Ian wished that he wouldn't do such reckless things after loosing yet another girl.
First, he got himself involved in busting a cult that actually managed to create an inter-multiversal potral, he got trapped into this world that doesn't have vampires, he had difficulty finding sustenance, and when he managed to break into a hospital, he got arrested for intruding.
That what he got for letting himself run out of blood bags.
Ian looked up from his cards as he saw an Asian-looking woman being shoved into the cell by two-burly prison guards. With a click, the door was locked behind her. She shook nervously, and her feet danced around. By the way she examined the cell, she was innocent, but yet again, maybe she was arrested for a minor crime.
Ian adjusted the collar of his shirt. He was a young man ranging from age eighteen to twenty-two. His sleek black hair and snow pale skin made a striking contrast. He had the features to become a model, but his skills were too varied for him to be wasting time in that area.
Her blood smelled delicious. He struggled to keep his fangs from popping out. It was tempting feeding on her. Maybe he could sneak a bite while everyone was asleep?
edited 29th Jul '11 10:17:33 PM by chihuahua0
Shion held her legs together, tightly. She kept on looking at the toilet, though she tried hiding this, as she inched towards one of the cots to sit down.
All the while, she noticed the pale vampire who'd been lusting at her neck.
She wanted to spit at him for his attempts, yet she is afraid she'd make things worse for herself doing so.
(OOC: I will be here tomorrow evening. Going on a nice picnic. Night!)
edited 29th Jul '11 10:24:17 PM by QQQQQ
Thou errant flap-dragon!
Sorry for the sloppy editing in the initial post.
Bianca sits down on one of the swings and can't help but smile as she watches the children playing in the sand. Perhaps she should join them, despite her age. She needs some playtime.
A dreadful wailing sound shatters the park's carefree atmosphere and Bianca observes two police cars stopping on the street. Four cops come out, and she wonders what they're doing in the park.
But they head straight towards her.
"Can I help you?" she asks.
"You're under arrest," says one, holding a pair of handcuffs.
"Why? I— I'm not familiar with this place. I'm sorry if I—"
"Oh, is jewel thieving advocated where you come from?"
Before she knows it, her hands are cuffed and she's stuck in the back of the car, the policemen telling her to shut up when she tries to beg and wheedle her way out of it. They remove the hancuffs, but shove her in a dirty but nondescript jail cell. A few of the inmates leer at her, but Bianca keeps some of her dignity, and sits on the only unoccupied cot without lashing back at them. It would only invite them to tease her. Hopefully, they won't dare touch her, or else she'll have to hurt them. Badly. Her appearance of a girl several years younger than her, thanks to her height, should protect her— her noble blood means nothing here. Unless they're very, very desperate.
Calmly preening her dark hair and straightening out her dress and petticoats, she wonders how she'll be able to wriggle out of this.
edited 29th Jul '11 10:29:46 PM by snowfoxofdeath
Warm hugs and morally questionable advice given here. Prosey Bitchfest
(OOC: One more postings.)
"It's ludicrous," Shion said. "They think they got balls, accusing me of a carjacking deal." She sat down the crunchy cot, and punched the blankets hard. "I show them."
"Hey, kid, where're your parents?"
...Truth was, he wasn't really sure himself.
The little Japanese boy stared at the black-uniformed officer quizzically, his strange, blue eyes- strange for an Asian, at least -looking the crouched officer up and down. He stopped occasionally, glancing at the officer's gun, his shiny, polished badge, his radio, anything that happened to catch his interest.
He couldn'tve been more than seven or eight years old. The boy looked like any other kid; he had a simple pair of jeans, black converses, a blue hooded jacket, and a plain black shirt. A small-ish backpack hung on his back.
"Can you speak English, kid?"
"Huh? Yeah!" ...Oh, yeah, he forgot an answer. "Um... I don't know where my father is."
Questions were probably flying through the officer's mind concerning his family life, like if the dad's stupid or mean or scary and stuff like that.
"Kid... this isn't a safe place to be. There've been bad guys running around and stealing cars."
Those were cars, he thought. Not kids.
"Dad said he'd be right back! He had to go pick something up, but that was at dinnertime. I got tired of waiting." The boy tilted his head slightly, his eyes seeming to sink in a hint of desperation.
The officer sighed quietly. "How 'bout I take you to the station, and give you a safe place to sleep for the night while we look for your dad? How does that sound?"
Dad said that the police never really knew the full picture, and that it hindered their abilities a lot. Why would he argue, though? It might be really cool!
"Will you guys buy me some M&M's?"
"Yeah, we'll get you some M&M's." He patted the boy on the shoulder, then stood up and took him to his cop car with the big red and blue flashing lights on the top. They climbed in, and he drove away towards the police station.
"What's your name, by the way?"
It wouldn't hurt.
