City

[Nostradamus]

City

This thread heralds the beginning of a new four part series of RPs that I am making to inject a bit of talent and creativity in to the RP forum. So to start off with we have something a bit unconventional.

City is not so much an RP as an exercise in world building. For all of you RPers that wish to contribute to forming the world in which the next three RPs will take place then this is the place for you.

In this thread I would like you guys to submit some shorts. These can be ranging from anything from one paragraph to an entire book. These shorts can be about anything so long as they are in the city.

The city is a modern-futuristic metropolis. It has a river to the north (feel free to name it), the west, south and eastern edges are encompassed by a wall, and beyond that lies nothing but farmland.

That’s it. That’s all you have to work with. You guys can submit what you want be it about the country’s defence minister or William the baker’s son. All I ask is that you keep these stories in and around the city and the farmlands.

PLEASE PM YOUR SHORTS TO ME AND POST THEM ONCE I HAVE APPROVED. THIS IS ONLY TO ENSURE THAT THE RP REMAINS WITHIN THE BASIC VISION I HAVE.

I will submitting some shorts of my own. I look forward to reading yours. After a week or two I will be asking for this thread to be closed and I will proceed to make the second instalment.

[DarkMirror]

Mr. Wolfgang
Hey Mr. Wolfgang, you got fired, you did nothing wrong...
But here you are on the sidewalk, with no home.
Its not your fault, its all their fault!
So get up off the ground, and brush off the dust, and run back there!
You got to show them!
You got to show them!
You got to show them!
You got to kill everyone, tonight!
Like a little kid on a violent video game, Mr. Wolfgang is going insane...
Bang bang! He just shot his boss! Bang bang! He just shot his boss's boss!
See all the bullets ricochet off the steel file cabinets...
And he yells, don't stop now, keep pushing me, keep pushing me!
Mr. Wolfgang...

[Anoiktos]

On a platform made from shattered crates and old pizza boxes, a disheveled man in a ragged business suit shrieks, his emaciated body moving frantically, like a tapdancing horsefly.

"Man? Man? Who are we to call ourselves Man? Among the eaves of mountains, rotting and decrepit do we stand, unfeeling; we live amongst the tattered ruins of dredged earth, shaped by kiln and forge to match the dreadful vision of profit that we have latched onto like the runt of a blessed litter clinging desperately to the teat that brings it life. And we call ourselves Man, as though it were something other than an abomination. We speak to the earth with hammer and shovel, pick and axe; these are not the diplomatic means by which a tenant adresses his landlord, no - but never have we shown respect; not for our surroundings, not for others, not even for ourselves. We are a dying race, flush with the glow of victory even as the stench of decay overwhelms our senses, and we delude ourselves into thinking it the herald of the greatest of feasts."

"Uh, Dispatch? We got a nutter here. Crazy Prophet of some kind. Talking about, uh... Something or other. Can you see of St. Honoray's is full? Yeah, the hospital. No, I don't think it's extreme. Listen, I - Okay, right. Whenever you feel like it."

As the policeman shuts off his radio, he mutters despondently:

"Goddamn. Have to do everything myself." Looking around at the crowd that appears to have gathered around the would-be prophet, he notes a distinct lack of the usual disrespect given this sort of person; people seem even to be nodding along with his more controversial points. And then he notices the man watching him.

"You there, servant of the 'public'! Come here, that we may see your face, drink in of your authority." The man motions for the policeman to step forward, and he does, moving towards the would-be prophet with alacrity, though his step is firm and his expression dour. He looks up, and addresses the crowd:

"Okay, everybody. I need you to clear off, else I'll have to arrest you on charges of loitering. This guy's obviously a bit cracked, so I'll see if I can get him some help." The crowd does not move, and the scene grows steadily more eery, as the policeman notes no egress by which he might escape, should the crowd turn ugly.

The would-be prophet speaks:

"And by what power does the Authority speak? By whit of arms or wanton menace? This man purpots to serve the people - but what people? If you asked, would he do as you wished? Is he friend of yours, or foe? What power keeps you from disobeying his will, and doing as you like?"

