UrbanSamurai

Faznie Kotvar

It's not hard to find Sasha, not a lot of people go around these days fighting Luchadors, besides other Luchadors. Team rules are in effect, right? It doesn't look like there's a ref around to take charge over things like that anyways. Open a rift next to Luchador E. The rift spouts an active swarming killer beehive at him. Faznie Status: Fine World Line: 4 5 4 1 1 2 5 2 2 5 Alterations: 3 Resolve: 3

Faznie ".....Well, I should get going, not a lotta' daylight left. I need to catch up on what's going on, you can't get caught flat-footed in today's media environment. Shoot me a text and we can talk more about your company and all of its implications for ethic, okay Gucci Mane?" Faznie shoves a business card containing her name and contact information into Tor's palm. It lists her as "DIRECTOR/EDITOR/SCREENWRITER/AUTEUR". Faznie makes a beeline for the center of the city, where all the action is going down. She's admittedly lost, although the Goddard has the tendency to nudge her in the right direction whenever she completely runs out of options. It's a useful feature, even if the helpful directions that it give are interwoven between the camera yelling about mirrors and reflections being the true reality and what we exist in is the illusion, or something to that effect.

Rampart Press raised an eyebrow, "No one smokes for taste? What about the Cubans? I mean, the cigars, not the people." "Poker? As long as you deal straighter than you shoot, count me in." The vet made his way over to the table before spotting the U.S. soldiers that had just materialized around Atton. Press walks away, calling back to Grant over his shoulder, "Save me a seat." Press intrudes upon Halley and Atton, not so much as looking at the former and not giving any special attention the latter, he's clearly more focused on the uniformed men and the armor behind him. "Who sent in the boots? This is a police investigation, not an occupation. If someone wants to tell me why we have American troops down here, this is a swell a time as any to speak up." He opens his notepad, scribbling everything down furiously, everything from the inscriptions on the tank and uniforms to each individual person's physique in anatomic detail. Rusty pushes himself up very slowly. He slouches down on his knees, a dark spot forming around his left eye. He breathes deeply, twisting his head to and fro. Magnum / Simulation Involving the spectators would be a federal offense as per Statue 411 AHJ-93 81/M8. You can certainly call on your bench and assistance team to bring in whatever supplies they have remaining in addition to what they can scrounge on the periphery of the battlefield. Your players are already familiar with the One Who Dabs. The stories are passed down through generations, often times contradictory. The One Who Dabs is ten meters tall and the size of a neuron, he is the most chilling cold and the most blazing hot. He is always watching from the shadows that linger at the corners of your vision and he sits at the end of the table that keeps coming up in your dreams. He was the first friend your great-great-grandfather ever had and he is yet to be born. No one has seen him in an eon, although you may be looking directly at him right now. It is not that he will drive whomever sees him mad or any of that nonsense, it is simply impossible to gaze at him, he exists in a plane that creatures living and unliving can not perceive. At least, that's what the players say. The poles, warped metal left by street lamps and gates that the occupants once naively thought would protect them, prod the invisible barrier around the tower. No response, no retaliation. They jab these ruined spears into that thin apathetic air. The dummy is constructed by stuffing some cloth potato sacks with cotton. These stuffed sacks are then sewed together into a vaguely humanoid shape, which is dressed in some rags to further anthropomorphize this creation. The players name him Potato Man. Potato Man is heaved onto the sparse clearing in front of The Tower. He collapses with his left arm outstretched for heaven, grasping for intervention, while his left leg folds underneath the opposite appendage. The shadow of The Tower looms over him, a sacrifice for an Old Thing. Now you all can hear the wires coming, the sound of mice skittering under the floorboards. No, rain pattering on a window sill on a grey morning. You can't decide exactly. But you know the sound. The invisible wires wrap around Potato Man. His time comes. There's a problem. Potato Man is screaming. The cloth is screaming. Mice. Rain. A buzz bellows from the tower. It is low, like a radio stuck in an attic, decaying from neglect. Through the static, there is one voice that the entire stadium can hear: "Bạn nghĩ rằng lấy quả bóng này sẽ giúp bạn tiết kiệm. Rằng điểm số sẽ kết thúc tất cả những điều này và làm cho bạn quên. Bạn không thể quên. Không có thẩm phán, tử thần hoặc thần thánh, sẽ bao giờ hiểu những gì bạn đã làm cho tôi. Đối với những người mà bạn đã lấy từ tôi. Để Carolina của tôi." "Tôi đã chết một ngàn cái chết để xem những gì bạn đã làm. Tôi sẽ chết một triệu nữa trước khi bạn có thể có được quả bóng này. Miễn là các trò chơi tiếp tục họ sẽ không bị lãng quên. Tôi sẽ sống lâu hơn trò chơi này damned trong tháp này damned. Nếu bạn muốn bóng, tôi sẽ cho bạn sau khi tôi đã lấy tất cả mọi thứ mà bạn đứng cho đi. Cho đến khi bạn quá nhỏ, không đáng kể đến mức thiên đường của sự quên lãng sẽ vượt qua bạn." "Bạn không thể tha thứ. Đau khổ sẽ là giải phóng." One of the players requests that he leave.