"Daisuke Akamura," he said as he watched a bunch of other people get arrested.
edited 31st Jul '11 9:27:12 AM by CrystalGlacia
"Jack, you have debauched my sloth."
Runs on Awesomeness
Yuki sighed as she stepped out of her black Ferrari Testarossa.
"Miss Hara, I'm afraid I'll have to place you under arrest," the officer said, tossing her license on the car. "This vehicle was reported stolen two days ago."
"WHAT?!" She heard the rattle of the handcuffs as he had her place her hands on the roof of her beloved car. After being read her rights, waiting for a female officer to show up to pat her down, and a long, dull car ride to the station, she was put into a grungy holding cell.
"I want my phone call you bastard!" she called through the bars. Well, Amaya, guess you're not getting that date tonight. She ran her hands through her short black hair in frustration. She turned to regard the woman already there. With a frown, she wondered silently what the woman had done.
No one believes me when I say angels can turn their panties into guns.
The Draconic Superior
Might as well post
Deinonychus was none too pleased with the situation. He sat on the cell cot, rubbing his head as he attempted to remember what happened.
All he could recall was that he was finishing up cleaning after fixing his armor, and then wailing of sirens could be heard. He heard a loud knocking as he answered his door, and to be greeted with a burly police officer.
"Greetings officers, how may I help you."
The officer simply pulled his shoulder as he put Deinonychus's hands behind his back, handcuffing him, "You're under arrest, in suspicions of being involved in a car theft, you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law."
"What?! Bullock, that's not possible, let me go," He struggled as he attempted to wiggle out of the cuffs, but to no avail.
As the officer led him to the car, he attempted to bite through the protection screen, only to be punched by the officer. He slowly faded into unconsciousness from the hit, only to be awakened by the cool air of the cell, cramped in with several people.
The Saurian, clade in a white labcoat, with black gloves, black boots, brown pants, and a belt across his waist, which hid a thin powersuit of armor, with his reptilian head that had hard platings along his back
, sat on the dirty cot, trying to contemplate how the hell this happened.
He sat up as he approached the barred cell window, waiting for something, besides the cell getting more cramped, to happen.
edited 30th Jul '11 2:50:34 AM by draconiansuperior
Suspect was determined to be a male of average height and slim build, in his mid twenties, with light brown hair and blue eyes.
Unfortunately Robert duBois also happened to fit that description. The cop who pulled him aside was a rookie. To the senior officer's credit, he had taken a good hard look at Rob's posh blue suit and fancy rental car before sighing and taking him to the overnight cells.
Rob had gone quietly, moreso after his most winning smile had only deepened the rookie's suspicions. After all, he was just visiting here and he hadn't done anything to merit suspicion from the police.
Yet.
There was company already as Rob sat down, each individual of varying suspicious quality, from average joes and a young child, to a bloke with a dinosaur head and other well-groomed folk. Admittedly Rob could go either way. He crossed his legs jauntily as if his hands weren't cuffed, though he did tone down the smile as he looked around.
"Cheers, mates!" Rob said, with a nod rather than a wave. The seven year old seemed safest, so he plunked on the bench next to the kid and asked, "What are you in for, then?"
highly secure
The sweaty man stuffed like a sausage into his business suit would ordinarily mean nothing to Scott Adler. No matter where they worked or what they worked for, they were born factory-pressed, row by row. He didn't care who they were. But if they could give him something, the story changed.
Meaningless trinkets cluttered the table between the two men. Impractical trinkets. Scott suppressed a frown. Money being put to waste was always such a pity.
The things I do to please these motherfuckers.
Smiling, Scott extended a hand across the table. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bakersfield. I take it that you need my assistance?"
Martin Bakersfield’s meaty hand wrapped around Scott’s own as they shook. Bakersfield fiddled with his collar as he looked out the window. From the skyscraper of his office, it was hard to ignore the nighttime view: a gargantuan structure of light rising out of the earth. The Victorian Hotel and Casino.
“I have reason to believe that something of extreme importance to me will, in the near future, have its security compromised. Now—“
Scott laughed. “You mean somebody wants to nick it?”
Bakersfield coughed, his jowls quivering. “Yes. Now, given the circumstances, it is impossible for me to take direct action, or overtly accuse anybody. I don’t want to burden you with the details, but it would be an absolute scandal. Can you imagine how horrible that would be for my business, Mr. Adler?”
Scott nodded, putting on a grave face. “Very serious indeed.”
Again, Bakersfield coughed, his eyes darting around the tiny space of his office. Scott almost frowned again. How the hell did a spineless bastard like him get into business?
“I need your help, Mr. Adler,” Bakersfield said. “To defend my property, the Victorian. If any miscreants attack the Victorian with the intent to break into the basement vault, I cannot allow them to take what is inside. Thus, I am hiring a few specialists to supplement my usual security.”
“Out of curiosity, why me?”
