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12:29, 29th March 2024 (GMT+0)

Practice Bits.

Posted by TadeuszFor group 0
Tadeusz
player, 9603 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Sat 27 May 2017
at 00:24
  • msg #275

Re: Practice Bits: Thief 10

A sense of unease pulled him from dreams.  The otters around him in the dome shaped room were all standing very still, with all their hair fluffed up, and eyes huge.  Looking about, he saw no threat.

Klack. Klack.

Fear bloomed in the eyes of the pup across from him, and a tear ran down the little one's face.  Black fury rose within him, and he sat up with controlled discipline.

"Hey, little otters, you hiding from the big, bad wolf?" Mocking laughter hung in the cold night, drifting across the river ice, and into the dome home.  More sounds of nails tapping the ice as the beast moved, causing the river ice to groan under his weight.

"You stayed in most of the evening.  How can you feed yourself if  you....Man.  I smell Man."  A sudden roar, and a silver face the size of a box fan crammed into the mouth of the cave.  A snap, and teeth came down on one foot of an otter.

Before he could be yanked back, Bill had leapt up, and punched the beast in the right eye.

Critical Hit: Doubles Damage: -2% Health.

Bill noted absently that the System had shifted damage measurements.  Probably because percentages were easier than bald numbers now for the human mind to absorb as the numbers got larger.

A left hand hook was met with a slash that opened his forearm almost to the bone.

Damage: Minimal.
Wolf Slash: -22%.  Debuff, crippled, left arm. -90%.

Flinging himself back, despite the hatred in his heart, he saw the wounded otter had escaped with a mangled foot.

"Human, come play with the doggie.  Nice doggie." The wolf that must be the size of a horse smiled at him maliciously, enjoying the moment as Bill lay sprawled backwards.

"Send someone out, Otters.  I am hungry.  Perhaps the injured one.  He's not of much use for a month now.  Or even the Human."

"No, go away." Gray said, and a chorus of teeth smacking, and snarls backed up his words.

The talking wolf, his title hid in a fog, squirmed forward, breaking a bit of the edges of the entrance.

"I can get in, kill you all.  Send someone out."  His eyes landed on Bill.

"You come in, you'll go blood mad, I bet, and then what will you eat tomorrow?" Bill's outburst prompted by a sudden insight.  A gasp of horror greeted his cold logic, but the wolf smiled.

"Clever Man."

Bill dared not glance at Gray, and hoping he was right, he sat up, his head near the top of the arch of the dome.  This put his head above the wolf's which the beast did not like.

"I will meet you at noon tomorrow. On the river."

The wolf studied him, and then nodded.

"Beware breaking your pledged word, Man.  I am the great-grandson of Fenris, the Chaos Wolf.  To lie to a descendant of the gods is not wise, for Fate will turn against you."

Bill nodded.  A prompt appeared.

You've promised a fight with a child of Loki.  Failure to appear will cost Honor and Luck.
Tadeusz
player, 9608 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Sun 28 May 2017
at 21:01
  • msg #276

Re: Practice Bits: Imperial Stars

One layer of Kevin's mind corrected B3's loading pattern as tons of EnsoyaGL flowed from Q1 and A9 gather drones into B3's capacious holding tanks.  The newest software download from Earthdata had again erased the outsystem mod that made packing ten percent more efficient.  Another layer of his mind held the railgun rifle loosely while scanning for terravores all over his ten thousand acre station.  And the last layer of his mind kept him balanced on a Pinnacle homebred floater, five hundred feet above the crops.

Out toward the Windslow Mountains, a hundred miles away, built for that purpose by fast moving continental plates during early terraforming, a half-dozen tornadoes, from the docile F3 to one fearsome F7 danced and played along the slopes.  That was the outer edge of human civilization on Dah 4, for beyond the twelve-thousand foot tall wind barrier of the Windslows lay a semi-stable F9 mega-hurricane.  It pounded the rocks, and broken them, and incessant lightning bolts fixed nitrogen even as the form-locked, yet ever dangerous bacteria ate at the rocks.  Torrential rains led to floods, and laid down a dozen layers of soil in minutes, and then were as quickly washed away because in orbit, a speck of glittering light to him that was a thumb-widths wide, and a thousand miles wide in space focused the light of Torch onto the center of the megahurricane.

An earthquake, R4, rumbled his station's lands, and had him busy resetting the hundred nine drone cultivators, weeders, gatherers, storers, and even one plantdoc drone he owned, or more precisely, the Nubank of Dah owned.

"I'm okay." Mattie lasercommed him. He emojied her back with a smiley face.  In his current mindstate, divided into three minds, he could not manage more.  He knew as much as the granite igloo was rated to withstand R10, and F9, and no piddling Ricter Scale 4.0 quake would even shake the china.

"Really, I'm fine. Nothing to worry about." She said, her voice sounding lonely.
"Don't bother about me. I'm just fine." Now her voice had acquired a waspish edge.
He emojied a snarly face to her even as a dozen drones fell out of alignment.  Earthdata and Maggie at the same time was not a good combo.

"Well, listen here, bucko, this is not what I signed up for..."
Kevin sent a general shutdown.  The drones staggered to a halt, smashing many of the crops that were near them.  Kevin folded his brain back together in the sudden lack of hum which had masked the dull roar coming from beyond the Windslows.

"Is there a problem? Are you all right?"
Kevin breathed in, shaking his head, still groggy from reintegration.  He lowered with his finger control the Pinnacle down to the front door of his house.  Ruefully, he noted that he used to think of it as his home.

"Kevin! Talk to me."  And that was the real problem he knew.  Mattie had been born and lived an Earther.  She had grown up on a world where street parties had to be carefully scheduled because there were so many of them.  And she had been enthralled when in one of those dance parties she had met a tall, blonde man of slow speech and total lack of holographic overlays to his clothes who casually spoke not of the square inches he rented, but of the square miles he owned.

They had been both exotic to each other.  The child of wild, still being terraformed Dah, five portals out, and the child of the Megablocks of Imperial Earth.  She could say five hundred words to his ten, and he found her charming and beautiful, and so he had proposed.  And she, perhaps blown away by the romance of an old-fashioned proposal, a genuine Life Marriage, had accepted.

"I'm here, darling." He spoke as he jumped the twenty feet to the ground from the hovering disc of the Pinnacle.  Another advantage on his part was that unlike Earther men, he was able to get the full anti-genetic entropy gengineering now available.  At one-forty IQ, and able to bench press five hundred pounds, he was strictly average for the men of Dah.  For Earth, he was equivalent to one of the petite nobility.

The door to the granite igloo opened, seven inches thick, and Mattie, tear-stained, red-eyed and altogether lovely rushed out, and up into his arms.  She had long dark hair, sparkling with holographic enabled strands, a button nose, and full lips, and skin paper-white and soft.  Being the daughter of a High Noble might have given her a good life, but the man had exceeded his limit of wives, and mistresses, so she was given out to the State to care for.  Which meant she had a drone for a nanny.  Still, it had given her excellent genetics, and perhaps a hunger for what she had been denied.

She cozened him, and chattered, and after a thousand plus words, she started working away around to The Problem.  He needed to talk to her more.

"Not while I'm at work." He said.

Another five hundred words, and they were both growing stiffer, and less charming, and Kevin was thinking of the crops he needed to cultivate, and she was explaining with good humor why she needed that.

"Not while I'm at work." He snapped, and stood, and called down the Pinnacle.  Glaring at her as she broke into tears, he vaulted onto the floater, and rose high.  She bawled, and then he saw the moving mass of bulging muscles coming in.  It was taller than the variant elephant, the mammoth, wider than a three lane road, and it had bulges for muscles that were the size of his floater.

Inside the steel wire brush fur, it had pulleys for muscles, and hydraulics, and nine hearts, and at least eight limbs, each twice as big as an elephant leg.  And it came toward the house like a falling bolt of lightning.  For while it ate rock, it craved, as all creatures do, easy energy.  Plants were wonderful to it, and one of the terravores could destroy all the crops of a station in an hour.  But meat, actual meat, was candy to such a creature.

