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The robber's engine revved.
He wasn't particularly used to being a robber, generally sticking to arson and terrorism, but this gig seemed fine enough. This museum was hardcore, man, it didn’t fuck around, get me? It was the fucking primo gig for supervillains, robbers, anyone who felt like stealing.
The thing being stolen tonight was, predictably, a gem. The Gem of Pliny, a purple gem the size of a baby’s head rumored to have legendary powers of focusing and conducting energy. It had previously been used in, of all places, ‘’dentistry equipment,’’ in some of their experimental drills and more advanced laser-based filling technology.
But the robber didn’t care about any of that. He just waited until it was dark, kicked the doors down(setting off the alarm), shot his grappling hook across the main hall(tripping dozens of lasers and motion sensors, setting off even more alarms), shattered the glass holding the gem(one more alarm there!), and yanked it off its pedestal(making a grand total of one hundred and twenty-seven alarms tripped). His engine revved and he shot off into the night, spraying machinegun fire into the air just to make sure he’d be chased by as many people as possible.
edited 13th Jun '11 5:43:03 PM by Taco
Clinton West was outside the museum; he had gotten a tip that there may be some criminals trying to break into the place, and decided to steak it out. Then, suddenly he heard an alarm go off, then shortly after that an engine starting up. He assumed that it was the criminal’s getaway vehicle, and got onto his motorcycle. He began giving chase, and began catching up to the source of the noise. That’s when he noticed that what he was chasing wasn’t a vehicle at all, but some sort of robot-motorcycle-man-thing. Well, seems like things just got interesting, he thought. He pulled out one of his revolvers, and fired a warning shot inches from the thing’s head.
New Radio City… It’s been my home for about a month, and it seems to get worse every day. The streets are littered with people going on about their everyday lives, completely aware of the dangers this city holds. Villains are a regular sight along these streets, and not a day goes by that another plan is being schemed in secret or enacted. But where there are those committed to doing evil deeds, there are those committed to stopping them. Heroes are the common term. Protectors, saviors, and what have you- It matters little to me. The story of this place matters little too, that once the city blew up and was rebuilt, all because of the never-ending battle here. And in the city of the ravager, the protector, and the everyday man, what does matter to me? Absolutely nothing. By all counts I lost the right to live like any normal man or woman a long time ago. But I’m no protector, and I’m certainly no ravager. So what am I? I’m a freak of nature, that’s what.
The distinct sound of a motorcycles engine could be heard to some passersby in New Radio City, and to the more attuned ear it would be apparent that whoever it was driving it, they rode in style. If those select few spared enough time to glance by as that motorcycle was driven by, with the light of street lamps to aid them, they’d be right. The bike was custom made, a black paintjob covering the vehicle in almost anywhere that wasn’t decked out in chrome plating, bar obvious areas that couldn’t be messed with. The rims of the bike held the insignia of the fleur de lis, as did the paintjob on the tank, although this paintjob looked masterfully done and unique to boot. It showed the insignia as a print pressed into hard dirt, the area inside and the outline laced with ice. Indeed, the fleur de lis seemed to be a recurring theme here, as the rider of this bike wore a belt buckle with the insignia as well. The cowl-like hood of his black hoodie was pulled up casting the top half of his face in shadow, the other half covered by a white desert scarf, which went well with the overall color scheme. A fabric, impossible to notice at this time of night, made the shape of a cross on one half of the blue jeans. The white shoes seemed to seal the color scheme at blue, black and white, with the belt buckle centering the style with a metallic flair.
The rider of this bike kept on going until he reached a bar in the more middle class area of the city, at which point he pulled in and found a spot away from any other vehicles to park, which wasn’t too hard. This bar was known for having a small but very dedicated and friendly pool of customers, which would be a great plus for anybody that was passing through New Radio City, although with the city’s reputation for being a home for superheroes and super villains alike it was… more of a double sided sword than anything else. On the one, it seems appealing to come here for the adventure. Thrilling, even, but then there was the constant danger this city was under because of things like that. But what did he know? He didn’t come here for the adventure. That seemed to be the other reason people came here, because they had nowhere else to go. There certainly wasn’t anywhere else on Earth like this place.
Sitting there on his bike, he wasn’t sure why he bothered thinking about this stuff. Trying to figure out all the reasons people come to this place is like cutting the head off of a Hydra from those mythological legends and whatnot- two more heads grew in its place. At any rate, he knew why he was here, so it shouldn’t matter to him why others came here. Not like he’d find out.