“You’ve made a name for yourself throughout the sphere of…your work.”
Scott felt a genuine smile creep onto his face. “Glad to be of help, Mr. Bakersfield. Now, about my payment—you proposed eight million dollars?”
“As I said before, the item is of great importance to me.”
“I want two million in my account as down payment, and I want fourteen million upon completion of the job. You can take the deal or you can leave it, sir, but that is the cost of my services.”
Bakersfield’s eyes shot down as he contemplated the offer. Finally, with a shudder of his wide shoulders, he nodded his head. “Very well, Mr. Adler.”
The next hour was occupied by the minutiae of the deal—how the payment was to be delivered and in what form, the security of the transactions—but in the end, they had a deal. “A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Bakersfield,” Scott said, shaking the man’s hand for the second time that night.
Flashing neon lights and the kind of atmosphere only a big city can emanate surrounded Scott as soon as he stepped outdoors. He hailed a taxi to take him to the Victorian. The head of the security over there would probably be some useless mall cop chump, but he would have useful information for Scott. He wanted his sixteen million, but he would first have to pat Bakersfield on the head and assure him that his precious whatever-the-hell was safe when the dust cleared.
Do the job right. Get the money.
He wouldn’t delude himself into thinking that this was “one last job.” If he thought about it realistically, the jobs would never end. But then, neither would the Buck.
As the taxi halted at an intersection, Scott slipped a hand into his pant pocket and fingered the plastic capsule inside. Within the capsule was an aerosolized dose of DARPA’s newest, classified, top-secret edge in super-soldier development: X-78. Buck.
It made him tougher, faster, and smarter, if only for fifteen minutes. But it didn’t even get him addicted to the stuff or make him lose his mind. Buck would’ve never passed R&D if it did. But it was expensive. Expensive enough for the Feds to never mass-produce it for their men. But Buck was useful enough to provide a hypothetical motivation for a couple unsavory men to steal the formula, hypothetically begin limited production of their own supply, and hypothetically make a great deal of money selling Buck to like-minded individuals who, for whatever reason, needed a better way to crush somebody’s skull.
Not like Uncle Sam would tell anybody that, of course. It was all strictly hypothetical to the people who might be bothered to disrupt a super-soldier drug trade spanning the globe.
The light turned green. With a groan, the cab lurched forward. Scott smiled as the lights of the city passed him by. He was in business. Men like him needed business. After all, Buck didn’t arbitrarily stop being expensive.
As they always said, “Bucks yield Buck.”
Whatcha gonna do, little buckaroo? | i be pimpin' madoka fics
Laugh and grow dank!
Here's some music for the tone.
Life was good for PFC Harold J. Trombley. Though- it might not be altogether appropriate to continue to refer to him as a Private First Class. He wasn’t actually in the Marines anymore, technically, but it was a part of the Marines’ warrior ethos and culture that you never really stopped being a Marine at heart. As the saying goes, once a Marine always a Marine. In Marine Corps parlance, referring to someone as an ex-marine implied that he or she had been dishonorably discharged, and that was most definitely not the case with Harold J. Trombley. He had completed his term of service with distinction, having racked up several deployments to both the Middle-East and East Africa. Even now, years after the events of those wars, those memories were ones that he reflected on with fondness.
It was eleven thirty in the afternoon. The sun had long since sunk below the horizon. He had been taking what looked like a casual stroll around the residential areas around East Vegas, a ways off from all the big casinos. He didn’t worry. For other people, for civilians, it might have been dangerous. But not for him. He looked up from street-level to watch as the skyline lit up with countless tiny sparkling lights and flashing patterns. He stopped to take in a lungful of the city’s charged air. Ahh, yes. The night was young. Perhaps he’d go to a bar and get drunk off his ass. He might even end up decking some stuck-up pogue, that’d be fun. Or he could get his Vintage Cadillac, park up next to some streetwalkers and get laid. Vegas had excellent hookers, and for once he could afford the pretty ones what with the roll of money burning a hole in his pants pocket. Las Vegas- the city of lights. It was a city of limitless possibilities- if you had money. And did Trombley ever have money. Not from his military service of course, and certainly not from his veteran’s benefits. Four years of fighting and killing in the ass-crack of the planet didn’t earn him enough to live like this. Not in this economy. Not for enlisted men. So, he made do in what ways he could.
Which brought his mind back to thinking about the business at hand. For you see, he was taking what only looked like a casual stroll around the residential areas around East Vegas. What he was actually doing was what was referred to in the Recon community as scouting a position. Field work, though not for Uncle Sam. Recently, he had been putting his hard-earned skills to a different use. He arrived at the tenement complex the address of which had been scrawled on the note that had enclosed that roll of money in his pocket, along with the details of his assignment. He took a quick look around before reaching under his shirt and pulling out his M9 Beretta. He checked if it was loaded, then entered a low crouch and moved to the door. He could think about what he’d do with the money he was about to earn later. The night was young, and there was still plenty of time for indulging in whatever invigorating vice or act of debauched licentiousness happened to strike his fancy. But later. For now, he had business to attend to.