It regarded humans the same way humans regarded a mocha cappucino with a cinnamon bun.
Tadeusz
player, 9609 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Mon 29 May 2017
at 01:27
  • msg #277

Re: Practice Bits: Thief 11

The next morning, a small meal of white fish to break his fast, was given him by the otters who had even less to eat.  The younglings looking desirously on his food hurt his heart, but all knew he needed every edge he could get.  He could have had more raw fish, but the objective was to give him focus and energy, not to weigh him down with a full belly.

Lord Wellington said victory came from a bowl of porridge for his men in the morning against Napoleon at Waterloo.  You've decided to agree with a great war captain.  +1 to Quickness for one hour.


"May the Aesir and the Vanir guard you." The otter leader spoke.

A golden glow surrounded him.

You are blessed. +2 Protection from Harm.

"May the Lord of Hosts help me."

The light intensified to a blazing fire that harmed none, and as he saw it, fear left him.

"You have called upon the Creator, for before Odin wadded up the body of Ymir to make the Earth, there was Someone to make Odin.  +2 to Fortune, +2 to Damage for twenty minutes.

Nodding to the Otter People, he took up the metal cup which had been filed down to a short dagger, and left the safety of the dome.  Hoping he was not about to be ambushed, he was pushed out, quickly.  Once in the open, breathing air not scented with the fur of otters, he felt relief.

Looking around, he saw no one, so he gave a hand signal and eight otters quickly left the hole.  They divided, two by two, and one group of three.

Walking over to the ice waterfall, he looked over the edge.  Fifty feet down.  That should do it.  Beneath his feet a yard square of small gravel and dirt gave him a solid footing at the edge of doom.

He bent over and picked up the spear made for him.  Next to it, on the ice was another.
 He checked the stats on the one in his hand.

Well-made basic spear, wood.  Durability 10/10.

As he waited, the sun rose a handsbreath above the horizon.  It looked as if it would burn through the cold shield of the sky, a pale orange intensity that shed no heat.  And the time had arrived.  Shaking his shoulder to get them loose, he tilted back his head and bellowed.

"Coward! Scum!  Honorless dog, skulking on his belly, making war on the weak.  Come face your Doom."  The challenge rang out, going over trees, and between trunks, touching every bit of the valley.  A bear in a den turned from his sleep, and then went back to snoozing.  A dozen birds rose above the trees, and looked about.  A few vultures came and landed nearby, eager for a meal to come.  High in the sky, just below the clouds, a hawk with a twenty foot wide wingspan looked down, saw the Adventurer, and his preparations and his beak curved just a bit in amusement. In tWohe dome, the other otters waited, trembling.

"Stupid Human!" A roaring voice came from up the hill, amidst the naked trees all black lines in the white snow.  It sounded groggy, and Bill grinned.  The Otter People knew that the Wolf liked his sleep, and any advantage that could be gained was good.  Since the sun was not directly in Bill's eyes, he would have to trade that for a beast that hated rising early.

"Come now, I am Snickersnaxem.  I have slain my dozens.  My hands have slain Ram and Bison and Tree and Demon.  Now I am armed and we wait for you.  But if you're afraid, you can wait." The mocking shout did not go as far, but still the Hawk overhead heard it, and smiled.  The Talking Wolf did as well, and not taking time to shake his bones loose, he came on with a rush.  Flying it seemed downhill, coming in a rush, but still landing with all four feet on the roof of the dome room to make dirt shake from the ceiling of the otter's haven, and to hear them squeal in terror.

But they snarled in rage instead as he leapt out, and came sliding across the ice.  From the otter's dome, rocks and sharp stones pelted him on the side, and he turned his great head and snarled at them.  Finally, his health bar showed as an enchanted stone hit him, forcing the reveal for a second.

He was black titled, which in the game meant a less than one-tenth of one percent chance of defeating the monster.  Bill gulped.

"Now you die."  The wolf said in a voice laden with menace as it began to walk toward him.  Bill braced with his spear, and waited.  The great wolf moved carefully on the ice toward him.

It sat, and studied Bill.

"Clever.  I can't rush you, or you'd duck, and I'd go for a tumble.  And you with good footing from the dirt, and a spear.  I must admit, you've made the best of a bad situation.  Still, Adventurer, you are the one doomed here."

The wolf smiled, and waited for Bill to say something, but fear had his stomach and his tongue in a tight grip that twisted about.

"Sensible. I tell you what, Adventurer." And the wolf looked right and left with a smile on his lips. "I will give you one request as...."

"Leave the Otter People alone." Bill's lips spoke without his thought.

"As long as it isn't that, or anything involving a rope."  The wolf continued as if uninterrupted.

Bill decided to make the best of a bad situation since he could not speak again, and simply lowered the spear into more of a line with the wolf's chest.

"So. I can admire courage, even that of a moron."  And the wolf lunged forward, and Bill stepped back, tottering at the edge as the wolf suddenly stopped.  Falling forward to his knees was the only thing to save Bill.

"Bow to your master, Adventurer." Bill replied by jabbing out the spear.  The wolf almost caught the shaft in its teeth, but its caution in movement kept the spear free.  The ice drastically limited what the wolf could do.

"Getting tired, yet, Adventurer?" The wolf smiled, and took a step forward.  Bill lashed out with his spear, and the wolf stepped back, as if dancing.

"No."
"You will."

"Come get me coward."
"In due time." The wolf replied.  Realizing that his stamina was halfway down the green of his bar, Bill tried for something desperate.  He flung the spear.

It caught the wolf in the nose.

Critical hit.  5% damage. Spear use, bonus. Critical hit, bonus. +1% for both.

The wolf leapt back, and Bill came to his feet with the other spear.  And then he grinned to see the red spot on the nose of his enemy.

"Rudolph the Red-nosed doggie." He laughed.

And the wolf came at him, with sudden, short rushes, and furious snaps.  Bill jabbed the spear, and the wolf side-stepped. Advancing again, Bill grated his spear along its ribs.

Hit. -2% Damage.

A single bite in his side, and pain took away his breath, became his world for a second.


Wolf Bite. -25% Damage.

In one bite, with no special attacks, he was in the top of the yellow.  He flung his spear up, and dove to the left as far as he could go, sliding right on the edge of the abyss.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:57, Mon 29 May 2017.
Tadeusz
player, 9618 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Sat 3 Jun 2017
at 18:10
  • msg #278

Re: Practice Bits: Finis Civis

Michael Roosevelt, whose ancestor would have met TR at birthday parties, walked seventeen blocks to the downtown Roosevelt Building overlooking Hub City's beautiful harbor. In the last decade, the whole Boswash Corridor had joined the Big Apple in being 'no cars, only limos, or trolleys.'  With the Trolley Workers Union on strike, he was down to shoe-leather express.

Reaching the strikers' picket line, a petition was plunked in front of him on a plastic table near by the front doors.  With a dozen glancing his way, and several dozen more nearby, he signed the 'Pay the Trolley's Their Pensions' petition.  One of the nearby Black Panthers in hoodie and half-fallen pants tried to pin a button to his shirt, and Michael glared at him.

The gangbanger cum political activist made a face back, and Michael felt himself 'go Teddy' as Karen, his live-in girlfriend called it.  Whatever you said about TR, everyone agreed he did not back off.  And then the thug stepped back even as a tiny, little tattooed girl clad in a wifebeater and shorts stepped between the two giants, her head, not even reaching their shoulders, and her chin somewhere around their elbows.

She said something about testosterone poisoning, and seemed pleased with herself for demonstrating her superior female sensibility as Michael turned and walked in.  But no one congratulated her which she did not like, so she spoke to some of her friends nearby of her bravery.  The chattering magpies agreed.

Michael went in, having paid his toll, even as the Powers collected another fake signature.  His had been FDR's.  Inside, the elevator was not working, and so he climbed the steps, leaping over the piles of poo left by office workers not willing to wait in line.

