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Myles Lancaster

"I want everything you got... on yourself!"

0 · 788 views · located in The Courtyard

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by Mr. Crow

So begins...

Myles Lancaster's Story

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The Multiverse, this world, this city; they are all connected. They all have their own story; their own history, and origin. Life itself is just a big bundle of yarn waiting to be unraveled. Do the meager beings of these convoluted, criss-crosses of fate, have any meaning? Are their stories important? After all, they are what assemble these worlds; the past, the present, and the future, all lie in separate hands.

It is time to confirm what the denizens of the Multiverse believe. Their stories... are life.

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"Go ahead, Myles." The man called. He waved his hand at the boy for him to enter the bar.

"But, Mister-..."

"Ah-ah-ah. Don't be nervous. There are nice people in Gambit's, too. Trust me. You'll do fine." The man smiled. "Now, go on! Go get your first scoop!" He cheered.

"Yeah, yeah. I hear'ya." Myles faced his back to the man, and stepped into the bar. The door creaked open, upon entrance.

An underage fellow, he was. His attire was the typical teenage look, that'd you'd expect; grey hoodie, slightly ripped jeans, chain wallet. Nothing special. In fact, the one distinguishing prop he had on hand was a simple, yellow notebook. It had a pen clipped on the front cover.

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The commotion of two figures at the corner of the bar-counter had attracted Myles' attention. He didn't expect any less, based on what he had heard about this particular establishment. The most noted aspect of Gambit's reputation was the clear fact of it being the 'butt-hole' of Wing City; the Multiverse, included. Everything was shat out in this place; however, this is also what made it the best place to hear any news.

Myles glanced around, still taking in his frist steps into this infamous place. His attention reverted back to the bar-counter, upon addression of the woman. Myles furrowed his brow, and cocked an eyebrow at the woman, before glancing irritably at the other patron.

"Um.. Lady... You know how old I am? Or are you just too old, and blind to tell?"

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Myles narrowed his eyes at the man, who commented on his insult, and being insulted. "You shut-up, ya' one armed, ass." He snarled.

Myles stomped over to the bar, and finally took a seat. He stared at the woman, and contemplated his next snarky remark. "My mom's dead, thanks. I don't need a pointy-eared, elven carpet-muncher to say anything about her." He was very blunt, this one. "If you serve water, or anything else besides liquor, then why the hell haven't you got me a drink, yet?" His face, and tone was sour to the bone.

"Damn, if he wasn't the one to ask me, then I' wouldn't be here, right now." Myles' muttered.

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"I want..!" Myles raised his voice, a touch more at the woman. "Well... Can I have your name, first please?" Myles raised a curious pair of eyebrows up at the woman; albeit his expression still held a certain arrogance. He plopped his notebook onto the surface of the bar. It was a noticably fresh, new notebook. There were no missing pages, and it was as straight as a board; even the pen was new.

He slid out the pen from under the cover, and opened the notebook up to the very first page. A clean sheet, just waiting to filled with... 'stuff.' Myles' personal notes. He was ready, now.

"As for my drink... Juice. Apple and cranberry juice. And..." Myles paused for a moment, seemingly thinking of what he wanted, aside from water, but really not. "...water. No lemon. You get that wrong, and I'll question how useful you really are in this place." He paid no regard to her glaring eyes.

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"Better than you can, I bet. Thank for the drinks. You just might be worth my time, after all." He subsequently jotted her name down on the top line of the paper. "Oh and the credits... Yeah, you'll get them after I learn just little more about this place. I don't want my money being chucked off to some gang of drug traffickers." Myles leaned over the bar, just a bit. Still no fear, though he probably should've. "Are-"

Suddenly, a chiver was cast upon Myles. He snapped his head to the entrance of the bar. "Who the hell is that?" He cocked a brow, and observed the seemingly mysterious man. Myles twitched from the unsettling closing of distacne between himself and the man, as the figure made his way over, and sat down next to him. "You know, you're really damn creepy? Are you a drug trafficker?" His eyes darted back to Fedelia. They were filled with accusation. "This is one of them isn't it?!" Myles proclaimed. "I knew it. Crummy people work here. That's going in my notes." He struck the pad with another set of words

Gambits Bar: DrugTraffic involvement. Illegal activities of all sorts. Bad service.

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Myles looked up from his pad. He gripped the pen in frustration. "Jeez, what a bitch. Fine." He shoved his hand into his back pocket, and pulled out a clear plastic stick.

