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Metro Encounter

a part of “The Multiverse”, a fictional universe by Remæus.

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Metro Encounter

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Arctic on Sun Feb 04, 2007 7:55 pm

It was cold. Very very cold. Shadows walked in the fog, casting glimpses to the lone man wandering. As soon as they appeared, they disappeared. It was an uncomfortable place to be; spirits could be sensed there. The spirits of the dead. The man held an assault rifle as he climbed over a pile of rubble; probably a house way back when. He had brown hair, pale gray eyes, and a special forces suit on along with a gas mask. He was shouting for help. He had gotten into a gunfight with a couple of freelances a while back, and he was wounded in the shoulder and side.

If I keep up like this, I'm not getting back to the transport. And if I do, I doubt I'll live. I'm already so weak. So hungry. I need help. He thought. His patch on his right breast area read 'T. Kazanen' In bold, his military initials. He had a couple more good shouts in him.

"I need help over here!" He cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting. He waited a few seconds, then collapsed to his knees and dropped his gun, taking a rest. The warm, uncomfortable feeling of his own blood ran down his back under his body armor vest, and he sighed.


OOC: Is this ok? I'm new here. OOC
Image

I thought what I'd do was, I'd pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. That way I wouldn't have to have any stupid useless conversations with anybody. If anybody wanted to tell me something they'd have to write it on a piece of paper and shove it over to me. They'd get bored as hell doing that after a while, and then I'd be through with having conversations for the rest of my life.

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Tips: 0.00 INK Postby mronimusha on Sun Feb 04, 2007 8:16 pm

[You need to give us more information about the scenario and the setting - it seems like it's a post-apocalyptic world, but I can't tell, and so I wouldn't feel good about roleplaying yet.]

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Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Je Suis INSANE on Sun Feb 04, 2007 8:20 pm

OOC: This section is essentially "anything goes", and it's all within one world. If you're running a standalone storyline, it can be moved to wherever it belongs.

Welcome to GWing, though! I'm glad you're here. :)

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Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Arctic on Sun Feb 04, 2007 8:31 pm

OOC: Yeah, this is supposed to be a roleplay thing, not a standalone story. The setting is in Metro City in the eastern side. Its a vine-growth area with all ruins, only a few buildings even remotely standing. Rubble covers the area, debris as well. The stench of death is rampant, and a heavy fog covers the area. OOC

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Tips: 0.00 INK Postby mronimusha on Sun Feb 04, 2007 9:10 pm

[More. Where's Metro City? What is Metro City? Is it post-apocalyptic? Would I be able to be a soldier, or a freelancer, or a radiated human? When is it set, in the future or in the past?]

Loading his pistol - his reliable Desert Eagle - with a fresh clip, the freelancer poked his head out of cover, looking past the building he was hiding behind. He and his band had been caught under fire from a platoon of soldiers, and they'd barely escaped; only four of the original fifteen had survived, and even he'd been hit, his left arm dangling almost-useless. The cigarette caught between his lips had gone out, quashed in the heavy rain crippling his visibility, and his long hair was dripping over his camo bandana.

Nonetheless, he knew that out in the street somewhere, probably crouched behind one of the rusted and burnt-out cars, were at least two soldiers. He'd seen eight of the thirteen go down himself, and a quick Chinese Parliament with a fellow free man had shown nine were dead in total. That still left four potentially alive. The rain beat down heavier, and the freelancer made his move; he scampered out from behind the building and rushed to the nearby van. A roll of thunder disguised the sound of his steps, and he slammed his back hard against the van.

Then, amazingly, a soldier crept around the van. With the heavy rain blowing into his eyes, he didn't notice the free man standing there, and it took less than a moment's hesitation before he aimed and fired a shot straight through the soldier's head.

Ten.

"He's over here!" came the shout from behind the freelancer, and he wheeled around, pistol levelled but unable to see anything. He backed towards the van doors, using the van to shield himself from the rain, but realised that the doors were unlocked. Quietly, he eased them open and climbed inside - a tramp was slumped in the corner, seemingly asleep, but no sooner than was he inside than two soldiers walked around the corner of the van. One was covering the other with his assault rifle, and the freelancer knew he had to go first. He aimed through the broken space where the window in the door should have, and fired.

Eleven.

Luck was with him tonight, as a peal of thunder almost drowned the noise of the shot completely. The first soldier hadn't noticed his cover going down - nor would he. Looking at the body of his fallen friend, the first the freelancer had killed, he was completely oblivious to the gun behind him until it was poking in the back of his head.

"Drop your weapon," he rasped. The soldier obeyed reluctantly, turning his head slightly to see who was there - the sight of the freelancer's face made his eyes widen.