Once in the Debt Reconciliation Center, he made his way to the desk, under the dull-eyed stare of several dozen others in metal folding chairs screwed to the floor.  Most were about his age, but every generation and decade was represented.  The squat toad behind the desk barely glanced at him, and waved a hand at the ticket counter.  #49, he became.  He was ten minutes early for his appointment.  Two hours later, they called him.

Going in back to a huge room, with low-slung, occasionally rain-stained ceiling tiles with open desks in the hundreds, he passed a birthday party for twenty, and three sleeping 'crats, and four playing a linked FPS about shooting down Montanans, he found a desk with a bored, overweight man with a mustache, and a five o'clock shadow at eleven in the morning.  Next to him on all sides were other students telling of their difficulties.

Staring appalled, he heard one girl tell the most intimate details of her hard drug habit to anyone nearby, as she pleaded for more time on her college loan.  A grunt, and an impatient look got him down into the acrylic seat in front of the desk behind which sat the man.

"Name."
"Michael Roosevelt."
The man looked up, surprised just a bit.
"Not a direct descendant of either.  But close."
"Right." The man subsided back into boredom. "Cause of problem."
Michael began explaining his difficulties getting a good-paying, or even a mediocre paying job.  All he could get was delivery for Chinese food which paid extremely poorly.
"Louder."
Michael blinked.
"LOUDER. I can't hear you."
Embarrassed, Michael began speaking louder.  Those on all sides of him could hear him now.  The man yanked a hand up, clearly signaling for more volume.  Red-faced, Michael did so.  Then the others, in order to be heard talked louder, and so Michael rose his voice again, and it rippled across the room so that each person in this large room was speaking loud enough that if all had been silent, a good listener could have heard any one of them from the farther side of the room, if all others had been silent as the grave.
Michael felt fury rising, and began blasting out his story.  The college debts, which he had been repeatedly told were needed because one could only get a good job with a degree from a good college.  It was an investment, they said, and tried to get him to do more extracurricular things, read party-hardy, and turn his four year program into six years.  He had not, but it had been hard, especially when Leslie had started coming around.
Only the quiet advice of an old black janitor named Steven, had gotten him clear of Leslie's clutches.  She glommed onto guys about to graduate early, as four years was called.  Then she dumped them once they were on the six-year track.
The mustached man raised a hand.  Michael stopped.
"Don't yell at me.  I'm here to help you."
Michael gulped, and his world spun.  He shook his head after closing his eyes, and refocused on his goal.  He was half-a mill in debt.  He could not even pay the interest if he took all the money he earned, and ate from soup kitchens.

"Right." Michael finished his story.  The mustached man nodded, typed in a few things, made a face at the old laptop on his desk, and gave Michael a cursory glance, and a 'wait one mo'' finger before rising and leaving.  Michael sat back down, and waited a bit.  Then he looked about.  Nobody resembling the mustached man was in sight.
Tadeusz
player, 9619 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Mon 5 Jun 2017
at 00:46
  • msg #279

Re: Practice Bits: Orphan

Day Zero

"Tommorrow's begins ninth grade." Uncle Tim suddenly looked up from his desk and its papers to speak to me as I read Beowulf, and sprawled on the living room couch in our home.  The abrupt announcement of what I already knew did not surprise me.  Tim Connors, or Uncle Tim, had dark gray eyes that had seen too much of the world's evil.

"I've been thinking." I began.
"Good." It was not sarcasm.  Uncle Tim was not socially adept, but despite that, and his skinny form, he drew notice from the local women, many of them married.  If he noticed, I had yet to see it.  He remained, an unchanging rock, looking the same he always did.

"I hear that GA High is hard on loners.  I need to find a group."
Uncle Tim sighed acceptingly.
"I can't do Jocks." I motioned toward my skinny arms.  For a second, he smiled, and then agreed.  Odd, but that was Uncle Tim.  The man had secrets.
"Nor can I do Social Butterfly. I can't talk a thousand words a minute about myself."
"Thank the Good Lord above."  I did talk more than Uncle Tim, and for a few years, I had driven him insane with 'Why?'  Now our house had several thousand books, all with answers, some correct, to 'Why?'.  When I asked him Why nowadays, he would simply put a book or five in my hand, and tell me 'report' which meant I had two days to find the answer, evaluate the answer, and write down a two thousand word report on the answer.

I grinned at his muttering.

"I could do Nerd." I offered, and Uncle Tim looked up, and shook his head flatly 'no'.  No explanation either.  I played chess with him, and on-line, but I could not join the school chess club.  Which was less of a burden nowadays as they were pretty bad at the game.

"So, unless I want a bullseye on my back as a Social Reject, it had to be Fashionista."
Uncle Tim nodded.  I was about to tell him we had to take the Y Train in to the City to shop, when he told me without more ado to go to my room.

It was a typical punishment which happened about once or twice a month, but I had not thought I had done anything.  Reviewing my words as I got up, I found no trace of disrespect.  Nevertheless, I went.

On my bed, made, of course, were eight t-shirts, and eight pants, other assorted gear, and a pair of dark, leather boots that even to my naive eyes looked nice.  The clothes were male fashion model type stuff in the Casual Male.  Which meant the pants probably cost a hundred dollars a piece.

"Uncle." I called.
"Yes." He said from the doorway behind me.  I jumped.  One time, when I was ten, I asked him how he could do that.  He had been drunk, on the one night a year he got drunk, and he spoke uncharacteristically.  "Dao Zhe Pen, seventh son of a seventh son of the Celestial Emperor taught me."  Later, he refused to discuss it, suggesting it had been a joke.
"This is...nice."
A pleased smile above his grizzled line of beard on his jawline surprised me.
"Try the boots."
So, I did.  They fit perfectly, and were already flexed as if they had been worn for weeks.  Suddenly, suspicious, I looked at the sole.
"Miller's Bootmakers of London, World's Finest, LLC." Was imprinted on the sole in small letters because it was said that if you had one,  you'd take the time to read it.
This was an easy thousand dollars on my foot.  Members of the Olympic Hiking Team wore these.  Even some superheroes and supervillains had Millers of London make their boots.

I flung myself at him, giving him a sudden hug.  He returned it, and sniffled after a bit.  Letting go, I was again surprised to see a tear in his eye.  He never cried.  Patting me on the shoulder, he walked away to collect himself, letting me do the same.  I heard the back door open, and I figured he was out there looking at the duck pond amid the dark woods of his land.  It, the back porch, was his specially for him to think, a retreat not of business, or prayer.

I'm not a clothes horse, preferring old jeans and comfy tennies, but looking at five thousand dollars worth of clothes on one's bed could sway even the most laid-back slob.  Looking in the mirror, I saw a boy, with a thin face, odd blue eyes, even teeth.  The green t-shirt said something in Latin, which a translater program rendered as 'Can we just stop paying foreign nations aid so they can hate us for free?'

A pair of black wristbands, and a backpack tagged with silvery comets reminiscent of the power trail left by Silver Comet, khaki pants, and a watch fob in gold completed my look.  The fob had been my father's, and so it came to me.  And I could find it anywhere.  If I lost it, I could simply feel for its presence, and like knowing you forgot something over there, I would feel, and follow that feeling to the fob.

"Fashion, dude. Fashion is life." I said what the fashionista on the Daily Watch said as he reviewed the superhero and villain fashion mistakes of the day.  Others on the DW talked of city damage, of repairs, of experimental medical treatments to save victims, but the Fashion Guy talked of Mr. Rocket's unfortunate choice of orange boots to go with yellow tights.

Laughing at myself, I took a shower, read my Bible, prayed, and ate vanilla ice cream with peanut butter (creamy, of course), and brushed my pearly whites before going to sleep.  During the night, I had the intermittent dream of a man yelling.  "Please, mister, please."  High in the sky behind him and the woman next to him were skyscrapers of impossible heights, ninety and a hundred stories tall.  This woke me, and I got a drink of water, and went back to sleep.  After all, I knew the dream came when I was upset, and who would not be upset at least a bit, the day before going to high school?

Day One.

