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N1-
Our tale starts on a lovely summer evening, not exactly the setting one expects for a gruesome murder. It was a poor section of the city, not much more than a tent town, but with nothing inherently dangerous standing out upon first glance. One tent had a large embroidered wrench on the side, indicating a place for repair of mechanics. This is where we turn our focus today. Or, more specifically, to the person inside.
Darby Salwey, daughter of the infamous arms manufacturer Salomon Salwey, sat inside. Her focus was entirely taken up by the client in front of her, a person who lived in this tent town that she temporarily called home. Always a disappointment to her father, she had run out of patience and been staying in her tent for the past three days. The only upside was the amount of good she had been able to do for these people. With an interest in mechanics since she was a child, Darby was gifted in turning even cheap mech into something both beautiful and functional. Her father's disappointment stemmed entirely from her abilities, or more so her lack of desire to turn her talents to weaponry. Instead, she chose to spend her time trading her abilities for services in the poor areas of town. For those who did not come from a privileged background. She had heard of a plan between the planets for greater collaboration, to move between worlds before a new gatekeeper was chosen to work together against a threat that seemed to focus on them all. She was not interested in such galactic politics, she had more good that she could do by remaining right here on Descartes.
With a final few taps from the secondary metal fingers attached to her right wrist, Darby finished the adjustments to the man's mechanical arm. Now it would allow him to move the contraption smoothly, something the mech company couldn't be bothered to do for their cheapest models. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, Darby accepted the man's payment in the form of a few scattered coins as well as food which she carefully tucked into her larder. As the man left, she closed the flap to her tent, carefully tying the pegs shut. Pulling out her sleeping mat, she fell into it fully clothed and was instantly asleep.
Sounds woke her.
Not loud sounds, but the sounds that one hears in a horror movie right before someone is killed. Those ominous quiet sounds. Muffled footsteps, the rustling of clothing where it shouldn't be, a brush of a finger against the tent wall.
She was suddenly wide awake. Perhaps she had known this would happen. Was it someone sent from her father? He did have a most convenient way to make his enemies disappear.
Silently, she pushed herself up into a crouch, thanking her own skills in allowing her mechanical legs to move silently. The footsteps, obviously from someone trying to hide themselves, moved around to the flap. Quiet scraping as they tried to push the flap in before they realized she had tied it shut. The quiet snick of a blade being unsheathed to cut their way in.
At that moment, she knew her life was in danger.
Springing into action, she lunged to her feet and went to the back wall of the tent, blades springing out from her wrist enhancement as she slashed her way through, barely slowing down as she ran for her life. A curse from behind her and the pounding of footsteps followed. Willing more speed into her mechanical legs, she practically flew over the rough ground, hearing the footsteps fall behind. A few more strides took her out of the tents and into the city proper. Like a rabbit, she sprung down various narrow alleys, choosing her direction at random.
Finally, what felt like hours later but was probably only minutes, she slowed and ducked around a corner. Gasping, she struggled to control her breathing down to something quiet enough to hide. She listened carefully as the night closed in around her but heard nothing. A shaky sigh left her body as she turned to try to find her way back to the tent village.
A flash of metal.
Someone walked away from her rapidly cooling body, her mech now covered in her own blood. Dark footsteps on a dark night that had started so peacefully.
Dead is
Moving on:
His name was Bacaulay Bulkin.
On your planet, you'd probably call him a military brat. You know the life...Mom was a bigwig general, Dad was police. I guess to someone from Earth, the strength of 10 men sounds pretty impressive. But in the Bulkin family, it's the norm to have the strength of twelve men. It didn't take long for Bacaulay to realize that, no matter how hard he tried, compared to his brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, grandmothers and great-grandmothers...he was nothing special.
Log-tossing? Twenty feet shy of his sister Brenda's record.
Boulder toppling? Tired out after only 50 boulders, left in the dust as his brother plowed through 15 more.
Sheep hurling? He couldn't even get them over the steeple...their bleets rang out in a mocking chorus, taunting him, laughing at him....so loud, so CLOSE.... it was just humiliating.
Then one magical, life-changing weekend, he found himself home alone for the holidays. (No hard feelings, Pops. He's easy to forget.) It was pretty uneventful at first---but then, oh but then--bored out of his mind, alone and abandoned, flipping through the channels, he landed on station that would change his young life forever.