The first thing he noticed was that. The door was already open. Slightly, a crack of the inside was visible. The padlock that had been securing it lay on the concrete paving in front of the door. This was strange, though oddly convenient. Maybe it was just his lucky day. He smiled to himself. Fitting that it be in Vegas. Tapping the door open with his right foot, he entered with his sidearm t the ready. Forty-five rounds of 9x19mm Parabellum ought to be more than enough to kill anything that moved in this place. Magazines for his weapon held fifteen rounds each, and he had two spare in addition to the one he had actually loaded.
He took three steps into the tenement building before his foot hit something else. It was a body. The second thing he noticed was that everyone was already dead. His eyes widened in shock and he felt the onset of panic. What the hell happened here? There hadn’t been a mad shootout- that was evident. There were few bullet holes marking the walls and as he kneeled down to examine the corpse he noticed that the wounds on it resembled those inflicted with a knife, not a gun. Getting back up, his fingers held tighter around the grip of his pistol. The body hadn’t been bleeding long. Whoever did this was probably still here. His eyes swept the room ensuring it was secure. He saw no one alive in this part of the building.
Approaching the door on the opposite side of the room, he swung it open with his gun hand. He really should have used his off-hand. Big mistake. Standing directly opposite him in the doorway was a figure clad in a black balaclava and tactical gear with an AKSU hanging off a sling on his front. Trombley tried to bring his weapon to bear in close-quarters but the assailant intercepted it, twisting his arm counter-clockwise until the elbow was locked pointing down. The stranger then pinned Trombley’s hand under his arm, making sure that he was out of the weapon’s ability to hit, and stabbed down with his fingers on Trombley’s neck, at the same time hooking his right foot behind Trombley’s right knee. He collapsed to the floor. The attacker applies extra torsion to Trombley’s gun arm forcing him to drop the weapon which he then kicked away before drawing his own sidearm from an armpit holster. Whatever Trombley was expecting the man to do, it wasn’t what he said next.
“Where are you from?” “Wha- what?” Trombley babbled in his southern drawl, taken aback. “You heard me! Which country are you from?” “I- Am- ‘merica!” “Murka ain’t no country I ever heard of! They speak English in Murka?!” “Y-yes-“ “What’d you say?!” “I- I said yes, I speak English!” The assailant let go of Trombley’s arm and he tried to get up, but the man kicked him down. “Not bad, you know where you’re from. Next question: Who am I?” Panicked, Trombley was searching. “I- I uh, I don’t know!” The man took a step closer, placing a boot on Trombley’s chest. “You don’t know!? Is that it? What, are you telling me you don’t remember me Trombley?” “Look- just let me go!” “Oh, now why would I want to do that? We have so much catching up to do!” A boot collided with the back of Trombley’s head and he yelped in pain. Who was this asshole!? “Remember me yet, Trombley?!” Another boot hit him, this time coming down on his face, then another into his stomach. Trombley writhed. He couldn’t think! Who would want him dead? Who would have-
“Is this any fun!?” The penny dropped. And then he knew. He knew who this was and why he was doing this. He also knew pain, as Grimm had taken his arm, pinned it against his body with his foot and, like a lever, snapped his elbow backwards across his chest.
Grimm looked down at the suffering Trombley as he screamed. If he was being charitable, Grimm could have thought he heard a twinge of regret in all that screaming. But, he didn’t. He knew Trombley too well to think he was capable of such a complicated emotion. Then something unexpected happened. Trombley began to cry. Oh no, say it ain’t so. Honestly, Grimm had thought that Trombley had more pride than this, in both his former station and the work he did.
The nerve! To think that anyone could possibly feel sorry for him, much less one of the people he had originally wronged- it was sick. Pathetic. In one swift motion, Grimm unceremoniously aimed his sidearm and shot Trombley in the head. Frankly, it was more than he deserved. He shook his head in vehement disgust. Marines. Boorish, ignorant, puerile, self-assured, overbearing, temperamental, bloodthirsty, jingoistic, racist, sexist, homophobic pricks. The lot of them.
Grimm stowed his weapons and walked to the door, his work having been done. Just as he passed the threshold into the calm night, a light came on, blinding him. He only realized what was really going on when two police officers bludgeoned him, stripped him of weapons, snapped a pair of cuffs around his hands and bundled him into the back of an armored SWAT van.
The next thing he knew he was in a cell with a bunch of strangers. This did not bode well.
edited 30th Jul '11 12:22:44 AM by Gault
yey
I changed accounts.