"You?!" The freelancer grinned, but it was a nasty smile.

"Me. Now you can either answer some questions and get a nice quick death, or you can keep quiet and have me show you pieces of yourself."

The soldier talked, he sang like a canary. The freelancer's skill with a blade was...the thing nightmares were made of, and his reward indeed was a swift death. As the electricity in his brain died, the freelancer was already busy collecting up the ammunition and rations of the soldiers, stowing it in his backpack - he'd taken the AK74 from one of the first soldiers he'd killed, and it hadn't let him down yet.

"I need help over here!" came a shout on the wind. The free man turned; every instinct told him to ignore it, but something else told him not to. Maybe it was something in the voice, but the free man started moving towards the voice, Desert Eagle still out nonetheless.

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Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Arctic on Sun Feb 04, 2007 9:42 pm

OOC :
Eric Martindale wrote:Terra
Not Earth.

Wing City
#GWing
Currently in ruin from attacks. In the process of being rebuilt.

Gambit's Bar
Bunny House - next to Gambit's Bar, strip club.

Bloodthirst Club

The Embassy

The Lake
Currently covered in magical ice shield, housing 100 - 200 survivors.

The Bluff

Metro City
Metro City seems to be in ruin, with various apparitions wandering the premises. Not a safe place to be.


Gambit's Bar - Destroyed

Luxembourg
END OOC

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Tips: 0.00 INK Postby mronimusha on Sun Feb 04, 2007 10:35 pm

[Hey, I'm not having a go at you. I thought Metro City was something you'd made up, and so I asked questions to get you thinking about this. Still, it works well enough, I don't have to change anything.]

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Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Ryand-Smith on Mon Feb 05, 2007 1:50 pm

[A strange burst of activy as heard, as a diesel powered truck speed through the abandoned city streets. The truck had two passengers in it, one obviously different from the first. The first was a male, who appeared around 45, and who was driving the Armored Personnel Carrier, was a male who some would say appeared Latin American in ancestry, as his co-driver, a apparently younger woman of middle eastern decent looked on the truck’s map of the city. “Hey Fatimah� said the driver, “Yeah Roberto, “ the woman responded, “I think I see some mercs near our location!� Roberto quickly stopped the van, as a symbol of the Trantor Empire was seen by the solders on the ground

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Tips: 0.00 INK Postby mronimusha on Tue Feb 06, 2007 9:37 am

The rain hammered down relentlessly, flooding the streets and the deserted buildings. The drainage system had given up the ghost when the people started to leave Metro City in droves, and those still remaining saw little point in fixing something that nobody would ever use. Critics of the Metro City mayor said this was typical of his tenure - the eastern side of the city got worse and worse, the western side saw no changes for the better, and most of the money in the coffers was funnelled straight into his account. The police force were nothing, most of them didn't even know it was going on, and those who did simply reaped the benefits. His combat jacket soaked through, the freelancer pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and picked his way across the soaked rubble. The voice calling for help sounded plaintive enough to be legitimate, but the soldiers fighting a losing battle against the Free Men had learned to adapt to their guerrilla warfare-style tactics.

He stumbled, putting his hand out against the nearby building to steady himself and accidentally firing off a round from the Desert Eagle still clutched tight in his left fist. Cursing out loud, he pressed up hard against the wet wall, praying the cry for help was true and he wasn't about to get ambushed. The only sounds were the distant rolls of thunder and the pattering of the continued rain, and the freelancer breathed easier. Like every man he knew, he'd accepted death would come for him soon, but it didn't stop him doing everything he could to prolong his life - he had too many things to do before he could go quiet into the dark night.

"Is anyone there?" came the shout again. Taking a dangerous chance, the freelancer replied.

"Yes. Keep talking and I'll find you."

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Tips: 0.00 INK Postby ,Calamity-x on Tue Feb 06, 2007 11:29 am

Running his sharp blade on the wall along side of him. "I wonder if there are any survivors here" he says to himself while he conceals the big sword.