The next morning, I got ready, pulled on by curiousity, and the scent of bacon and over easy eggs being fried in the kitchenette.  A dozen strips, and three eggs lay ready for me on the table in the kitchenette.  My uncle was already moving through his two pounds of bacon.  I pondered on milk, or O.J. or cranapple before going with cow juice, and closing the fridge door right before my uncle could complain about my aimless staring.

We ate in silence.

"Get moving, boy." My Uncle Tim grouched at me over his mug of coffee. The same remark he had let out every morning since I had told him in fourth grade that I was big enough to go to Westsides on my own.  He looked the same too, only the bathrobe and t-shirt and shorts changing as they wore out.

I nodded, scooped up the last three pieces of bacon, stuffed them in my mouth as I grabbed the backpack for ninth grade Day One, and ran out.  The wooden front porch rattled underfoot, and I leapt down the four steps to the rock garden front yard.  Across the garden, past the leaping rocks, down the path into the thick woodland.  Two miles later, puffing hard from the full-out sprint, the woods ended.  Looking both ways, crossing the wooden timber railroad bridge two hundred feet of Pill Chasm, created by Dr. Pill's  attack twenty years ago.  Stormwarden had swept up an anti-hydrogen pill with gale force winds to outside the City.  Uncle Tim said that 'invalid fears about radiation made the land nearby cheap' which is why he was able to buy land so close to the City.

A pitter-patter of feet across the chasm, and he came back to a full-out sprint in the warehouse district.  Left on 83rd Street, just before Elton Wart's Projects.  The place smelled, even from down the street a block away.  It had short two and four-story buildings that covered a block by themselves.  Uncle Tim had told him to avoid it, and given the stories on the news of drive-by's, and the 85th Killahs and the Warty Warriors both struggling for dominance over the projects he agreed.

Running around the Projects, circling them, added another fifteen more minutes to his travel.  On the far side, a straight out sprint brought me to the gym at GA High.  Slipping inside, I smelled odor de gym. The showers were empty, and I was glad.  A quick wash, and my backpack was emptied of my cool clothes, and the dark blue jersey, and gray hoodie went inside it, into a plastic bag to be vacuum sealed.  No one was going to want to smell my clothes in whatever locker I got assigned too.

Dressed as fashion forward as I'd ever been, I went out.  My new classmates were beginning to fill up the hallways, and no one was yet the Object of Adoration, and no one was yet the Hated One, or the Too Loud Clown, or whatever else they might become in this new year.  All the first years, the ninth graders, were directed by permanent marker signs taped to walls to the gymnasium.  Shaking my head, I turned back around.

A hundred of us stood about, a few in small clumps, but most just by themselves.  I looked, and spotted a half-dozen other Fashionistas.  All of us had t-shirts with sayings, most in different languages.  Computer translation programs were a gift for weirdness.

A classic 'All  your base belong to us' on a dark-haired kid in Mandarin.  A redhead girl with a flat chest and braces had 'Nuke the whales. Save the Earth. in Russian.  A bit older looking kid with super-short hair had 'Carthago delenda est' or 'Carthage must be destroyed' which Cato the Younger used to end his speeches with in Ancient Rome.  What made it cooler was there was a supervillain named Carthage.  Guy was a certified fruitcake, world-destroying nutbag who even other supervillains steered clear of.  Of course, if Carthage ever did show up here, the kid was dead, and I'm not kidding.  Murdering a ninth grader was not remotely the worst thing he had ever done.

We all smiled at each other, becoming a group, getting less socially naked, but even still, I saw.

"All so scared." I muttered.  A short laugh near me, and I cursed myself.  Situational Awareness was not just a fun game, but Life.  Turning, I saw a goofy looking guy, standing oddly unbalanced.  Yet his eyes burned, and they Saw.

I introduced myself, and he did as well as 'Bruce, not the fighter.'  It was awkward, and I knew I needed to meet my fellows in the Clan, but he seemed so ill-at-ease, and needy that I both wanted to help him, and wanted to flee him as one might flee a drowning man.
"Go, Fashionista.  I understand the need to fit in."  He gave me a lop-sided smile, full of grace, and I felt both grateful and ashamed.  With that, I nodded, promising myself that I would not forget him.  Making my way to the others who judged me a bit as Not Sure I
Was of Them.

But then a girl with a green streak in her hair, and a tee with a machine code saying glanced at my feet, and squealed.

"Boots!" And that became my name at the school.  James 'Boots' Connor is me.  And with that, I became a Fashionista.  Later, I asked Liselle what her shirt said.  She smirked and said 'I have to dye my hair tonight.'

"Speaking of which, your roots are showing a bit, Boots."  I paled, for I have tar black dyed hair to cover up my Aryan Superman blonde.  With my blue eyes, I was the perfect Figure of Evil.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:35, Mon 05 June 2017.
Tadeusz
player, 9623 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Mon 5 Jun 2017
at 18:54
  • msg #280

Re: Practice Bits: Orphan

Rushing into the bathroom, I passed a girl.  Great, I'd heard of this.  Pausing before the mirror, I took a quick hand comb of my locks.  A few dozen, almost out of view, had golden blonde roots.

My 'ravenblack' hair dye was at home, next to my bed.  My thoughts whirled, and then a too-hot for life girl bent over the sink to the right of me.  My eyes saw breasts that strained her shirt, but then she put dark crimson lipstick on.  No one was a Goth anymore, but some girls still liked almost black.  Without thinking about it, I took the lipstick up when she put it down.

A quick smear, and half of the top of it came off on my thumb.

"Thief." She snapped.  Her eyes were green, and her skin fair and clear, and for a long second, I was not thinking.  She saw this, and just took the lipstick from my suddenly numb fingers.L"Freak." She whispered, and stalked off, her heels clacking, boys jumping out of her way.

I blinked as my brain re-booted.  I was not a thief.  Stealing was wrong, but if I went back to the girl, I could see it making things worse.  I imagined what my uncle would say.  Evidently, I was a thief, if desperate enough.

Let me do better, next time, I prayed.  Then I smeared my loot carefully into the roots of my hair.  Now, if Miss Eyes Like a Hawk or one of her others peers saw, they would see a reddish tint among my black.  Not a big deal, I hoped.

Breathing easier, I washed my hands of the waxy lipstick, making them tingle again, and looked up in the mirror.  I looked okay now.  My blue eyes were still freaky, but that was not that unusual, although my uncle had bought me a pair of color change contacts if I wanted them, even though I did not.  Dyeing one's hair was one thing, sticking your own finger in your own eye seemed insane to me.

A hrrmph, and there was a guy and a girl waiting for my sink.  Skedaddling rather than face the irritation of two upper-class people, I left and made my way to Home Room with Miss Persy.

It was the typical 'Don't be a Bully' lecture given to twenty bored ninth-graders.  We'd heard variants of this lecture dozens of times already, and Miss Persy, with her stout form, and odd bursts of enthusiasm followed by droning monologue brought nothing of interest to the current prattle.

Signing a dozen times, I felt no surprise that half the 'bad guys' in the Handbook Against Bullying were blonde boys.  And yet, no one in the whole class was blonde, except me, unless they also hid.  There were also some cautions I did not understand, but there was no way I was going to ask a question on this day.

Sitting and moving with my 'crew', I caught the eye of Bruce, not a fighter, who rolled his eyes at the former nonsense.  I smothered a laugh, and turned to listen to Rog, the dark-haired kid with the classic line in Mandarin, explain what our next class was.  As a crew, part of the unspoken deal was, we all took the same classes.

So I sloped into Art Appreciation with the rest of the Fashionistas, meeting some of our tribe.  I watched as Rog, our leader, and Vale, the leader of the other group of Fashionistas sparred verbally for dominance until the girls got tired of not enough attention being paid to them, and started making snotty remarks.  Uncle Tim was right.  Human social interaction could be quite predictable.

Mrs. Hallman-Rothers began speaking with a glitter of excitement about Art and its High Purpose.  She told us to 'afflict the comfortable', and break taboos.  Then she pointed our attention to some famous works on the walls of the art classroom.  She showed some of the collage work of the previous year, which to my eyes, was just not that good.