OOC — I'll probably just post this for tonight; it's almost 3 in the morning and I'm in no mood for writing all that much right now
Joshua walked down the street, left hand in his pocket and right twirling his MP412 REX revolver. Life was good... if strange. He hadn't seen one of them in awhile. Not since the helicopter crash, anyhow. No one else had made it out of that wreckage—hell, he was still limping—and he really had no clue where he was. It was a living city, though, which was good for him.
His black tennis shoes muffled his walk, and he—accustomed to listening for intruders—tuned into the world around him. The city was alive in the sense that the lights were on, but it seemed that nobody was home, all the same. He stopped short, however, when a sound came from an alley ahead of him. Leveling his gun, he took a step forward, ready for any sign of movement from the alley—
An arm, strong and thick, suddenly wrapped around his neck, pulling him backward and nearly off his feet. He grabbed onto the arm—his fingers barely able to close around its girth—and tried to pull, but he was not a physical fighter, and his attempts were useless. As white light flickered in his vision, he thrust his gun backward, firing off two wild shots before his assailant grabbed his gun with the free hand that wasn't choking him.
Then he blacked out.
~*~
He awoke in a cell. He was situated on the floor at the end of the bed, his form splayed, with his legs stretched out and his arms loose at his sides. He immediately sprang to attention, reaching to his side for one of the other guns he carried, but none of them were there. The fact that he felt the wall against his back told him that his backpack was gone, too.
He blinked a few times, clearing his head, and then looked around. There were others there, too:
...a young asian woman... he judged her to be harmless...
...a pale man... he was a threat, and Joshua could tell, as he was pale like one of them, though not in the same way...
...a dark-haired woman in an elaborate dress, whom Joshua also judged to be harmless...
...a young boy, who didn't look like he could even pass for juvenile detention, let alone public jail; although he wasn't in the cell, so perhaps he wasn't like the rest...
...yet another woman, pouting and grooming her short black hair, whom, if Joshua was forced to judge, was probably the least threatening person in the room.
...a lizard-man in an outfit right out of Star Wars to his left, who seemed... dangerous, but not an active threat...
...a strangely cheerful fellow with his legs crossed; to Joshua, he almost looked like he'd rather be in the jail than on the outside, but he wasn't the best judge of character...
...and a serious-looking man in a ski mask who didn't seem all too happy at all to be there—not that Joshua could blame him, since he himself definitely sympathized.
Joshua dropped his head against the wall, sighing in frustration. He escaped them only to end up in jail in a city he'd never seen. Nothing could go right, could it? He looked forward again, tilting his sunglasses forward to eye each occupant of the cell once more. Between the glasses, his black bandana, and his brown beanie, the vast majority of his face was covered from view. He liked it that way, too; he could see them, but they couldn't really see him.
It was going to be a long night indeed, trapped in a room with the freaks. It could only get worse, too. Resigning himself to his current fate, Joshua leaned back against the wall, bringing one knee to his chest and resting the crook of his arm on it. He kept his gaze on the pale one, ready if the guy made a move. Otherwise, however, he was settled, waiting for the police to come back and explain themselves.
He seriously doubted that would be anytime soon, however...
edited 30th Jul '11 5:42:55 PM by USAF713
I am now known as Flyboy.
Thou errant flap-dragon!
The arm had jammed again.
Bianca sighs and detaches her right sleeve from the rest of the dress, exposing the metal arm. It had attracted so many stares and questions that she simply rolled down her sleeves and bought a pair of gloves soon after she arrived in this world. The last time a jam had happened here, she was able to fix it herself, but that was luck. Bartleman's clockwork arm is a tricky device.
"I don't suppose anyone would have a screwdriver?" she asks out loud, almost sarcastically, and surveys the new additions to the room. Oh, of course, crowd the same cell with hardly enough cots.
edited 30th Jul '11 8:41:04 AM by snowfoxofdeath
Warm hugs and morally questionable advice given here. Prosey Bitchfest
This was absurd. Absolutely absurd. After all the crimes she had committed, many of which would have her executed for murder or even high treason, after all the bloodshed she had wrought, after all the chaos and destruction she had sown, Alice had finally been arrested on false charges. She was a small woman — indeed, at first glance, a child of about eleven, certainly not weighing even a hundred pounds. She had pale, even sickly looking skin, and was wearing a long, loose charcoal gray dress and a matching blouse. Her brown hair was cut in a practical bob cut, and her large brown eyes were presently glaring about the room with burning hatred for every living thing that had been involved in her arrest.
At least they'd missed her equipment. She'd left it, save for a single ceramic butterfly knife they'd failed to find, in her hotel room. They seemed to know she was dangerous, they'd sent too many. Too many for a simple case of grand theft auto, and too many for her to simply butcher. She coldly contemplated what she would do. She wouldn't kill the cops — it wasn't worth the effort, and Sigmund's lawyers would easily bail her out. But whatever scumbag was responsible wouldn't last more than a week.