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Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Ryand-Smith on Tue Feb 06, 2007 10:00 pm

The flooding started to pick up the assault wagon, the transport’s own amphibious nature allowing it to move slowly in the torrential flooding, as Roberto tried to stabiles the van’s own movement through the waters, hoping that he would be able to get close enough to the ropers to rescue them.. Faitmah pointed towards the rear compartment, as one of the other militiamen in a suit of light powered body armor noticed her signal. “I’ll climb on top of the Van he said, as he climbed to the top hatch, and put out his hands to attempt to grasp the two other men “Hang on!� the man in the armor said.. “We are coming to save you!�

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Tips: 0.00 INK Postby mronimusha on Wed Feb 07, 2007 8:08 am

The sound of the van sloshing through the growing river had not gone unnoticed, and the freelancer had bailed hastily. While the soldier sounded like he needed help, he wasn't willing to actually give help if there was a chance he wouldn't make it out of there alive. Again slipping on the wet rubble, he ran back to his temporary hideout; keeping the shadows had stopped being necessary, since only one in every four or five streetlamps worked and the moon was hidden behind the storm clouds. Passing the bodies of the soldiers he'd killed earlier in the night, he banged on the side of the van as he passed. The sound would attract people and hopefully get them off his tail.

A couple of blocks down the road sat one of the many abandoned apartments on this side of town - it was unremarkable, bearing no differences to its neighbours, and so nobody was likely to go near it. The freelancer unlocked the front door, relocking and slamming the deadbolt home as he entered; as unlikely as it was that someone would try to get in, it still happened sometimes. Finding a door solidly locked usually deterred people for long enough so the freelancer could hide. Inside it was surprisingly cosy - since the power was still on to most of the building, it gave him heat and light, and the water was still pumping like normal. He'd looted a lot of food and drink, and whenever he ran low, he just had to steal some more. In fact, most of the furniture and comforts were stolen as well, looted from the apartments above him. All in all, it was a pleasant and secretive hideout.

Then someone knocked on the door.

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Tips: 0.00 INK Postby mronimusha on Wed Feb 07, 2007 3:26 pm

With the deadbolts pushed home, it would take any intruder a good minute to break the door down, and so the freelancer had time to hide. Taking up the Desert Eagle lying on the arm of his easy chair and pulling one of the AK74 rifles from the gunrack mounted on the wall, he pushed hard on a section of the bare wall. Like something out of an old spy film, the wall moved inwards, swinging on a hinge hidden by the bookcase. The wall itself was only made of a thin plaster, so any prolonged attempt to find him wouldn't end well. From the hallway, the intruders kept banging on the door, harder and harder; breathing in, the freelancer swung the section of wall shut, and loaded the AK.

Outside, the unwelcome visitors broke down the door, the deadbolts coming away from their housing in the doorframe and clattering onto the ground. A full, ten-strong squad of soldiers fanned into the empty hall, those at the back with their rifles held ready, covering their colleagues ahead. Each was distinctive in some way - some wore flak jackets, some wore protective goggles, others wore insignia of rank. One of the latter, a pair of yellow crowns decorating his shoulder patches, knocked on the wall to get the attention of his men. Evidently their leader, he started issuing their orders with quick hand movement, sending a pair in the nearest room, another in the furthest, the remaining six up the stairs.

Trapped inside the cramped compartment, the freelancer pressed his face to a small hole in the wall. It wasn't big enough to be noticable, and it gave him some much-needed vision; as he watched, the door opened slowly and two soldiers walked in, rifles held tight to their shoulders. Feeling around, the freelancer's fingers hit a ledge above him, and he looked up - as he brushed around, a tight coil of wire fell down. It made a little noise, but not enough to anyone to hear, evidently; unlike his guns, the wire would be silent if he needed to use it. He'd flicked off all the electrical devices before he hid thankfully, and the soldiers were soon satisfied. One left - the other stayed, sitting in the freelancer's easy chair.

Delicately, he pressed the catch that kept the wall closed, and eased it open. He hadn't bothered with oiling the hinge or anything, but it was blessedly quiet; stepping out of the cramped space, the freelancer uncoiled the wire, wrapping it around his fists and pulling it tight. Fibre wire wasn't something he'd used to kill a man before, but it didn't look too taxing - all he had to do was make sure he put enough pressure on the windpipe. The victim wouldn't be able to shout, and they'd suffocate slowly, probably swallowing their own blood if you pressed on the windpipe hard enough to cut it. If he knew the mentality of these men, they'd have regular radio calls, and possibly even someone patrolling.

The radio buzzed, and a man's voice burst from it. "No sign of the bastard. We're moving up to the fourth floor." With eleven floors to the building, a plan began to form in the freelancer's head; taking off his battered boots, he hoped the soldier had small feet.

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Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Arctic on Thu Feb 08, 2007 12:19 pm

The man saw activity ahead, but he could barely talk any more. His voice was weak, and he could barely move- but had good armstrength at the moment. He took a large rock, dropping his weapon, and tossed it as hard as he could over the ridge, trying to land in near whoever was there. "Help." He whispered, trying to yell. It felt like he was being peirced by so many knives at once, he could barely keep from slipping away from the concious. He sighed and layed down on his stomach, waiting.

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