking back and forth, with his eyes pinched closed, he felt a single tear roll down his face. What just happened? No. It couldn't have happened. It must have been something in the fish. Connor thought encouragingly, raising his head, and exhaling slowly. Just the fish. Regaining his composure, he began to stroke Goliaths furry neck. That was, of course, until Goliath rolled onto his back, limbs dangling limply in the air, beckoning Connor with big brown eyes to scratch his stomach. Smiling, he rubbed Goliaths stomach. Yes, just the fish.
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on Oct 13, 2009 14:14:58 GMT -5
Sorry about the lack of an update. I've had a very long, very stressful day, and I'm afraid that it'll have to wait until tomorrow. Thanks for your patience. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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