"Its all the same." A voice, without defiance, or strain, or any emotion rose from the back of the room.  H-R turned and continued sputtering on, and finally  caught on that someone had spoken.  She was among us Fashionistas and with the rest of us turned to the back of the room where Bruce was sitting, by himself.

"Excuse me, young man?"
"Bruce Wallace, ma'am."
"No need for ma'am.  I'm not really an authority."  She simpered, touching her hair.  All of us, even the half-asleep Jocks stared at her with disbelief.  She was the Teacher; she got to talk when she wanted too.  Hence, she was the Authority.
"What, did you say?"
"The uh, groups of stuff..."
"Collages."
"Right, colleges, um they are all the same."

Instead of replying, she backed off to the front of the room.

"Interesting.  Now we could just all jump on Bruce here. But instead, I want you to try to see what he is seeing.  I see transgressive, rule-breaking work.  Quite good, actually.  Bruce sees something else.  I'm not necessarily right, and Bruce is not necessarily wrong.  So, lets try to make our collages."

The near dozen of us grouped in.

"We need Bruce's help."  I said.  "He sees something, we don't.  Unless, one of you has a vision for how to standout?"  Rog and Vale looked at each other, everyone glanced around.  Most of them knew they were fakes.  In fact, for some of them that was kinda the point.  Almost assuredly Diana did not want to nuke the whales.

But when we turned to ask his help, he was gone.  So we fumbled on a bit as the Jocks tried to understand what was being asked of them, and the Nerds complained, and the Social Butterflies talked of how hard this was on them.  Thankfully we had to the end of the week to do the task.

Math, then English, then P.E which made the Jocks happy until they found that Coach was ex-Marines, and wanted them to run.  I, along with the other Fashionistas, struck a pose.  We languidly walked the track, looking good, I'll admit.  Coach stared at us with loathing, and then ignored our existence.  At the end of the class, he informed everyone that non-participators would get a C-.  Many of the Nerds cheered, and we just smiled.  He glared, and they shut up.

"Pansies."  He muttered.  I knew that he could get in trouble for saying that with what my uncle called the Lavender Mafia, but just looking at him, you suspected that his last act before being fired would be to take the tattletale out to the football posts, and hang said tattle tale upside down by their ankles from the top of the posts by their 'roos before leaving on a Harley in a cloud of burned rubber.  No one wanted to test that theory, and so we all kept very quiet.

Lunch found us chased from the best table by the Jocks, and Bruce, and another Social Reject tripped and garlanded with gluten-free lasagna.  We took our selves to a lesser table as a group, and kept quiet, but went in triples for food seconds.

Science was Just-So Stories, and in Study Hall we goofed.  Another SR got tossed into the whiteboard, cracking it, and getting yelled at by the teacher who came in after the noise.  He just took it, and the low-level jocks smirked.  Although when passing me, one of those self-same jerks slipped and fell on a dropped pencil, and sprawled to the ground.  He came up raging, but none claimed the pencil, and really, it had to be bad luck.  Liselle, of the sharp eyes, and the green streak hair stared at me for a second.

History, or as the teacher Mis Lance corrected us, 'Herstory' was dull.  Men did nothing but steal credit from woman who were better, more awesome, and all bad things that happened were men's fault.  I idly wondered to myself, not being totally stupid, how such Wonderful Women allowed themselves to be so abused since they were clearly better in every way.

GA was way worse than Westsides Elementary and Middle had been.  There we had not nearly the cool equipment, but we'd also had long recesses, two study hours, a longer lunch, and teachers who taught the minimum, and left half the class to us as long as we kept it quiet.  That way, I got the assignmenents my uncle left for me done before I got home.

As I walked out of the school, getting bumped by bigger kids, I reviewed what I needed to do.  Finish reading The Prince, and then use its advice to formulate a public policy for Perseus of Athens in his upcoming dispute with the Spartans which became the Peloponesian War.  Personally, I could not see it.  The Athenians needed someone to tell them how to get right with God, and stop being so greedy.  The Spartans had justifiably feared the oncoming Athenian imperialists motivated by desire for tribute to glorify Athens.  I was also supposed to imagine and detail, with costs in people-hours and gold the response by the Spartans if Julius Caesar were transported back to be their leader.  Could he build Roman Legions out of Spartans?  Would this defeat the Athenians?  Would the social unrest caused by a transformation from a ruling warrior nobility to a more egalitarian society destroy Caesar, and cause him to end as he did before?  Uncle Tim had a dozen other questions for me to ponder, and write multiple, detailed, sourced pages on as well.
"And don't forget.  Caesar and Perseus were both excellent orators, so I want some good speeches written."  He had said, and I shook my head in dismay.  Maybe I could learn how to 'write in my head' as my Uncle kept telling me to do.  Fake paying attention in class, and write in my imagination.

I suddenly stepped aside, and there was Liselle standing in front  of me.  Reviewing things, she had stepped out from behind the concrete railing, solid cover, not just concealment, and stood in front of me.  A clear attempt at ambush, but she held no weapons.

"Oh, hi, Liselle."  I let my shoulders go loose, and my hands dropped to my sides.  She grabbed my right arm, and began to tow me away.  Seeing that we were heading toward an isolated, but open picnic table across from the front door of GA High, I did not bother to resist.  We sat, on each side of the concrete table.  It showed signs of being recently scrubbed of graffiti.  The grass was ankle-high, and the sun baked my shoulders.

"Are you a superhero?"  Liselle demanded fiercely.  Her dark brown eyes focused on mine.  So when I burst out laughing, she acted like I had slapped her.
"Why?"
"I saw the trick with the pencil.  You shoved it with your left hand airborne, under your right arm, and it landed just so.  It was almost impossible.  It was something like what Madame Fate does when her enemies beat each other up by falling into each other's punches."
"Just luck." I shrugged, and then realized that since she was claiming I had probability altering powers, that claiming luck might not be the best idea.  She gave me a skeptic's look.
"And you moved sooooo fast."  I looked blankly at her, or as blankly as I could.  "At the bottom of the school steps, five minutes ago.  Dolt."
That hurt.
"You weren't watching...."
"Nuh unh.  I was waiting for you."
"Ambushing me.  Are you stalking me, Liselle?"  I pumped up the outrage, trying to get her on the defensive.  She was not having it.
"Yes. And you moved like Lightning Kid."
I chortled.  Lightning Kid, aka 'the tween too fast to be seen' was a media sensation as the youngest superhero, and then horror gripped me.  Her hands, nice hands, were under the concrete table.
"You're not about to shoot me, are you?"  My voice trembled a bit.  I can't dodge bullets, despite the training my uncle gave me in fast draws both with katana and revolver.
She looked thoughtful, and then pulled one hand, and the other, both empty out from under the table.  Smirking at me, I suddenly understood why a man might hit a woman.  She was laughing at me as adrenaline rush faded, and my arms trembled.
"Chill, man, chill. You're wound so tight you're going to break a string."
I got up, and walked away, without a word.  Protests, commands, and a sudden gobble, and then I heard feet running up behind me.  Paranoia, instilled by my uncle, who maybe, just maybe had gone a bit too far, caused me to look back over my shoulder to make sure she was not coming up on me with a hatchet.

I walked.  She walked.  We left the school grounds.
"I....didn't want to scare you."
We walked some more.  She huffed a couple of times.
"All right. I won't do it again." She paused, and I glanced over at her.  Her lower lip was trembling.  "I know what it means to feel like the world is out to get you."
I raised an eyebrow.  I'm pretty sure she didn't have an uncle who took one out on paintball courses without a gun, and made one run across them in the midst of a tournameant, and added an extra five miles to a run for every hit.  I mean, I'm pretty normal as kids go, but I do have a few strange bits about my life.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:37, Mon 05 June 2017.
Tadeusz
player, 9624 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Tue 6 Jun 2017
at 00:55
  • msg #281

Re: Practice Bits: Thief 12

Bill stabbed at the Wolf right next to him, the one whose back reached Bill's shoulders.  As expected, the Wolf snapped at the spear.  Shoving the shaft sideways deeper into the jaws of the killer of otters, Bill began screaming in frantic rage.