Magnum "Let's see if you can strut your stuff." Magnum pulls LOTUS inside the bus, carefully placing it down upon the lunch table as he bent to retrieve from something underneath the table. He emerges to slam down what looks like a boom box, if all of the paneling was instead replaced with a single large emerald button. He reaches onto the side of the box, yanking out an old school HDMI cable from the side. Magnum connects the cable to LOTUS and then... Mile High Stadium - Denver, Colorado Your remaining players walk through the wreckage of the football field. Roads lie in disrepair between buildings that were abandoned long ago, decorated with barbed wire and plywood barricades. A trash bag rolls down the street like a tumbleweed. A group of feral dogs plunder a trash can. Sirens ring out in the distance. Someone, somewhere, succumbs to malaria. A Denver Bronco almost collapses in front of a ruined building, it's his childhood schoolhouse. Your Broncos have lost many, but the Carolina Panthers have been eliminated with their royal blue uniforms lying in unnamed mass graves. All eliminated but Him, The One Who Dabs. Your Broncos approach the megalithic building in the dead center of the field. A concoction of materials that have evolved over time so that the foundations are brick and mortar and every higher floor increasingly more advanced until those ultra-modern penthouses sit above the clouds so that you can't even see them from the ground. A relic like an organic architectural history book. You've seen those sheer cliffs where each differently colored layer shows a different age? Like that, but in a building. An affront to humanity. He's up there. A perimeter has been drawn around the building in a roughly 100 meter radius. Like the building itself, the perimeter is made of composite materials: chalk, paint, charcoal, blood. It surrounds the tower like the police outline around a cadaver. One brave Bronco charges forward, making it three steps past the barrier. The severing: first it's his fingers and toes, then wrists and ankles. The invisible wires cut him up like that all the way up until he is human fillet. It is too fast, too jarring, for him to react or make a squeal of existential pain and fear. There is just meat and his comrades look away. One loses his lunch. It's the 5839492th official quarter of OverTime. There are nine people in the audience in a stadium that can hold 350,000 at maximum capacity. The game is tied 27-27, sudden death rules apply. Next score wins. And He is the one who has been holding onto the ball this whole time. "Alright tablet boy, what are you fixing to do now?" Rampart Press gives Lexiel a firm business handshake. "I'm a skeptic, but I hope that in the end you're right about that. It's refreshing to know that someone on here has some experience on a force, from what I can tell the folks here are y'know, kinda'...disparate? Is that the word? Anyhoo, I expected more uniformity but it looks like more of a 'take what you can get' situation. Reminds me of my army days with the militias. You'd be shocked to see what a Filipino can do with a machete in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other. Usually not good things, but still impressive in that kind of manic way they have." Press ducks around when the gunshots go off, and identifies Grant as the kid with a revolver. "Hey asshole, read about trigger discipline for once in your life you fucking square!" He shakes his head and returns to Lexiel, "This is exactly like working in a militia, we must be a few milk cans short of a ration." He pulls out his box of cigarettes almost reflexively from his breastpocket and shakes it at Lexiel as an offer of good will between vets.

"That would be bad, unless they were benevolent Gods because that would be good. Couldn't your coompany make God cards that would be powerful enough to end world hunger and cure chronic disease?"