She entered the cell, glaring suspiciously at her fellow inmates before sitting, lotus-position in the corner. What a freak show. She closed her eyes, but the rest of her senses were on high alert, looking for the slightest whisper that might be useful.
edited 30th Jul '11 8:09:17 AM by KillerClowns
The Draconic Superior
Deinonychus looked at the women with the metal arm. She had asked for a screwdriver, something he could actually provide.
He reached his hand into his jacket and pulled out a rather odd screwdriver. It was long and had a spinning tip at the end to screw things in.
He didn't say anything, he just handed it to the women and nodded his head. He had to help someone if they were going to be cramped in here.
Laugh and grow dank!
Grimm took a seat after sizing up all the other occupants of what was becoming a very cramped cell. He didn’t say anything or respond in any way for the longest while, before getting up and pacing when the silence seemed unbearable. He seemed to grow more outwardly irritable the longer he stayed pacing back and forth in what little space was available to him in the cell. A harder thing to notice than it should have been, given the fact that all of his face but his eyes were obscured under that black balaclava.
Right out of nowhere, Grimm stopped pacing, raised both hands towards the cell’s concrete roof as if he was about to address a divine being, and screamed.
Thou errant flap-dragon!
Bianca accepts the odd device with a quiet "Thank you, sir." But honestly, he looked more like something she would find in a garden if she left it alone for a hundred years or two.
The problem seems to be with the elbow. Oh, damn, she never quite figured out how that worked, but she must try. Bianca unscrews the plates at the top of her lower arm and takes a look at the gears and narrow belts that replaced her muscles and tendons. One of the belts seemed to have been caught in another gear, so she carefully pulls it off. Well, that seems to have done the trick.
After testing the arm with simple movements— pretending to write her name in the air, slashing at an invisble enemy— she gives back the screwdriver... thingy to and realizes that she's bored. There's a small boy outside the cell, but she'd probably get in trouble if she tried to talk to him. And a young girl meditating in the corner. Bianca stares at her as she puts the glove back on and reattaches the sleeve with hand and ribbon, the ugly seam hidden by a lace ruffle. How old is she, eleven? Twelve? Or is that girl like her, and older than she looks?
Bianca is jerked back to reality by the unfortunately loud utterance of a swear word heard commonly in this world, but she was unfamiliar with it. She gives the screamer a dirty look. She can't even be miserable in peace, eh?
edited 30th Jul '11 9:13:15 AM by snowfoxofdeath
Warm hugs and morally questionable advice given here. Prosey Bitchfest
Alice scowled at the interruption to her thoughts. She slowly opened her eyes, and, in a cold, voice just loud enough for Grimm to hear, said, "oh, shut up. I don't even know why you're worried about getting raped in prison — you look like you can handle yourself just fine." With an irritated sigh, she then returned to her meditations.
Laugh and grow dank!
Grimm impulsively snapped at the impudent little girl. “That’s not what I’m concerned about!” Then he stopped, suddenly. What was he doing here? Not behind bars- the reasoning for that was obvious. He had been arrested at the tenement after he killed that jarhead- but what was he doing here specifically? This didn’t look like a holding cell. Grimm wasn’t certain of this, but wasn’t police procedure different from what he was going through now? The police that had cuffed and driven him over didn’t read him his Miranda rights or what the charge he was being arrested on was or anything. And for that matter, why throw him in a cell with the rest of these weirdos? It didn’t add up…
Sleeping nao, don't go too fast.
yey
PARTY PARTY PARTY I WANNA HAVE A PARTY
Until Gant makes his appearance, I'll be telling my side of the story scrapbook style.
Mr. Cain,
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Robert Patterson, sole proprietor of Las Vegas' Trinity Hotel and Casino. I have sent you this letter in the hopes you will assist me in a matter of particular importance.
I will soon be engaging in negotiations with Martin Bakersfield of the Victorian Hotel and Casino, the end goal of which is to arrange a merger between our two casinos. Mr. Bakersfield will be arriving at the Trinity on the night of October 13, 8:00 PM sharp. It is imperative that these talks go off without a hitch.
And this is where you come into the picture, Mr. Cain. I am in dire need of competent security. If anything... unsavory were to happen on October 13, to either of us, the merger would more than likely fall apart around us. I need you to make sure that does not happen. By any means necessary.
If you choose to accept this offer, it means I will be relying on you to deal with any potential problems to the casino. How you choose to do so is up to your discretion, as long as it's quick and unobtrusive. You will, of course, be given access to security, as well as any tools you may need. If you can complete this task I've set before you, I will reward you handsomely. As a show of good faith, I have already arranged for ten thousand US dollars to be transferred to your bank account upon the return of this letter bearing your signature.
I look forward to your reply.