Berserk activated.

And still screaming, he tried to use the shaft as a lever to tug the Wolf out over the waterfall.  But the same dirt and rocks that anchored Bill, a bit loosely, did the same for the Wolf's left paw.  Still Bill screamed and struggled, spending stamina like a waterfall even as the Wolf began to grow amused.

And then over the shouts, the Wolf's ears picked up the low, rumbling noise of a sliding rock.  Wriggling its head around, looking for the source of the noise, let Bill attack it with a punch to the eye.

Critical Hit.  +1% to success rate.  -3% Damage.

Still the Wolf worked to loose itself as the noise came on, and so Bill, with no  other weapons reached down his head, and bit the Wolf's ear.  Teeth meeting teeth, the fury and blood and stank of the Wolf in his nostrils and throat made Bill want to throw up.  The Wolf yipped as it  yanked itself free.

Damage -4% with the attack of a madman.  Bonus to Hero or Madman skill.

A rock hit the river from the slide that Bill had taken the other day.  It was nearly four hundred pounds, plated with ice to make it travel smooth, and it hit the far wall of the river with a deep boom.  And the well-placed and well-calculated trunk laying on the river bank swept its force back in a direct line for the wolf.

"Smart Manling. Smart."  And as Bill leapt to the side, sliding down the edge of the abyss, over fifty feet high above solid ice, the Wolf took his spot on the dirt.

"Too qui..." The Wolf began boasting, as another rock, from a camouflaged half-tube, laid over with branches, shot an even bigger rock straight down the line of the waterfall, but a foot from Bill's left hand as he lay on the cold ice on his belly.  With no time to boast, the Wolf simply leapt straight up.

Both rocks hit, and the larger one broke in two in a smash of small bits of dirt, and a crack that would have made thunder jealous.  As the Wolf came down, the rocks, now trio, went over the edge.  And the Wolf grinned.  And in the noise, no one heard the creaking of a tree, particularly as it had been oiled by fish guts.

A trunk, five feet around, and nine feet long, swinging on a rope held by the branches of the tallest tree at the edge of the waterfall, sailed down from up the slope.  It went through a full 49 degrees of arc before smashing into the side of the Wolf.  Despite his wriggles, he was airborne, and had little leverage.

The trunk smashed into his side, and lifted him up, and then scrabbling against Doom, the Wolf was flung up to a height of ninety feet above the bottom of the waterfall.

Complex Boobytrap with Massive Damage.  Boobytrap skill is 10%.  Otter People now revere you as a great general.  Damage is 21%.

Dissapointed it was not more, Bill waved goodbye to the yowling, descending Wolf.  But the trunk came back toward him, dipping at its end, so that it barely tagged him.  It felt like fire as it tossed him on the river ice.  Stunned, he waited.  And it came back, and he realized he had no time.

With little hope, he leapt, his arms reached out for the vine rope holding up the trunk.  His feet were wide, and bent to try to get him a place on top or alongside the trunk as it came back, the front trailing, intent on killing him.
Tadeusz
player, 9629 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Wed 7 Jun 2017
at 21:33
  • msg #282

Re: Practice Bits: Aborted Futures

Looking about cautiously, Charlie saw no one near his locker in the empty school hallway.  An e  ighth-grader slipped out, with a hall pass, clearly faking the need to go to the bathroom.  Charlie smirked, having done the exact same thing himself many times.  Peace and quiet in the Great Prison, or Gillian Parsley Memorial High School, as the notes sent home to dismayed parents listed his dungeon, was prized.  Faking a probable bout of vomiting was a standard ploy for the poor students locked in with apathetic teachers and homicidal maniacs and senators-to-be.

Charlie strode up to his locker, like he belonged here.  A minute later, inside it, up to his shoulders, the door slammed into the side of his head.

"Ooh. Sorry." Blinking back tears, and clenching his fists to hold in the anger, Charlie pulled out of his shell.  Hector and Tommy were there, along with their minions.  Hector was the standard maniac bully, but Tommy was tall, thin, and oh-so-smart.  You never knew what Tommy would do, but it would be clever, and sadistic.

A chuckle ran through the five of them, as Tommy dangled a small videocam.  They had been watching him sneak back into school for his books.  He had thought to wait thirty minutes, which surely would be enough to outwait them as bullies and thugs had short time preferences, or got bored easily.  A waft of beer, and the dangling vidcam told him the story.

For some reason, Tommy really had it in for him. Hector beat him because Charlie was slim, and slow.  Tommy though was different.

Slamming his locker, with the backpack trailing behind him, he bolted.  He'd been practising his sprinter's start, not because he intended to try out for track, but for situations like this.  Still, he was slow for a boy his age.

He got one step. A hand would snag his shoulder, or his backpack before his second step.  Two steps came and went.  And by the third, Charlie was gone.  And then the Horde came on.  Down the hall, his tennis shoe shod feet slapping stone tiles, he bent over like a motorcycle  as he made the turn to the right.

These idiots, he exulted.  I'll get to the end door, and there was no way any of them could catch him in the woods.  Most of them thought the Hanover City Park was wild because it had bunnies and squirrels.  Charlie, however, spent sometimes whole days, and a few nights outside.

The far double door just past the elevator was wound about with doubled chain links, and seemingly locked.
Tadeusz
player, 9633 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Thu 8 Jun 2017
at 18:08
  • msg #283

Re: Practice Bits: Hiring a God

Alan's eyes snapped awake at the rumbling of The Phone, as he called it.  His Colt Needler 4.1 in his left hand, and him sitting up in the tent on Mountcross Mountain.  Next to him, Ginny snuggled deeper into the dual sleeping bag, grumbling unconsciously about the lack of her 'personal space heater'.

"Be back." He murmured, and cat-footed slipped out of the dome tent into the starry night in the Sierra Nevadas.  A quick stroll in bare feet around the perimeter, checking the 'bear alarms' as he called them to calm his wife, and he found no visitors, either dead or alive.  His 'alarms' held lethal tricks.

Leaning back against a large rock to provide cover, he replied to the 'tag' with a '?'.

<i>Sorry t wake u.  Inbound on Shadow in 5.  Sheila and the 5k with me.  You're recalled, Major.</ibThe only guy he knew who could access that phone and had a wife named Sheila was his old friend, Bran Cornwell.

Taking a few minutes to stir up the plentiful coals of the campfire with new wood, he put on water in a teapot, and in a metal bowl.  '5k' soon trooped into the firelight, Tally, Kelly, Reilly, Timmy, and Missy with her teddy bear Marly, in tow straggled in to the camplight.  Mugs were brought out, and cocoa powder and marshmallows added for the five Cornwell kids to have hot chocolate made by 'Uncle' Alan.

The faint whir of the Shadow 21A3 Stealth Transport Copter, more used for SpecWar operators than to transport the Cornwell Clan to a distant mountaintop, faded into the night silence.  The crunch of fox foot came back, as did the echolocation of high altitude bats hunting insects.  Satisfied that all was clear, or Bran would not have sent 5k trooping in, Alan mentally dialed back his cyborged senses, and put his combat drugs back on latent instead of prep.

Bran and Sheila came in as well, arm in arm.  For Bran, the night was like day, and Sheila just trusted her husband even if she could not see the ground because she had normal human vision.  Ginny clambered out, shot a reproachful look at her hubby, and took a few hugs, and went off to gossip with Sheila.  Both of them looked almost like the aerobics instructors they had been ten, no thirteen, years ago, when Bran and Alan had 'accidentally' come into a  'women's only' aerobics class, while on leave.

Bran took him off to the side, into the dark, something that bothered neither of them.