It was Saturday Night Fever. There he was--in a flash, in a swirl, in a whirlwind of colorful lights and glittering disco balls and pure, unadulterated inspiration. Bron Bravolta. Restless. Underachieving. Unappreciated. But by god, look at him dance.
And that was that. By the time Bacaulay's family came home from vacation, Bravolta stared down from dozens upon dozens of posters, plastering every inch of his bedroom walls. He'd finally found his place in life. He was going to be....a dancer.
So he practiced. Every day he practiced. He kick-ball-changed a hole in the wall. He pas de bourree'd til the cows came home. It was his calling. He couldn't fail. He was finally going to prove himself, to stake out his own identity, to be something special for a change.
But then...it still hurt him to think about it. You'd think he'd be desensitized, after every night, filled with the same nightmare, forced to relive that moment, over and over and over. But....he was only animoid. Some feelings are hard to shake.
The lead in the school play. Dirty Dancing. He could hardly believe it--he'd never been so proud of anything in his life. Brenda could toss all the logs she liked. He was going to be a STAR.
Now, when he closed his eyes at night, he was right back there, in that dingy auditorium--opening night, the closing number. A sea of eyes, all glued on him. She lifts her arms and runs toward him---that final, beautiful, confident leap. She's flying.
Then he hears the crash. The gasps. And worst of all, the laughs. Deafening. They echo in his memory, unrelenting. When the laughs die down, he hear the whispers. "The strength of 10 men?" they sneer..."And he thought he could pull this off? What a joke."
But they don't know, him, he whispers in the night. They don't know Bacaulay Bulkin.
It's quiet tonight, but Bacaulay's room is alive with movement. Three years older, three years stronger. Laughed out of audition after audition. But he won't let them tear him down. He grits his teeth. His head is pounding. He glaces at the television. Those blowhard politicians are going at it again. Explains the headache. He rolls his eyes, and flips lazily through the channels. His yawn freezes on his face as he realizes what he's landed on.
Dirty Dancing.
He shudders. What a cruel joke. An awful reminder of all he could have been. But...somehow, something feels different this time.
Remember Bron Bravolta, chants a quiet voice in his head. REMEMBER BRON BRAVOLTA. The voice grows louder. More persistent.
"BRENDA!" He yells. "BRENDA!" His urgency is building. It's a sign. The time had come. He can't let fear rule him anymore.
His sister pushes the door open. "DO IT!" he yells. "NEVER GIVE UP! NEVER SURRENDER!"
Brenda nods. She understands.
He takes a deep breath. Brenda runs. Brenda leaps. Bacaulay's heart soars.
A FLASH OF MAGIC.
Again, a crash. Shrieks ring out, like Deja Vu.
This time, no one's laughing.
Brenda's shrieks die on her lips. She looks down in terror.
Bacaulay stands like a statue, frozen in instant rigor mortis. But on his face....a look of triumph, of hope, of pride. In death, strong and true, he holds his arms high, lifting Brenda. She's soaring, flying....a perfect catch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
**** you, wolves. Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose.
Dead is
Of Note: I had an interesting thought come through, and I liked it for its out of the box thinking. Abilities can also be performed on a person you anticipate moving onto the planet you are on or are moving to. It is a high risk maneuver in case that target doesn't end up where you thought, as this will negate the action of course. So for clarity, Actions can be done on someone residing currently on the same planet as you, a planet you move to, or the gamble in someone you think will be where you end up. Good times. Adds some intrigue.
Trading Post will be up in a moment. Get to election and lynch please in the mean time. Deadline is 11PM EST.
Roster
Hatari- The Animoid Planet
1. @Flim Flam Man
2. @Jilary
3. @Mad Jack
4. @LetItSnow
5. @ddstothecor
6. @amgoose319
7. @Animal Midwife
8. @SummerTheLynx
15. @sheltermed
18. @DVMDream
19. @WildZoo
Cthulu- The Magic Planet
9. @nyanko
10. @genny
11. @Karabiner13
12. @Filly Bay
13. @Trilt
14. @StartingoverVet
21. @LadyOtheFarm
Descartes- The Mech Planet
16. @mmmdreamerz
Underverse
17. Kam- Village day assassin
20. SARdoghandler- mech vanillager
Our tale starts on a lovely summer evening, not exactly the setting one expects for a gruesome murder. It was a poor section of the city, not much more than a tent town, but with nothing inherently dangerous standing out upon first glance. One tent had a large embroidered wrench on the side, indicating a place for repair of mechanics. This is where we turn our focus today. Or, more specifically, to the person inside.