Robert Patterson
I've got new mythological machinery, and very handsome supernatural scenery. Goodfae: a mafia web serial
Without bothering to show reaction, Alice briefly contemplated what the man in the balaclava was worried about. Was he about to go away for good? Or perhaps he was about to get written out of a will. Or maybe he had a girlfriend he knew would fuck another man while he was imprisoned. It didn't really matter to her. She'd figure out what was going on, Sigmund would bail her sorry ass out, and some imbecilic fool would die for the unforgivable sin of wasting her valuable time. And she would enjoy it. Maybe she'd stick around, watch the poison do it's wonderful work. Maybe she wouldn't. Until then, all she could do was wait.
edited 30th Jul '11 9:07:29 AM by KillerClowns
ATTENTION: DAISUKE WAS NEVER ARRESTED IN THE FIRST PLACE. THE OFFICER TOOK HIM IN BECAUSE HE WAS LOST. PLEASE EDIT YOUR POSTS ACCORDINGLY. THANK YOU.
Daisuke sat on a bench just outside the holding tank, his backpack sitting just next to him as he flew his Astro Boy action figure around the room. He hummed the old Japanese opening theme to himself, seeming to not have a care in the world as he kicked his little legs back and forth. In his other hand was a pack of M&M's, graciously provided by Mister Policeman.
He heard someone come to the door and address him- a fakely-cheerful-sounding guy, like the hosts of Pokemon Sunday. There was an Asian lady in the room with him- she kinda reminded him of Mom -a meditating lady who looked like she went to junior high school, some lizard guy who was probably from a show Dad won't let him watch, another lady in a pretty dress, and a bunch of other weird-looking guys.
Mid-flight, he stopped Tetsuwan Atom to respond to the cheerful guy.
"'What am I in for'?" He stared blankly at him, looking him up and down just like how he did with the police officer just as he was interrupted by one of the guys yelling loudly.
Let's take the super-kiddy route.
"...I'm not giving you my chocolate. My Dad said that it's nice to share with people, but I'm not sharing with you." Pouting slightly, he held his bag of M&M's close to him as though he was guarding it from the playground bully.
"Jack, you have debauched my sloth."
An accurate depiction
The darkness lifted at times, banished by the flaring point of a cigarette, which conveniently lit the length of its shaft, and shed just enough brightness to give the vaguest hints to the outline of a face behind it: a pair of glasses, hiding the eyes, perched with impeccable balance upon the nose’s tip. The corner of his mouth was lifted, exposing more of the gums than is necessarily healthy, although the expression was in no way a smile, not even a grin, perhaps best described as a grimace that headed up instead of down. The man was known as Gant in the circles where he swam languidly along, and beyond those, he had descriptions: Red Angel. Reaper. Sword of God.
And here he was, a veritable god of war, unmatched in the swordsmanship, marksmanship, any means of dispatching a human, and some man who had never held a knife in his hand was blathering ceaselessly to him about a casino. Some pile of worthless money and insignificant men! It seemed that not even a blood sacrifice of a thousand soldiers gave enough power to drive away these lice. Gant shifted in his seat, wondering idly whether any good fights could be found in the slums, at least something to break the monotony. All this darkness, cigarette smoke, and alcohol was unhealthy for the soul.
“You know that I can’t stand people smoking in here,” said Patterson. It was unfortunate that the colonel owed a favor here; tiresome work, this guarding. Not enough spilled blood.
“I know, Patterson, from many sources. Your rather stunning secretary had me informed of your distaste, as did your bodyguard, warning how… forceful you tend to be with those who violate your decree. A veritably terrifying tyrant.” More teeth glinted by the orange light as the mouth’s second corner joined the first.
“And you’re still doing it despite three warnings.”
“I derive pleasure from it.” The smoke coiled from his mouth, and Gant’s hand glided through it, sculpting the streams for a moment before allowing them to disperse in Patterson's direction. “Not from the act itself, you understand.”
“I could have you thrown out on the street for that. There are, after all, other soldiers-”
“But there are no other gods.” The cigarette flared, and Gant’s eyes met his, the glasses raised with a careless gesture to show empty grey eye sockets. “Let us not forget the structures of power here, and equally remember that you need my services, Patterson. If you desire the best, it is necessary to accept their idiosyncrasies.”
“Have you done anything for me, aside from bragging?” The other asked, and the cigarette’s light died away, leaving Gant’s seated figure in the darkness.
“I would be careful in addressing me. To be honest, I would prefer to be on the battlefield. Evenly matched. Alas, this is the extent of violence in your pathetic city.” The light swayed upward as Gant stood. “When an assignment manifests, inform me. And ensure that it is a worthwhile chase. It would be such a shame if your lovely secretary was forced to find new work.” The echo of metal footsteps died away as Patterson slammed his hand down onto the armrest of his chair, audibly grinding his teeth.
edited 30th Jul '11 9:50:46 AM by Morgulion
This is this.