"Listen, old man - you've probably been through a lot, today, so I'll just -"

-----

"Blake, this is Dispatch. Come in, please. Blake? Officer Blake? What is your location?"

As the sun moves past, in the sky, and the light fades, the river rises, taking with it the dying sputters of a police broadcast radio. No one saw it arrive, and no one sees it go, for of the three people that lay awake on the small, mud-ridden beach, two are lovers, awkwardly sharing each other without a glance at their surroundings, and the third hides within himself, an unmoving figure draped in tattered fragments of rags, coats, and plastic bags.

He shivers silently as it begins to rain.

[kongurous]

A quick turn of the dial on the MP3 in my hand brought me to my preferred selection of music. Past the rap and R&B, what little there was of either of course, was the rock category. Tapping the button in the center of the dial selected the playlist and before long, an introductory guitar riff with backing vocals blacker than obsidian blasted into my ears, the thumping sound of the volume turned up far too high bringing a familiar sense of comfort. Shoving the MP3 player into my right pocket and withdrawing my cell phone, I flipped up the receiver and my thumbs danced across the keypad and it seemed that I would be sending out five texts a second from any observer.

The surroundings around me faded away in a haze of fanciful multi-colored lights from my phone as I swiftly moved from my out-going texts to various sites on the Internet, mostly forums I liked to browse while I waited. The song on my MP3 player changed not too long after. The only indication, however, of this occurring was the fact there was a brief, silent lull between the two songs and it only served to heighten my sense of detachment from reality. I was in my own little world with the belting vocals of some band whose name I didn’t recall and the wonders of the Internet.

What finally brought me back was the gust of wind that followed the arrival of a train at the station and the whistle blowing from what seemed like only a meter away. Startled, I looked up to see the sleek, white hull of a bullet train, a monorail really, that would take me to my destination downtown. Reaching into my pocket and turning my MP3 player down, I also clapped my phone shut and it joined its cousin in the deep reserves of my right pocket.

A rain drop plopped softly onto my head as I stepped onto the train. It was quickly followed by tens, dozens, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, and hundreds of thousands more and I sighed deeply to myself. If it was going to continue like this then maybe the arcade wasn’t the best place to be going.

“Damn it.” I mumbled to myself, and got as comfortable as I could in my seat and drew my phone once more to begin the process anew.

[Vhaeraun]

The man sat in shadows in the corner of the pub. He had a beer sitting before him, but he didn’t touch it. He had other reasons for being here, the drink was for show.

The door opened and a handsomely dressed gentleman walked in. The man in shadows gestured to the newcomer, and he sat before the shadowy figure. Long moments passed before anyone said anything. The man in shadow spoke first, his accent belying his british heritage, “So, Mr. Andrees. I heard that you have some…business for me?”

Mr. Andrees nodded, “You know who I am, yet I don’t know y-“

The shadow leaned forward, the light hitting his face, lightening his face, revealing a large scar running down his face. The shadow smiled, yet no warmth came from the gesture, “Mr. Andrees, who and what I am need not be the subject of this discussion. I came here on the prospect of the work you have for me, but if you don’t have anything for me, I’ll be leaving.”

Mr. Andrees gulped, “I have a business rival who is bidding on the same project as I am. This project can make or break a company, and if I don’t get it, I’m over.”

The shadow sat back and chuckled, “All this for a business rivalry. How much are you willing to pay?”

Mr. Andrees rattled off an outrageous 7 figure payment, and the shadow smiled again, “Half now and half when the job is done. Do we have an accord?

Mr. Andrees nodded and pulled out a checkbook. He wrote the number down, signed it, and gave it to the man. With that concluded, the shadow got up to leave. Mr. Andrees said, “That’s it? How will I find you for the rest of the payment?”

The shadow merely stated, “I’ll find you.”

With that Mr. Andrees was left alone. He was visibly shaken, and he downed the beer that was sitting before him. He took note of the napkin under the beer, with the words, ‘Thought you could use this,’ with the name ‘Shadow’ signed at the bottom.