"So, Bran, must be pretty...." Alan began to pump his friend, and now desk-bound superior for info.
"Ultra Black. Take the copter.  We have a heat bot for you in my backpack. Two minutes." The words clicked something on in Alan's mind.  No longer was he trying to figure out what, and how bad it was.  It was beyond bad.  Nuclear strike on Washington D.C. bad, or worse.
Following protocol, Alan gulped, and repeated the message back, word for word.
"Yes, sir. On duty, sir."
"Vaya con Dios, my friend."
Alan quick-walked over to Ginny even as Bran took out the self-inflating balloon bot with heat inside, which would mimic him so any sats would see Bran and family, and Ginny and him.
"Max emergency, Ginny."
"Uh, no." She protested. Then stopped as she saw the balloon bot, with the oddments attached to it that could never fool a human's sight, but confused computers into thinking it was a man, inflating near the fire.  She touched his skin, and felt the Ice.

Already, his skin was the temperature of the outside ground.

"Come back to me. To the kids."
"Goldfish too."
"Newton and Kepler would miss you dearly." She said, trying not to cry, but failing as Sheila hugged her.  Tearing up himself, Alan quick-walked to the Shadow.  A hug now would provoke too many tears, might twig the enemy sats, might leave her the last memory of her husband as a walking freezer.

In the Shadow, callsigns were exchanged, and the copter pilot and copilot/gunner took the stealth copter up twenty feet, and flung it over the mountain edge to fall a thousand feet.  They feathered out at the end, in a ride that would be illegal in Six Flags over Birmingham.  Again, it was a measure to protect against watchers.

They flew, most going under high 747s doing commercial routes that were sometimes inexplicably rerouted for a few minutes so that the Shadow could jump from the shadow of one jumbo jet going to San Fran to one going to Phoenix to one going to Dallas, and finally come down a hundred miles north of the Big Easy.

The locals were close-mouthed, patriotic, and minded their own business, and they appreciated an army base that bought things, and operated the same way.  Under a few tons of grass and dirt that was the awning to a cave, the Shadow flew in, and landed on a wide rail car.  The wide railroad, fifteen feet wide was operated by a 1/4th hp electric engine that pulled the winch that pulled the flat car that held whatever needed to come in, or leave.

Alan had been here before, twice, and knew the routine.

After passing through Initial Check, First Gate, and Second Gate, he found he did not know the routine.  Third Gate, and then Fourth Gate, each more intrusive, and hyper-paranoid than before, took over two hours to pass.  By then his cyberware, and his secret weapons, including his illegal secret weapons had been shut down, hard (which involved sticking air gap sticks in his arms to block electric signals), or confiscated.

A plain tunnel of concrete, his internal training insisting was well below the local water level, led him, under the chill gaze of snipers behind portholes in the walls to a door on the right.  Opening it, he saw one man.

Before he knew it, his hand had snapped up, and saluted.

Roger Broderick, first Specwar soldier to attain Joint Chiefs, and first to rule it all stood there behind a crude table littered with papers and photos.

"Take a seat, son." The five star general spoke.  Despite the boobytrapped rumored seventeen bits of metal unable to be removed from his body, he moved easily as he got Alan coffee from the Keurig at the table's end.

Alan took the coffee gratefully.  It was chill down here, and damp, and the lights were poor, and his last drink had been before he went to sleep with Ginny in the tent on the mountain.  Alan waited.

"Code Next Class Nocturne." The four star said slowly, with definite deliberation.  Alan repeated it.  And information locked into his brain was released.  He gasped.

"That's ...impossible."  Nocturne was so secret that the mere name was Code Word Classified.  What it meant was well above that.  Aliens. Extraterrestials.

"Next," was 'imminent', and "Class" was invasion by superior forces.

The general pointed to the photos.  All of them were signed, and countersigned because what with photoshopping, anyone could make anything appear in a photo.  The only really viable block to this was a man's word, backed up by his signet ring.  Without the binds of honor, a world of utter fantasy was there for the making.  Already, you could join the Reunified Roman Empire, or the Cult of the Dead who had ruled the world from their vampiric havens for the last fifty thousand years.  Relics, photos, and miracles, all available for a small monthly sum.

"So, are we going with Guerilla Warfare defense, or Hail Mary longbomb attack?"  After the U.S. had retreated behind its borders, it had made it harder for other powers to build empires by giving the nationals the talents to defend themselves.  What the Poles did to the Teutonic Imperium and the White Russe upon their combined attempt to re-divide Poland between them was a classic in insurgency warfare, and a source of nightmares for would-be empire-builders.

The Hail Mary was a reference to football, and a desperate long-range attack.   SpecWar Orbital Div could launch individuals on silent running, singleton in a spacesuit strikes from orbital railguns.  Filling out your will before such a mission was mandatory.

The four-star general shook his head.
"Those are for others.  For you, Code Mercenary Exotic Clockmaker."

The phrase exploded blocks in Alan's brain.  Information flooded in, including Attic Greek.  He found he could speak and write, and quite fluently, in Ancient Greek.  Plus, he had the equivalent of a doctorate in Mythology of the Ancient World.  Reeling, he spotted the last bit of knowledge.

He knew how to operate a time machine.

Supposed to repeat the phrase as a sign that he had heard and understood, but he could not  Instead, he swayed, and threw up just off the table.  The small bit of spatter hit the concrete floor.  It was all that was left of last night's turf and surf grilled over the campfire while Ginny and Alan giggled over bad puns and fond memories.

Sitting up, still nauseated, he finally spoke the counterphrase.
"Code Mercenary Exotic Clockmaker."

"Whats your job?"
And from a deep well inside, he knew the answer.
"Travel back in time, find a god, preferably Jupiter, Ares, or Athena, convince them by offers, or threats to come forward in time with me, and help attack the Current Problem on the side of the USA."
"In this case, the Aliens."  Roger Broderick
 showed Alan a dozen photos, all of a starship near Luna, making forward speed at 50,000 mph, having a length of just over two miles long, heading Earthward.

"Let's get to it."  He waved  Alan up.  Turning, he tapped the wall like a would-be rapper.  A retina scan came out of the wall, and checked them.  Other scans and checks were made, enough to get the two of them to the next test.  Twenty minutes later, first the retina scan and question board retreated back into the wall.  Then the floor dropped out below the two, leaving the tables, and chairs hanging in the air.

Above him, Alan saw Roger Broaderick greet another SpecWar guy, and the Roger in front of him gave a small, short grin, and then vanished.

The plunge slowed then halted. The wall opened, and men in full hazmat wear rushed in.  They pulled Alan into the next room with speed, one on each arm.  It was all Alan could do to retrain his initial design to break arms, and forcibly require information.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:47, Sat 10 June 2017.
Tadeusz
player, 9637 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Mon 12 Jun 2017
at 06:39
  • msg #284

Re: Practice Bits: Oath

Jeremy Fisher stumbled out of bed.  Bleary-eyed, he sticky-stepped down the stairs, knowing that his mind was still partially asleep, and that his legs might not get the message to move at exactly the right time.  Several doctors, including the one he visited yesterday had assured his Mom and him that he was 'just a bit clumsy' and not suffering from a neurological disorder.

His dad had always been of the 'kids grow up a bit different' theory.  So when he heard Mom and Dad arguing about another doctor over breakfast, he was not surprised.

"Doctor Zefobe is highly respected, Tom, and ...."
"As a quack at..." The low-voiced growl was his father's voice.
Jeremy paused.  His father was mild-mannered, but definite.
"....he's got a whole slew of awards from the governor, and...."
"Sharon." Jeremy's stomach flipped.
"I apologize for interrupting you." Dad said.  His wife wisely said nothing.  Jeremy, now fully awake, looked over the railing of the stairs to the kitchenette.  Mom was platinum blonde and petite, and had crow's lines.  Dad was massively broad shouldered, golden blonde like his son, but balding.  Unfortunately, Jeremy took after his Mom's build, and could pass as a straw if he were ever to need to invade a hay bale.  Clumsy and skinny were no way to go through life, he told himself.
"Zefobe is, I hope, a quack.  More likely, he's a black magician.  You will not take my son to him.  Especially not for something that is nothing."
And that was that.  Or so Jeremy thought.  Dad had made a Pronouncement.