He glanced over at the presumed drug trafficker. "What's accurate, is that this elf is a cranky, grey haired, slut." Myles snapped blindly at Fedelia, and finally slid the credit collector over, atop the surface of the bar-counter. "Here. If you steal it, then I'll make sure you're fired for thievery." He put an extra, childish emphasis on that last word.

"Now, get me my damn drinks." He looked over at the man who stood in the corner, with a magazine. "Hey, you're not doing anything. Why the hell, don't you get me my drinks?" He whipped back his attention to the man sitting next to him. "It's also accurate that this place has bad service." He pointed down at the notepad, and winked at the man. "Already got it down, too."

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Myles turned back, only to stare at Rick in disappointment. He hadn't got his drinks, yet. "Yeah, I want a- Hey!" Myles shouted, as Rick snatched up his notebook. "That's property of-" Myles held his tonugue, and silently paused, as Rick acted out his following attempt to strike him.

He flinched, but took the wallap like a man, no less. He shook his head, and peered up at Rick. "Now I know what kind of person you are." Was he used to such abuse? Could that be why, it had such little affect?

Myles rolled his eyes at the mysterious man. "I hear that, sometimes."

"So..." Myles reached up for his notebook, from Rick. "Shall we get started?" he smirked. "After, I get my drinks of course."

The setting changes from gambits-bar to Main Street

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On a calm afternoon of 4:05pm, dreary grey clouds blew over head of Wing City. One could smell the moisture in the air, as a heavy rain drops pitter-patted the crowded industrial compass of Main Street. The storm sprayed the towering buildings like a pesticide; weeds, which infested the natural earth.

A small figure ran along side a lump of creature; both silhouettes were jogging on the slick concrete of the side walk.

"Oy, Myles! Ye' see that rutty lil' shop o'er there?" The larger figure pointed to a seemingly 'out of the way' mechanic's shop tucked into the side of Main Street; a flickering sign over head read 'Big Al's Repair.'

The smaller figure's face was concealed by the sporting grey hoodie. "I see it!" The rain was fierce. Wind blew the sheets of liquid this way and that. The hoodie would have been tore off Myles' head, had he not snatched it back over. "Damn it! Tell me what you want me to do, already!"

A loose grin was revealed to Myles. "Ye' just write a bloody well report, like ye' always do, champ!"

Myles glanced back over at the place, and nodded back to his larger aquaintence. Myles bounced down the side-walk, and skid into the shop. His clothing was soaked to the very last polyester thread. He made sure to keep his note pad dry under his sweater, however. Unexpected conditions were expected in the journey of a journalist.

Myles examined the shop's inside. "Hm. Anybody here?" He rose his voice to a higher volume to counter the noise of the storm.

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Myles cuffed the side of his hood, and pulled it down off his head. His hair was layered streaky brown, and looked to be a tad damp. "Nice to meet'ya, buddy. You can call me Myles." Myles wasn't a shy soul at all. He strutted toward the mechanic, and snatched up his hand; he shook it proudly for an individual of his age. It was always necessary to make a good impression. At least that's what he was just recently taught. He lacked a few key manners. "Mind getting me a towel? I'll even take one of those oily hand rags. I just need something to get dried off." He slipped out his note pad from under his sweater, and waved it to and fro. "I don't want to get my paper wet, because after all... I'm doing a column on this place. It should make for some good publicity." Myles shot the man a snarky grin, and chuckled. He whipped a hand back and pointed a thumb behind him. "Because, let's face it... that flickering light outside there says you need some of that magic."

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Myles nodded at Jorge, before catching the rag, and wiping over his face and sleeves. "Thanks a bunch." He wiggled off whatever receding water was left, subsequently tossing the rag back on the counter. He scratched the side of his temple for a moment, before answering Jorge. "Well... I'd like to know the specifics of the work you do, for the most part. History can be discussed later. That never has been my favorite subject of things." Myles slapped his note pad on the counter, before slipping out his ball-point: The initials 'C.J.C.' were imprinted in white on the dark blue base of the pen.

Myles eyed the man in white. He arched a brow, simply at the chosen attire of the man. "Big Al, huh?" Mykles pursed his lips for a brief moment, before jotting down a quick description of the man onto his note pad. Curios eyes averted back to Jorge. "And, he's your boss? How long have you been working here?" Myles grinned in amusement at himself; he was asking about history. "I guess we can start out with the history first, after all, Mr. Jorge."