[Flametrooper]

Police are stupid. To think we wouldn’t notice. The man held a fully loaded MP5 as he walked down the metal hallways, his footsteps echoing.
The same car. Everyday. Just parked there. He took the corner sharply, pushing past a secretary carrying a stack of papers and walking the other way. He turned back to see if he could take in her image, but she was already gone.
But who’s stupider? Us for not doing anything or them for doing it. Peter contemplated this as he took another turn. Them for doing it. They’ll see. As Peter took his last turn, he took his gun off safety. It was time.

***

Three black SWAT vans drove in a solemn procession to their target, police sirens off. Two squad-cars were positioned at both the exits leading to the warehouse and all the patrols in the nearby area were on full alert, ready to assist. If anything went wrong, two more SWAT vans were ready, five minutes away. Matt had always wondered what the point of all this was. If the whole point was to get their secretly, the best thing to do would be to pack everyone in a screaming red mini-van and drive in from separate directions. Anyone who saw three huge black vans, with the word SWAT tattooed on their sides would guess what was going on.

Matt had been brought along because his squad-car had broken down. Well, kind of. Matt had shot some critical parts, then blown a tire. It looked like his car had broken down. But Matt needed action. No more speeding tickets. Armed with a pistol, he was going to show the police he was ready for action.

***

“Very inconspicuous,” Peter muttered under his breath, pushing his swath of black hair away from his eyes. The three SWAT vans had pulled up in the parking lot. Peter looked out through the tinted windows and watched the whole thing happening. The warehouse they were located in was downtown, so this was sure to attract attention. Maybe they could even kill a few civilians to totally screw the cops up.

Peter had been positioned in the third line of defense, so there was plenty of time to mentally prepare. First, there was the knocking. Then a few demands by the police. Finally, Peter heard the door kicked open. Looking out his window confirmed it. A bit more than twenty-five SWAT members were here. It was going to be a good long fight.

***

Matt waited a bit before entering the building. Moments before, he had heard the SWAT leader briefing his teams. Maybe he was in a bit over his head. “These are very well armed gang members. But if we can take them out we take off the head of the snake. Be careful and watch your backs,” The team leader had said. He hesitated slightly before following the SWAT team in.

It was just enough to hear the shooting start. The screaming followed shortly after.

[Anoiktos]

The rain that night goes on for days - weeks, even, unceasing. It splashes onto the sand, flowing into the river even as, up above, the wind calls for it to billow back and forth, like ivory curtains, shining in the moonlight. That luminescent orb is obscured by the tufts of unspun cotton from which the rain originates, and the same wind that causes the rain to shimmer pushes them onwards, eastwards. By morning, the sky is clear, and all that remains on the beach is the shell of a man, skin and bones without motive force to drive them. He does not stand, nor walk into the city to beg for his keep, for what need does he have, now, for money? What need does he have for comfort?

In time, a family will come, walking up the beach; here is the father, a young man of twenty-eight, with a fresh, handsome face; here is the mother, whose cheeks still hold the redness of youth, whose eyes still sparkle with adoration for her mate. Here is their son, scarcely a child, a six-year-old whose knowledge of the world has only just begun to sour from wonder to apprehension. The child reaches him first; running ahead as the others argue; they are not truly angry, and the harshness of their words is tempered by the tempo of their hearts, but they have begun to see the difference between love and responsibility, and neither is sure of the other - though in truth what they fear most is their own weakness.

And the child cries out, for he has found the jacket, sun-bleached and raw, and the dessicated mummy within it. He does not understand what it means, and so his cries are screams of delight, but his parents realize all too soon what he has found, and he senses their anger, their apprehension. The family leaves, more quickly than they arrived, and the bleached skeleton is never seen again, save by the crayfish who live in the silt at the bottom of the river. It does not need to be. It has accomplished its purpose.

On Michael Thibault's first day of school, he saw a skeleton; not bleached, nor plastic, but well-preserved and carefully mounted. He watched it, for a time, waiting for it to say something, and when he did not, he offered to share his lunch with it. The Professor of Science, a nervous young woman, anxious for her future and her degree, and relatively unaccustomed to the curiosity of small children, shooed him out, and for the rest of that day, his teachers commented that he was strangely absent, refusing to talk to anyone but himself.