Magnum "So Mr. Robot-o, you're a smart guy then? A real Harvard boy? A thinker and a clinker? Sounds like you want the inside scoop on how my bus works. That's not information I give around for free! And since you can't cook me up a Shepard's Pie on account of your no-limb-itis as you have said, you'll have to prove that I can trust you with this information. You say that your a strategy guy, a student of the game. There's only one place to see if your salt is worth your grain then: the football field. We step inside and load up a simulation game, your brains against mine, and if you put up a rough-and-tumble effort like I used to see in the old days, I'll let you do your schematical business. Do we have a deal?" Rampart When Isobel confronted Lucky for his behavior, the police officer didn't give her so much as a glance before returning looking back towards Press with bemused pursed lips. "See Press? You start talking with that sweet mouth music and you get them running up to your doorstep. Take it from a pro...hey Press? Do you smell that?" Lucky paid more attention to Lexiel as she made a dramatic appearance from above. He squinted his eyes as she put on a display of shining force, clearly stating her demands. The officer stood up straight, flicking his cig off to the side and rolling his shoulders. "Apologize for what, having some fun? I swear, you people have no fuckin' fun. Did someone come through and shoot your family and piss in your cereal?" The threats and mockery leveled at Lucky that bounced around the courtyard were getting into his head, piercing his ears, a mat of sweat lining his brow. "HEY! I don't know how they teach you morons down at El Police-a Academy-a, but in the States we learn about a little something called respect! If anyone wants a lesson then step right up! He points at Lexiel, "If you think you can scare me by being a big cunt, then you haven't met my mother!" With the tension in the air as thick as an Atlanta stripper, Press makes a move with lightning agility before a single new development could transpire. In a split second, Lucky is on his back, limbs sprawled out, his hat spinning through the wind before settling on someone's head. In the spot where Lucky was just standing, Press stands firmly, his stance stable and his right fist extending in front of him at a right angle, replicating the posture of a heavyweight boxer. He relaxes into a normal stance, sighing deeply as he turns to Lexiel, his cheeks scarlet with shame. "He's a good guy deep down, and I really truly mean that. He saved a drowning dog in a river, stopped an old man from choking on his food in a restaurant. Lucky has a funny way of expressing himself, but that's how they all are. Think about it, if you got rid of every cop with sexist and racist tendencies, you would have two cops left in the country. And both of them would hate the gays." Press looks up at her now, more comfortable with his wit displayed. "I don't know if we've formally met each other. Detective Press, happy to be working with you." He extends his open hand to her.

Magnum Boomtown bent over and scooped LOTUS off of the access ramp connected to his door. "Do you have the Candy Crush game on here?" He asked as he curiously rotated the device. "Sounds like what you want is to connect to my bus's tranmissions so that you can get some intra-dimensional communications set up. And while I can spare a beer or even an air freshener, this isn't some Mickey Mouse request. If this goes wrong, my whole connection is at risk. Not to mention I'm already paying out the wazoo to keep it running, you can imagine the cost of something like this. So tell me computer man, what chips are you bringing you bringing to my table?" Rampart "Lots of broads working here 'ey Press? Young ones too, makes me feel like I'm back in the shop." He points at Marisa, with the tip of his lit cigerrate, "See that one right there? I like 'em like that, snazzy and tight, built like a brick shithouse. Not like the ones at home 'ey? God bless whoever invented Mexican women. I wonder what name a Dame like that has, probably Ethel or something. No, Lucia? Luisa. Luciana...that's more Italian actually. Did I tell you the vacation I took down in Panama? Not quite Mexico but pretty close. I met the fittest broad you could dream about, and she could drink toe to toe with any man! She drank me under the table, and once she was down there she let me chew the carpet 'ey? You getting this Press?"

"Wow, so then I guess we don't have to take them seriously right? No sudden coups right? We've had our share of coups back in the Republic but they don't involve trading cards, instead it's the upheaval of the entire political structure by either the military or the paramilitary. These King Guys aren't exactly Al Qaeda, huh? But what does it mean that there's trading cards that summon weapons and monsters? Is there a factory out there that is mass producing the means to do this?" Goddard rattles, "CA͓̮̪͡R̰̯̜͘D̬̖́S̸̠͕̯̖ ͞A̷̰̭̪̣R̘̯̺̀E̹̻̭̥ͅ ̮͍̖F͙͓̥̞͢L̳͓I̢̪͇̺̹̝̙̺M̟̠S̞̗̼̘̰̗͠Y̥͍͔͖̰ ͕̪͚̯̪̼͈͟RE̻̬̱F̟͕ͅͅḶ̷EC̺̻ṬI̭̯̩̺̞̮Ọ͖̫̮͇N̢͖͙̳ͅS̕ ̙O̵̹͍̳͍̫F̧̗̞̮̳͇̘ ̫̕R͠Ḙ̡͈̗A͏̟̜L̜̯I҉̱̺T͕̥̳͕̻Y̺͟,҉̱ ͏̟̼͉͕P̰Ạ͕̼͕͉Ț̗͈̙ͅH͏̺̦̮̞ͅE͖T̖̘͈IC̢̱̭̤͚̺͈ ̹͚̝̲͝ͅP̮̺͓̥͎͠I̟E̯͓̙͓̫͠C̵̠̠͕̤E̳̬̲̘̬̪̙͟Ś͎ ̞͈̗̞͕O̪͍̮͎̗F̛̪̺̻͙͇̱͚ ̸͇̝P̸̪̯͇̜A҉̻̗̫̹̘̯̤P̼̩̩̞͕̩̦͡E͈̖̹̠̣͠R̪̤͚͖̯̣̖̕"