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Myles slipped by the counter, and sauntered into the shop. He struck his pen to the pad, taking notes, and quotes from the reiterated history. Myles began to nod. "It's touching enough, I suppose. Popular knowledge of this would make the shop seem more familiar to the Wing City population. This is good." Myles held a decisive, optimistic tone. He took a gander at the shop, and ntoiced the silver hover-bike sitting in the back. Myle's eyes shot wide open. "Now, that is a fine looking device, if I do say so myself." He took down another note in regards to the bike, before pointing the head of his pen back at it. "Can'ya tell me what kind of tinkering you do on that?"

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"LM-Granger, recreational model..." Myles repeated, as he quickly scribbled down the rest of the information concerning the bike. Myles walked over to the tray, and tilted his head at the appearance of the disk. "Interesting." He nodded. He furrowed his eyebrows and turned back to Jorge. "How does the hover bike actually work? Specifically, the hovering aspect." Myles waved his hand casually in the direction of the bike.

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Myles flicked up his eyebrows. This was specifically at the incoming of mechanical knowledge Jorge just threw his way. Again, Myles marked down the information for further reference. He had a full page, now. He ran a thumb along the bottom corner of the pad, and curled over the paper, to reveal a new sheet. Myles smiled. He only had one other question on his mind, for the moment. "How fast does it go?"

The setting changes from main-street to Gambit's Bar

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Myles Lancaster was a name few knew. That single aspect was most likely the only thing getting him so many meals, recently. He he run various errands for a certain caretaker. A caretaker, who was not often seen by Myles.

The teen resembled something of scrap, but a tool still worth using. He had failed his first assignment to Gambit's Bar. Now it was time for another try. There was no escort with him, this time.

Myles walked along the side-walk. One hand was stuffed in his hoodie pocket, and the other carried a simple note-book. He caught sight of the a child and weapon clad woman fumbling out of the bar, and grazing a motorcyclist. The man on the bike certainly looked to be a brusque fellow. Myles kept on shuffling, until he reached the entrance to Gambit's. He glaced at the man, before entering.

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Myles grimaced once he stepped inside of Gambit's.

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Myles grimaced once he stepped inside of Gambit's. It was only his second time visiting. He still didn't appreciate this home of the cowardly, and estate of the damned. It was filth. Though, he was quite filthy in appearance himself. His ripped jeans, and dirt blotted hoodie signified that.

His pace toward the bar-counter was brisk. He sat only one seat opposite of the motorcyclist. The man looked tough enough. If anything happened to Myles, he'd be close enough to let it happen to the man, as well.

He snatched up the holo-menu, and ordered a cranberry juice with ice. Such was delivered to him within minutes by the robo-tender. He liked them, much better. His eyes glazed over, as he remembered the obnoxius bar-medic and bitchy elven tender. "Stupid Fedelia lady.." he mumbled.

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Myles glanced at the man, before taking a short gulp of his juice. He licked his lips to filter the bitter-sweet taste. He finally turned to peer at the man, again. "You talkin' to me?" he asked, while raising his eyebrows.

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"Psh!" Myles rolled his eyesat the comment. Generic teenage behavior. He let lose of his glass, and slapped his notebook atop the bar-counter. "I'll be getting around to the good life, soon enough." He countered, though it was more like an unsure sense of sarcasm. "What about you?" He looked over the man's outfit. His eyes darted over the Invictus symbol; a symbol, which he was familiar with. "You sure look.. ready for something." Myles finally took a gander at the hilt of the katana, which hung from the man's hip. "Of course you'd need something like that in this place, though." he nodded toward the sword, before shaking his head and taking another sip of his cranberry juice.

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Myles' perked up in his seat, and leaned back against his chair. He drummed his fingers along the top of his note-book. "So, what's your name?" he asked, cocking a brow at the man. Myles was quite the bold boy for his age. However, he noticed this man didn't appear as far along in the years, as he had previously thought.

Whether or not the manwould answer that question, Myles would ask him another. "And, what do you do? I noticed that symbol on your shoulder. You in some kind of gang?" Myles furrowed his brows.

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Myles didn't hear anything. Upon hearing the reply, his hand had already unclipped the ballpoint pen from the notebook, and started writing. He glanced up to Izumi, every second or two, while taking his notes. "John Izumi.." He replied, as he scribbled the name down.

He looked back up to Izumi. "Oh," the teen flicked up his brows, somewhat submitting himself to an introduction. "Myles Lancaster, journalist in-training." That's about all he would reveal to anyone. His benefactor wouldn't appreciate too much else.

"I just write down the things people tell me about themselves, and decide if it's interesting enough to report. Pretty simple work, for what I get. Enjoyable, too. There's always that bad nut you have to deal with, sometimes, though." Myles revealed a sarcastic smirk.