Finally the man hopped off his motorcycle, immediately regretting it. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he could see it- or rather, everything. He was nowhere near anything and yet he could sense it, see it like it was all laid out before him. The problem here being, he couldn’t stop it, and there was a noticeable jerk in his movements as each foot hit the ground. Thankfully, his senses told him not many people were in the bar, and those that were there were all regulars who thought he just had some disorder. When he entered the bar, the bartender, a tall man with black hair tied into a long ponytail, tattoos over his arms and many a scar on his face, offset by the auburn eyes, straightened up as he sat down at a barstool in front of him. “Well well, long time no see kid!” The bartender told him happily, his previously bored mood visibly brightened. “Good to see you too, Lucas.” The rider quietly replied, the hints of a southern accent escaping.
Can edit as needed.
edited 13th Jun '11 5:56:38 PM by InfiniteParagon
Motorpocalypse swerved around as he was screaming down the streets, heel-mounted wheels deployed. Not many cars on the road to worry about, but he knew the cops would be on his ass soon enou—and then a bullet whizzed past his ear. He spun around, driving backwards now, to see some guy on a motorcycle.
"Oh really, motherfucker?! You, you going to try this? Okay, let's go, let's go bitch!!" the robber shot a grappling hook to one side of the motorcycle and swung around it, then spun again so that now he was chasing the motorcycle.
"Take this!" he yelled, then fired a spray of machinegun bullets at the motorcycle.
Clinton realized that the criminal was now behind him, and shooting at him a lot. He switched to reverse, and attempted to ram the guy shooting him.
edited 13th Jun '11 6:22:12 PM by SirSteelman
"Oh, you want to play Chicken? I'm good." Motorpocalypse fired a grappling hook to the side of the motorcycle and swung around behind the motorcycle again. With his other hand he simultaneously fired a white laser from a small, silver, cylindrical gun.
And there that man goes again.
In a comfortable office chair, safely away from the chaotic streets where heroes and villains waged their battles against one another, sat a politician quietly finishing up what paperwork he had left for the evening. Well, he wasn't just a politician. First and foremost, he considered himself to be an actor. A writer. A director. A man of the stage.
And that was not the only role he had played before. Once, he walked the unseen streets and spoke unheard conversations as the man who always knew more than he should. An antagonist who worked behind the scenes to make sure the machinations of the city continued to move.
But those days were long ago, and life had given him a new role now. A prominent, lead role, no doubt, but a new role to which he found himself needing to grow accustomed to.
Mayor of New Radio City.
Mayor Ial Lesson gave a bored sigh as he wrote up one last signature, cementing his approval of a creative arts project celebrating the long generations of heroes that have protected the town both before and after its rebirth. Putting down his pen, Ial stood up and went over to a nearby window.
You would think after his first death, the cyborg crook would learn to live his life more recklessly. But, he was never good at learning life lessons, was he?
Hmm... I wonder what direction the authors of this story plan to take our fair city now...?
Pulling a pillow over his head, Andrew tried to drown out the noise. Cheap appartments were stuck near roads; something he had quickly learned upon living in New Radio City. If the noise didn't stop soon, he'd be exhausted by morning. Getting up, he figured he might as well take care of it. Who knows? Maybe it'd be funny...
Donning his crime-fighting outfit, the teen looked out the window. Time to do some hero-y stuff. He contemplated jumping from the window, but that would just be silly. Sliding down the rails from the staircase? Fun times to be had.
Lucas turned away, making a drink for his friend. "The usual, i take it?", he asked, more to keep the conversation lively in here. With him, it was especially hard to do. He was startled by the reply he got, though: "A double, this time." Now that was odd, but he knew better than to deny the man his drink. After a moment, he placed the full glass in front of him, taking a step back. It was whiskey, no ice, just how he liked it.
The rider waited until Lucas was away from him to reach out a hand and hold onto the glass, a small sizzle audible throughout. With his free hand, he pulled down the scarf and downed it, the scar over his lip clearly visible to Lucas as he set the glass back down.
Lucas adopted a somewhat concerned tone. "That bad today, kid?" The man nodded in response. "Still... still having trouble sleeping?", he pressed on, his voice more concerned but much quieter in repect for his friend. He had been through alot, and only he knew about it. There was a long moment of silence, the air seeming like he would freeze standing here until the man spoke, if only briefly. "Can't get her out of my head."
The bartender nodded, not wanting to press further just yet. He turned his head to the door, staring at it blankly. "She still run smoothly?" The rider smiled, slightly. "Like a dream." Lucas smiled wider at that. Giving him a small look, he added, "And the...?"
The rider nodded. "Haven't used them much, but they work fine." The man stood, heading to the door. "Thanks for the drink, Lucas." Lucas shouldn't have pressed on, but he did.