Darby Salwey, daughter of the infamous arms manufacturer Salomon Salwey, sat inside. Her focus was entirely taken up by the client in front of her, a person who lived in this tent town that she temporarily called home. Always a disappointment to her father, she had run out of patience and been staying in her tent for the past three days. The only upside was the amount of good she had been able to do for these people. With an interest in mechanics since she was a child, Darby was gifted in turning even cheap mech into something both beautiful and functional. Her father's disappointment stemmed entirely from her abilities, or more so her lack of desire to turn her talents to weaponry. Instead, she chose to spend her time trading her abilities for services in the poor areas of town. For those who did not come from a privileged background. She had heard of a plan between the planets for greater collaboration, to move between worlds before a new gatekeeper was chosen to work together against a threat that seemed to focus on them all. She was not interested in such galactic politics, she had more good that she could do by remaining right here on Descartes.
With a final few taps from the secondary metal fingers attached to her right wrist, Darby finished the adjustments to the man's mechanical arm. Now it would allow him to move the contraption smoothly, something the mech company couldn't be bothered to do for their cheapest models. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, Darby accepted the man's payment in the form of a few scattered coins as well as food which she carefully tucked into her larder. As the man left, she closed the flap to her tent, carefully tying the pegs shut. Pulling out her sleeping mat, she fell into it fully clothed and was instantly asleep.
Sounds woke her.
Not loud sounds, but the sounds that one hears in a horror movie right before someone is killed. Those ominous quiet sounds. Muffled footsteps, the rustling of clothing where it shouldn't be, a brush of a finger against the tent wall.
She was suddenly wide awake. Perhaps she had known this would happen. Was it someone sent from her father? He did have a most convenient way to make his enemies disappear.
Silently, she pushed herself up into a crouch, thanking her own skills in allowing her mechanical legs to move silently. The footsteps, obviously from someone trying to hide themselves, moved around to the flap. Quiet scraping as they tried to push the flap in before they realized she had tied it shut. The quiet snick of a blade being unsheathed to cut their way in.
At that moment, she knew her life was in danger.
Springing into action, she lunged to her feet and went to the back wall of the tent, blades springing out from her wrist enhancement as she slashed her way through, barely slowing down as she ran for her life. A curse from behind her and the pounding of footsteps followed. Willing more speed into her mechanical legs, she practically flew over the rough ground, hearing the footsteps fall behind. A few more strides took her out of the tents and into the city proper. Like a rabbit, she sprung down various narrow alleys, choosing her direction at random.
Finally, what felt like hours later but was probably only minutes, she slowed and ducked around a corner. Gasping, she struggled to control her breathing down to something quiet enough to hide. She listened carefully as the night closed in around her but heard nothing. A shaky sigh left her body as she turned to try to find her way back to the tent village.
A flash of metal.
Someone walked away from her rapidly cooling body, her mech now covered in her own blood. Dark footsteps on a dark night that had started so peacefully.
Dead is
SARdog, who was vanilla mech, but on her way to earning so much monies for her work. please clap for her creativity
Moving on:
His name was Bacaulay Bulkin.
On your planet, you'd probably call him a military brat. You know the life...Mom was a bigwig general, Dad was police. I guess to someone from Earth, the strength of 10 men sounds pretty impressive. But in the Bulkin family, it's the norm to have the strength of twelve men. It didn't take long for Bacaulay to realize that, no matter how hard he tried, compared to his brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, grandmothers and great-grandmothers...he was nothing special.
Log-tossing? Twenty feet shy of his sister Brenda's record.
Boulder toppling? Tired out after only 50 boulders, left in the dust as his brother plowed through 15 more.
Sheep hurling? He couldn't even get them over the steeple...their bleets rang out in a mocking chorus, taunting him, laughing at him....so loud, so CLOSE.... it was just humiliating.
Then one magical, life-changing weekend, he found himself home alone for the holidays. (No hard feelings, Pops. He's easy to forget.) It was pretty uneventful at first---but then, oh but then--bored out of his mind, alone and abandoned, flipping through the channels, he landed on station that would change his young life forever.