His eyes caught the movement of a cat trotting it's way along the counter. He cocked a fiercely distinguished brow at the animal. "Why is that cat.. pink?" he asked noone in particular. He was just as curious at what it drank. It didn't look like water, or milk, whatever it was.

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"True." Myles released a fair sigh. He eyed the scuffled between the cat, and coated man. He shook his head. Even after Izumi's explanation, he still thought it was amazing how some things in this place came to be. A pink cat, who drank... whatever that shit was. It appeared to look like syrup, from Myles' view.

He began to glance over the patch on Izumi's shoulder, again. "So, this.. Invictus... what is their histo-" The racket forced Myles to glance back at the man and cat. He waved a hand briskly through the air. "Hey! Just let the thing go! You're making too much damn noise!" he shouted at the man. The teen scooted out of his chair; Izumi's height now showed, along with the other man's, in comparison to Myles. He left his notebook on the bar-counter, and stomped up to the man. "Put the thing down, you dumbass."

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Myles hook his head, and disregarded the scuffle between animal and man. He spared a short waive 'bye' to Izumi, before jotting down the location he mentioned.

He gathered up his notebook, and slid out of the bar. He was glad to finally get some fresh air. Now it was time to report back. He was sure this information would be promising.

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was sent on a third assignment to Gambit's. The toe of his tennis shoe wedged itself through the crease of the entry door into the bar. He peered through the small slit of the door to examine the present patrons, and/or inhabitants of the inside. The invasion of the Aschen Empire was an all encompassing dash of anxiety; Myles was on his toes with such anxiety, at the moment. One had to be cautious in these times.

Myles took note of the figures standing in the room; the ones which were so elaborately, and luxuriously armored. One of which, he recognized as the media invoked 'genious' scientist of Terra. A big shot, who appeared to be the re-iteration of everything techological.

Upon that regard, the woman clad in a fierce white armor drew Myle's attention. The ere was only one phrase he could make out, between the two: 'God-emperor.' He couldn't make out the words she spoke to the scientist, or vice-versa. Though, the luminescence bared in the woman's hand drew him in.

He stepped in through the door, completely now. The creaking sounds, and abrupt knock of the entrance closing caused Myles to stiffen. He was nothing to be noticed; a scrappy grey hoodie, ripped jeans, and old sneakers were not the most lavish of wear.

He stood, silently, making an attempt to shuffle closer toward the two most abtruse figures of this Multiverse, in which he had seen.

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With no expertise in the field of physics, Myles' face only contorted into that of confusion. The goal of this assignment was not specified: Only to survey, and report back at his own convenience. He was awarded a 'SmartPhone' for his recent achievements. It would suffice to say, he was happy. It allowed his job to be easily conducted; a phone camera was alway handy for scenarios, such as this.

Myles, an unequivocal adolescent, reached into his pocket, and retrieved his cell phone. He ran his thumb along the touch screen, navigating the properties within a sum of two seconds. Discreetly, he leveled the view of the camera on the phone to focus on Aiyanna, and Cleo. Though, the steadiness of the view would vary, the recording of the conversation would be clear.

He zip-lined his way to a booth adjacent to the two persons, where he would likely be unnoticed. He continued to record the meeting. It was the only thing he had to do, after all.

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Myles' brow furrowed in speculation of the device. He continued to tap the screen, following up with the effort to press the 'on/off' button. "That sucks..." He whispered.

Tirelessly shaking his head, he slipped out a small notebook from inside the pockets of his hoodie. The card-board cover was folded, and bent, allowong one to recognize its use for previous occasions. He would have to gain intel the old-fashioned way: Listen and learn, while taking notes here and there.

He shoved the dead phone back into his jean pocket, and retrieved a pencil from the same pocket. He slapped the notebook atop the booth-table, and began to write, as any fair journalist would do. He wrote down several notes regarding where the failed recording had left off. Several sloppy jottings, which contained words he knew, but did not necesarily understand. He had his own memory, as well.

Exceprt of notes from the present section of Aiyann and Cleo's discussion: "Aschen are researching this material. Third angle: Original creators of this Material, wish to take it from her. Hopes to stop them. Save homeworld. End war."

The page was filled from top to bottom, within minutes. His ears perked at every syllable iterated between the two. However, he made no effort to blatantly stare at the persons. He had his nose to the note-book, only glancing over after every seemingly impossible action took place with the crystal. Actions, which he did not need to write down to remember. It was an amazing sight for anyone to see a glowing rock disappear from one space, only to be reformed at another.