(OOC: This may be my one and only post - until I get back home. Sorries if it seems so abrupt.)
Shion could not bear it any longer. The hooded man had screamed his lungs off, there was a little kid taunting everyone by the door (with his Astro Boy figure - damn, she loved watching that when she was young), and most of all, it wasn't likely someone'll come and let her have a bathroom break.
She leapt off the bed, hurriedly waddling over to the public washroom. "Okay chicos," she went. "This lady needs to have a whizz. Y'all turn away. Don't be peekin'. I got eyes, I be using them meng—"
When she felt sure everyone lent her privacy, she wiped the toilet seat clean with the paper, nobody knows which ass sat before hers, and nothing else need be explained.
Ahh.. it was relief.
Before she could get up, she heard a pair of footsteps approaching the cell door.
edited 30th Jul '11 10:33:39 AM by QQQQQ
Rob was joking when he asked what Daisuke was in for.
"Ah, don't worry about me taking your chocolate, I'm allergic."
Rob wasn't, really, but after hearing random screaming from a new bloke it was either pretend he hadn't noticed or comment on it, and as he had absolutely no idea what to say about it, the former seemed the better choice.
"So... I'm assuming the bobbies put you in here because they found you wandering about alone, but it's getting dark out. Aren't your parents worried about you, mate?"
The sound of footsteps was nothing new by now, and Rob glanced up wondering if someone would be let out or tossed in.
edited 30th Jul '11 11:29:07 AM by Leradny
This time, it is a team heist of a certain casino. Your character is mysteriously arrested and put in jail with other characters. The reasons for this are revealed, when the man behind the arrests steps forth and explains your mission – to botch a deal on the Casino's grand opening night.
There will be great rewards in store.. and great dangers lurking behind the shadows. It all depends how well you carry out the heist.
(The only suggestions for your characters: pretend everyone's used to seeing the weirdest things, so you won't get distracted by different races and magic/technology in this crossover. Also – try not to bring Godlike folks who'd make things too easy for us.)
Glück im Unglück – if you have questions, we're willing to listen at the CDT discussion thread.
Here we go.
Shion Kusanagi's hands were uncomfortably clasped together, behind her. She wasn't smiling. Out of the blue, as she was shopping for groceries at market – the piercing sirens came from the muddle of traffic, and she'd seen the red lights flash atop the car. It pulled over to the curb, and these fatass officers leapt right out and went straight for her.
They'd read her rights before she knew it. She could smell the stale beer from the officer's face, as he was close to her, hauling her by the arm like some doll.
"What the hell did I do?" she asked, after he'd finished.
"You're under arrest." That was stating the obvious. "There's been erm.. a carjacking scheme, and we're taking you in for questioning."
"What!" Shion struggled against their grasp. "That's bollocks! I never heard of no carjacking. Now let me go. I know law you bastards."
"Shaddup."
The officers wouldn't talk further – they shoved her hard into the back seat (bumping her head on the top, ow!), and then they drove off. Down the long stretches of street. All Shion could do was stare out at the other cars, and wonder what the hell was it which landed her in this mess.
She was twenty-six years old, living a modest life at the front. You'd ask her how her day went, and she'd say she's fine – with a crooked smile. There was another side to her, the job of "Cleaner." That is, as a janitor sweeps the floor for dust, Shion cleans the scum from the streets. One meng at a time. Who determines who's scum, that's up to her Boss.
She was very careful – nothing she did could lead anyone back to her. Slip-ups do happen, and she would find it difficult recalliong the exact incident which done her in.
At the moment Shion was trying to figure out which maricon pulled these police on her. The Chung-King brothers? Martino Laputa Estavez? Which of them had she pissed off? Willing to bribe pigs to do this dirty work?
"Who's paying youse to kidnap me?" Shion blurted, spittle from her lips. "I got money, I pay triple."
"Shaddup! That's enough from you." And one of the officers opened the rear protection windows, and punched her square in the nose. She went to Disneyland, God knows how long.
When she woke up, she was being dragged down a sterile hallway, feeling the cold air-conditioned feel of the air on her cheeks. She wanted to pee so badly. Her feet scraped along the rough concrete – she was still in her same dress clothes.
What was happening? Was she in jail? The two guards had her tightly on the arms, and they were steadfast as they took her into a jail cell.
She rammed herself hard on the iron door as they shut it. "This is a bullshit!"
Of course it was. She was now stuck in this bare holding cell – bunk-bed cots on all four of its corners. The only window to outside world was the jut below the ceiling, and the iron bars on it served to drive the terrifying point home. In the centre was a small table with chairs, and hanging right above was a lone lightbulb, barely alight; it lit up the free-floating dust in the air.
And a few people who've made themselves at home already.
Shion kept her trap shut. The only toilet here was one right against the wall, in plain view.
Mon dieu.
edited 29th Jul '11 9:58:00 PM by QQQQQ