It was Saturday Night Fever. There he was--in a flash, in a swirl, in a whirlwind of colorful lights and glittering disco balls and pure, unadulterated inspiration. Bron Bravolta. Restless. Underachieving. Unappreciated. But by god, look at him dance.
And that was that. By the time Bacaulay's family came home from vacation, Bravolta stared down from dozens upon dozens of posters, plastering every inch of his bedroom walls. He'd finally found his place in life. He was going to be....a dancer.
So he practiced. Every day he practiced. He kick-ball-changed a hole in the wall. He pas de bourree'd til the cows came home. It was his calling. He couldn't fail. He was finally going to prove himself, to stake out his own identity, to be something special for a change.
But then...it still hurt him to think about it. You'd think he'd be desensitized, after every night, filled with the same nightmare, forced to relive that moment, over and over and over. But....he was only animoid. Some feelings are hard to shake.
The lead in the school play. Dirty Dancing. He could hardly believe it--he'd never been so proud of anything in his life. Brenda could toss all the logs she liked. He was going to be a STAR.
Now, when he closed his eyes at night, he was right back there, in that dingy auditorium--opening night, the closing number. A sea of eyes, all glued on him. She lifts her arms and runs toward him---that final, beautiful, confident leap. She's flying.
Then he hears the crash. The gasps. And worst of all, the laughs. Deafening. They echo in his memory, unrelenting. When the laughs die down, he hear the whispers. "The strength of 10 men?" they sneer..."And he thought he could pull this off? What a joke."
But they don't know, him, he whispers in the night. They don't know Bacaulay Bulkin.
It's quiet tonight, but Bacaulay's room is alive with movement. Three years older, three years stronger. Laughed out of audition after audition. But he won't let them tear him down. He grits his teeth. His head is pounding. He glaces at the television. Those blowhard politicians are going at it again. Explains the headache. He rolls his eyes, and flips lazily through the channels. His yawn freezes on his face as he realizes what he's landed on.
Dirty Dancing.
He shudders. What a cruel joke. An awful reminder of all he could have been. But...somehow, something feels different this time.
Remember Bron Bravolta, chants a quiet voice in his head. REMEMBER BRON BRAVOLTA. The voice grows louder. More persistent.
"BRENDA!" He yells. "BRENDA!" His urgency is building. It's a sign. The time had come. He can't let fear rule him anymore.
His sister pushes the door open. "DO IT!" he yells. "NEVER GIVE UP! NEVER SURRENDER!"
Brenda nods. She understands.
He takes a deep breath. Brenda runs. Brenda leaps. Bacaulay's heart soars.
A FLASH OF MAGIC.
Again, a crash. Shrieks ring out, like Deja Vu.
This time, no one's laughing.
Brenda's shrieks die on her lips. She looks down in terror.
Bacaulay stands like a statue, frozen in instant rigor mortis. But on his face....a look of triumph, of hope, of pride. In death, strong and true, he holds his arms high, lifting Brenda. She's soaring, flying....a perfect catch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
**** you, wolves. Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose.
Dead is
Kam, a Hatari animoid Daytime Assassin
Of Note: I had an interesting thought come through, and I liked it for its out of the box thinking. Abilities can also be performed on a person you anticipate moving onto the planet you are on or are moving to. It is a high risk maneuver in case that target doesn't end up where you thought, as this will negate the action of course. So for clarity, Actions can be done on someone residing currently on the same planet as you, a planet you move to, or the gamble in someone you think will be where you end up. Good times. Adds some intrigue.
Trading Post will be up in a moment. Get to election and lynch please in the mean time. Deadline is 11PM EST.
Roster
Hatari- The Animoid Planet
1. @Flim Flam Man
2. @Jilary
3. @Mad Jack
4. @LetItSnow
5. @ddstothecor
6. @amgoose319
7. @Animal Midwife
8. @SummerTheLynx
15. @sheltermed
18. @DVMDream
19. @WildZoo
Cthulu- The Magic Planet
9. @nyanko
10. @genny
11. @Karabiner13
12. @Filly Bay
13. @Trilt
14. @StartingoverVet
21. @LadyOtheFarm
Descartes- The Mech Planet
16. @mmmdreamerz
Underverse
17. Kam- Village day assassin
20. SARdoghandler- mech vanillager
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