Rampart Press and Lucky arrive back at the courtyard later than everyone else. An irked Lucky throws the passenger side door open, "I can't stand all this goddamn paperwork. Soldier #437 - Incinerated, Soldier #438 - Incinerated, Soldier # who-gives-a-shit. I want central to send us a pencil pusher, we're stuck here driving through backroads in this godforsaken country almost catching the goddamn plague." Press sparks up and offers Lucky a light, pacifying him for a moment as he accepts this gesture of friendship. Press doesn't say anything, but he looks around the Courtyard with a keen eye and gets down to scribbling something in his notepad... Magnum The BOOMTOWN EXPRESS parks in the central area of the courtyard. Once everyone is out, Magnum activates the parking break.

"....." It's good to see these kinds of things at a distance. You get to see it with...objectivity. Yeah, that's it. The artillery shelling of a village on an island. Dropping a firebomb on a civilian factory. A waitress being stabbed to death in front of her apartment complex. The motherfucker just keeps jabbing and jabbing and jabbing and his butterfly knife is just putting all these gashes in her and her dress is turning red and she's screaming and crying. And he doesn't stop because he's pissed but you don't know if he's pissed because he actually hates her or he hates his job or his own wife or whatever you know how it is with these people. And you're sitting there and you're not calling the police because you're trying to sleep and it's probably nothing or you're watching TV and you can't miss the show or you don't know but you just don't want to call because that would be bad. It would be worse to try and call the police then to do nothing. It sounds like it doesn't make sense but that's what you're going to do. If you don't get involved it's not real. You'll read about it in the paper tomorrow with everyone else and it's all the city will talk about for a month. You'll cry and whisper with all of them like it had happened in Calcutta or Beijing, not down the block you live on. For the rest of your life you and your neighbors will glance at each other in passing moments of silence, damned to share a spot in this clandestine brotherhood of remorse. But what else could you have done, really? "....." And if it doesn't matter back home, it matters even less out here. This is how it is over here, and it's been that way for so long, so why try to change it? These people don't understand it, so how could you, white cocksucka'? As soon as you leave all they'll forget the English and toss all the books in the fire and then go back to those ways and brother will fell brother. You are angry and then confused and then pitiful. It's not like your kind is much better, in some ways they're worse. At least these people don't have a paper to talk and gawk about it. Let them stay this way with their swords and castles and dungeons. The world was better off when everyone left each other alone, y'know? "....." Rusty chews on his lip, idly sliding his gun back into his jacket. "Looks like the afterparty at a Chuck Berry Concert, huh Press?" He laughs. "That's a joke Press, you heard of a joke? Okay, I'm sorry. It's sad. Just lighten up, you're putting me on the edge." Rusty gives Press a hard shrug, then walks forward a few more feet to survey the situation. He squats down, fishing out a cigarette and lighting it. "It's crazy how in some parts o' the world like this people are still these barbarians. I'd put twenty dollars down on this right here: if these people had radios and ballparks, they'd find something better to do than killin' each other."

The BOOMTOWN EXPRESS rumbles towards the general epicenter of everyone left standing. Magnum leaned out the window, looking around the ruined countryside like a tourist trying to decipher the value behind an esoteric burial site. "And can you believe that my wife always wanted to go to France? This place is a real dump! That's why Edward DeGaul left France to play for the Colts. He revolutionized the position of kicker, nobody before him ever kicked barefoot! And not too many either, especially when they started using weighted balls that ended up with a lot of broken toes. But those few years when the barefoot kickers ruled, those were special times. Leave it up to a Frenchy to come up with something like that." "If anyone wants a ride in the bus, hop on in."

Press pulls out something that resembles a small pistol from inside of his jacket pocket. With a flick of a switch, its barrel crackles with volatile electricity. Press Tases Officer A, doing 1d10 + 10 (+14) DMG, with a 10% chance to stun.

BOOMTOWN Magnum Use Hustle Play on Soryn to grant an extra turn.

"Yee-ouch! That was fuckin' lightning! Isn't that square supposed to be on our side?" "It didn't hurt at all, that must have been his way of prepping us up." "You know what Press? You're right, I feel like I'm on a winning streak at the craps game. Let's go like the 20's!" Rampart activates Jungle Sniper, where Press will use his Scoped Rifle to blast at Bel Lahmu B, Bel Lahmu A and Officer A for 1d10+(10) (+14 Damage)!