"Kid... Drew... Do you ever stop and think it might be time to move on?"
Drew stopped, giving his friend a small glance back, the visible features of his face dropping like a stone. "I can never move on from that." Drew then left, the senses suppressed for now, and all seemed peaceful, if only until the drink passed. He had no clue where he'd go now, but he'd ride nonetheless. That was about the only thing he could actually enjoy by any small amount.
edited 13th Jun '11 6:54:03 PM by InfiniteParagon
Clinton pulled out a revolver and held it out to block the laser. The revolver got coated in ice, and his hand got slightly frozen too. Clinton then got sick of this and drove up close to the robot and pulled out his lasso. Keeping the bike steady with his lightly frozen hand, he began twirling the lasso over his head, then threw it at the robot, attempting to get him tied up.
Running outside after zooming through the appartment, Faceplant spotted the cause of the noise; two bikers shooting at each other. Looks like I ain't in Kansas anymore...
"Some of us need our rest; how about I knock out your lights?"
Hey, that was pretty good! I should totally write that down!
Creating a small abrupt bump in the road close to Clinton's back wheel, he hoped to get their attention proper.
The lasso wrapped around Motorpocalypse's arm. He gave it a tug, to find it was, in fact, solid. "You know, my feet aren't just wheels." He disengaged his grappling hook, then ran directly at the motorcycle. He jumped onto the wheel, then stepped onto the handlebars, then tripped. He somersaulted over the man he still hadn't identified and landed on the pavement. He managed to right himself and was now basically waterskiing behind Clinton's motorcycle, sparks flying past his feet.
Clinton then hit Faceplant's bump, and having to pull a super villain with one hand, and having that hand he's actually driving with being a bit frozen he lost control of his bike and wiped out, falling off his bike, and onto the pavement.
Motorpocalypse went with him, flying into a building. The gem fell out of his coat and bounced away, towards a sewer grate. "No, no, no!!" he screamed. He threw out his arm and fired a grappling hook towards it.
"SHINY!" yelled Faceplant, diving for the gem and getting a face full of grappling hook for his troubles.
Clinton got up and pulled out his non-frozen revolver, and put it in his non-frozen hand. He ran over to the robot man, and shouted, "Freeze, or I'll- Wait, Professor Apocalypse? Is that you?"
Motorpocalypse stopped for a second. He looked at the man whose face he had hooked. He looked at the vigilante. He detached the hook from Faceplant's face. He got up slowly.
"Oh. Hello, Clinton." he said, voice dripping with barely-restrained hatred. "Look man, I don't want a fight. I'm just going to take this gem and be on my way." He whirled around and shot a freezeray at the boy's torso.
"Gah!" howled Faceplant as the pain from the hook and the cold swept over his body. "That's not very... ice..."
"Stop being so cold hearted and give me the gem!" said Motorpocalypse. "See, I'm also good at puns. But seriously. The gem." He beckoned with his unlassoed hand. "And come on, brokeback mountain, let go!"
Clinton, not wanting Professor Motorpocalypse to hurt the kid, fired a few shots at him, aiming to wound, not kill.
The bullets hit Motorpocalypse's arms, denting them. "Dammit man, didn't you hear me?! Like, do you ever talk?!"
"What's so important about the gem, Apocalypse, there was a ton of other stuff you could have walked out with, and on top of that burglary never really seemed to be your style. My guess is then that this gem is very special," said Clinton to Motorpocalypse.
Exiting the parking lot, Drew contemplated just where he'd go right now. There probably wasn't much to do around here at this time of night, and anything that sounded like it'd be open at the time, assuming it was even here, wasn't something Drew would like to do... or could do, for that matter.
He had to admit, he wasn't really wanting to go to sleep. The night was young, and Drew yearned to... find something he could do, he'd sleep the day away if he needed to. But really, was there a need to look? He wouldn't find anything, he knew it to be truth.
I guess i'll just keep driving, he decided, keeping his eyes peeled for any places that would be of interest to him, however few and far between they may be. Ever hopeful when i shouldn't be...
edited 13th Jun '11 8:18:00 PM by InfiniteParagon
"Gem? You mean this beautiful... Uhm..."
What the hell, man? Wit! Wit!
"Don't trip," muttered Faceplant, as a tiny stalagmite rose from the ground underneath his assailant's right foot.
"Yes. That's true. I wanted this for weaponry, if you must know. And the name's Motorpocalypse now. Remember it." He stood his ground, the stalagmite piercing his foot. "Well, I'm not going anywhere, and you obviously aren't, so I guess we just wait until some other supervillains show up."
edited 13th Jun '11 8:22:06 PM by Taco
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