That evening, Michael's parents asked him how his first day at school had gone, and they were happy to hear he had made a friend.

[Subjukator]

"Yo, waasup?" The soft bass of music thudded in the background.

"Not too much, not too much," drawled the other, "How you been man?"

"Eh, just workin' my grind, you know how it is. Yo, do you think I might be able to pick up later?"

"Yea, yea, that's straight. How much you lookin?"

"Umm, would you be good for a zip? Would that be aight?" Guarded optimism couldn't be helped from entering his voice. Damn't.

Silence on the other line for a moment, then, "I gotchu man. You want to come by later?"

"Yea, definitely. Be over in like an hour."

"Alright, later." Some shuffling then the familiar tone of the connection cutting out. He leaned back in his overstuffed chair, eyes peering out from a solemn expression etched perhaps in stone judging from the deep wrinkles across his skin. He swallowed drily before reaching for an orange cup half empty with water and took a sip. The clock on the low-rise dresser read half past 12.

Revolving around, he stood and leaned against the sun bleached stone of the adjacent patio with its large glass doors thrown wide open. A warm, humid breeze tugged at the single braided ponytail trailing down his backside.

He breathed deeply in through his nostrils before breathing out again. Another moonless night, yet night was a distant vision in this cacaphony of grinding engines, beckoning lights twinkling like a blanket before it rose to a crescendo in the city's uppermost spires. Slightly beyond this awestriking sight, a great ax winked those lights out quite suddenly at the Wall. Funny wall, it had some grandiose name, but it was the only wall with any meaning in this entire expanse of civilization.

"Let's see who wants to play," he softly muttered. The long-bore rifle leaned casually against the wall before calloused hands flipped open the sight lense and a single, unassuming eye pressed itself around the circular rubbered edge. The stock pressed comfortably against him as his right thumb flicked the safety off.

Bird's crowed softly in the distance.
__________________________________________________ ______________

An acrylic bong, with the pyschedlic script "Mastadon" etched along the main barrel lay between his thighs as the glistening bud's filled the bowl poking from the side. A lighter flickered to life as a bubbling noise rushed to a conclusion. The smoke plumed from his lips, "Now thats the nuke!" He laughed an passed the piece and lighter to his left.

The bass of music pulsed in the background as voices drowned each other out. He shook his short cropped hair and smirked at his friend, "Uh huh..."

Someone poked him in the side before plopping down beside him, her perfume betraying who she was before he turned around. Her soft, warm expression as always made his breath disappear, "Hey you, you weren't thinking of starting without me, were you?" She tilted to her head to the side and smiled.

"Haha, no!" He reached behind the couch and pulled out a second bong, this particular one with no markings except for its irridiscent blue color. The bowl had already been packed and he passed it to her with another lighter. Calmly watching her pull the smoke out the barrel, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers after a few seconds. He breathed deeply and kissed her cherry lips before parting away and breathing out a column of white. Their eye's connecting, they smiled together, hands wrapped around the other.

[West]

"hey Holmes, watchu doin' man?", Antonio asked, dripping water on his old tanktop.

"Nothin' fool, just watchin reruns of Mind of Mencia."

"Man holmes you need to quit bein' a bita and get off your culo"

"Eh, let me be holmes. Life is pointless if I can't enjoy it with my chica."

"Man holmes, she was a puta anyways. Lets go for a ride holmes, there's plenty of girls around this vertedero."

Alen looked around the city as the cold breeze whipped against his face. Observing the city after not going outside for 13 days, Alen was surprised at how much the City can change in so little time.
A loud, terrible screeching noise broke the peaceful silence.

"Man holmes, what the hell was that?"

"Fool, it's your car. Lowriders are lame now holmes. You need to get up with the man."

"Well you know if i had a job i could afford it, now keep driving mendeho."

"Sittin' on your culo don't get you money holmes, i thought you'd figure that out youself."

Alen put on his sunglasses before Antonio could see the cold, angry look in his eyes.
--------------------------------------------
Depressed, angry, and tired with his life, Alen sat at his house, alone, smoking a few joints and drinking a few beers while watching Mind of Mencia reruns.