Breakfast of bacon and eggs and mandarin oranges was enjoyed by all.  Once the Rule had been laid down, the War was over, and Peace declared.  Dad left, tousling his hair, going into Marshall Tech to 'play with toys' as he always told his wife and boy.

As soon as he left, Sharon Fisher snapped viciously at Jeremy.
"Get dressed, now, young man."
He stared at her wide-eyed.
"NOW!!" She shouted.
Terrified at this strange woman, he bolted from the room, and was upstairs changing before he knew what he was doing.  Three minutes later, his mother and he were out the door.
"Mom." He complained from the back seat as she nearly backed her red Corona mini-van out into the Westford's passing truck.  The Westford's lived three doors down from them.
She hit the brakes in their suburban driveway, just short of the brick-sided mailbox tower marked 'Fisher' that was decorated with brass cut-out fishes.  Both Mom and Dad blamed the other for those fishes, but laughed as they did.  That was how Jeremy liked his parents behaving.  Incomprehensible, but nice instead of this strangeness which had infested his life this morning.

Not saying anything, but the mini-van slowed down a bit.  Still, that meant they took turns as screeches, which a mini-van was not designed for.  Soon, they were in Port City's downtown, amongst heavy traffic.  After an hour, she pulled the car aside, and took parking space that just opened up as they came up in front of a two-story brownstoner.
"Lets go, son." His mother said softly.
"Mom...what's...."
"Get out, Jeremy." He did, not liking this new wrinkle in his life.  On the sidewalk, he felt woozy for a second.  She joined him, catching his arm, muttering to herself that 'this was right.'
Going up the wide stairs, to the dark red door that opened before they could reach it revealed a rotund man, dressed in three-piece suit, and over it a white labcoat.
"Sharon Fisher, so delightful." She giggled, and Jeremy looked at her strangely.  The man was solid, not jelly fat, but still obese.  And his eyes were too close together, and his hands had odd tattoos in darkened skin.  He was not horrifying to look upon, but neither was he handsome.  And father could have broken him in two.
"And this is the young patient, Master Jeremy." He tilted his head, focusing his dark eyes on Jeremy.  Jeremy felt his spine try to crawl up out of his back, and into his skull.
God.He thought.
Feeling a bit better, but not liking this, he heard his mother gush over Doctor Zefobe.
Dad's going to be so mad. His eyes widened.  The unthinkable had happened.  His mother gave him a look, a look of both understanding and a plea as they both went into the Persian rug laid entryway.  The rugs were odd under his eyes, causing his head to spin, and he saw his mother, as if she were the only one in the world begging him.
"No." He said, stepping back.  The door fumbled in his hand, somehow already closed.  Shaking his head, he tried again, failing.
"Jeremy?" His mother asked him.
"He's already being affected by the, ah, 'neurological condition'." Dr. Zefobe said, his voice coming from a great distance.
"Jeremy, uh, can you help him, I..." Sharon babbled, speaking both to her son, and to the doctor who stared at Jeremy with a small smile from behind the frantic look of his mother.
"I need your permission to do what I need to do, Sharon Fisher.  Do you give me that permission?"  Sharon turned, and faced him, pulling a weird look, yanking back her blonde hair.  She seemed about to say 'what?' to question this strangeness when a smile appeared on her face.
"Yes." And with that, she fell to her knees, and thumped down on the floor.
"You..." Jeremy wanted to say something rude, wanted to kill this man who had done something to his mother, but he was a very polite young lad, and cursing was not his style.
"Your mother will be fine, Jeremy."  He held out his hand. "Now, come with me."
"No."  Jeremy shrunk back against the door.
The doctor twitched his hand, and ephemeral claws raked at Jeremy's shoulders.
"Boy." And the voice was not totally human. "Your mother has given permission, there is nothing..."
"My father hasn't."
"It matters little, boy.  In ages past, it might.  But your mother as all modern woman rules your house."
Jeremy giggled.  Doctor Zefobe turned red with fury.
"No, she doesn't." Jeremy spoke with simple conviction.
"Women sometimes let the man think..." And the doctor twisted both hands, and nothing happened.
The doctor paused, a look of astonishment on his face.
"Now, I begin to see why the Dread Lord wanted you so much, Jeremy Fisher.  So unusual in this day and age of weak men, and women holding the power that terrifies them."
He leaned in, a smile lightening his face.
"Easily solved, boy." And he kicked Sharon Fisher in the ribs with his wingtipped shoes.
"Stop." Jeremy lurched forward, only to be held by the Doctor's heavy hand, back against the door.
"I am not cruel without purpose boy.  But I will kill her, in front of you."
Jeremy looked up at the Doctor who loomed over him with a perplexed expression.
"Your father's authority protects you against many of my more subtle arts.  All you have to do is reject it. Curse him out, deliberately disobey....its easy.  All the kids do it nowadays."
"And..."
"I won't hurt your mother."
"I..."
Jeremy looked at his mother.  She was unconscious.  Ah, the evil badguy could not torture her to death.  If he did, she would surely awake, and deny any authority over Jeremy to the dark wizard.
But, the dark wizard could certainly kill her with one blow.  Something like Shadow Avenger's Justice Punch, collapse in the temple of a gangster, and kill with a single strike.
"Mo...!!" He began to shriek. And a hand clasped tight across his mouth.  He bit, and Doctor Zefobe grunted in pain, but did not remove the hand.  His mother turned over, and fell back to sleep.  Father had always said she slept like a log.
"One more chance, boy.  You're clever, but not strong enough."
Jeremy glared his response back, and the man struck him hard in the face.  Falling into sleep, knowing he had failed....
You did well.
The voice was warm, strong, concerned.
"I need strength."
Your fight is done, Jeremy.
"Mother."
She will be fine. In ten minutes, the Cord will burst in, and save her.  Despite her defiance, her wedding ring offers substantial protection.  And sacrifices take time to properly set up.
That was perhaps more than Jeremy wanted to know.  It did help to explain why dark wizards didn't just snatch everyone.  Doing it right or wrong, more precisely, properly evil, took time, effort, and skill.  You could not just go out and whack someone, and impress a demon prince.
True.  It's time, Jeremy.
"But Mother and Father need me."
They will have more children, two more.  Like with Job, they will gain back twice what they lost.
A sense of grief struck him, and for a moment he wanted to object to shout 'No', but he figured that angels knew what they were doing.  And so did their King.
There was a long pause.
You have an unusually strong faith.  I've....rarely had this happen before.  I'm instructed to give you a chance to go back.
"I...but..."
Promise me you won't cut your hair.
"Uh, ok."

And Jeremy opened his eyes, seeing Doctor Zefobe dragging his mother by the left ankle down the hallway past a display stand holding mushrooms in skull-shaped pots.  The pots were nicely done, not at all crude, but anyone looking at them without a determined bias to 'see no evil' would find them disturbing.

Jeremy leapt up in the way that young boys have, and stumbled as was his wont.
"Good." Doctor Zefobe looked relieved. "I was afraid I had struck too hard, and killed you."
Jeremy, following his father's advice not to give out information to the Enemy instead of confirming his own death, merely requested.
"Give Mommy back." He was near tears.
"So sorry, child." And the Doctor had on an affect of kindness, but not very far under it was laughter. "The door will hold you with my hex upon it.  I'll come back for you."
Jeremy replied by dashing forward, grabbing his mother's right arm draped over her face, and trying to pull back.  His mother flung back toward the door, taking out his own legs, and dumping Jeremy face down in the rank smell of the carpet.
"Someone's been making Oath's they should not have." And Doctor Zefobe's voice from the end of the entryway hallway sounded icy.  "Now, as an Agent, I may strike directly at you with Baal's Fire."  And a crackling, burning stench flooded the air so that Jeremy looked up to see the tattoos on the dark wizard's hands flowing into each other, and glowing.  But in between them was something of more direct and immediate concern, a ball of blue-white, and off-green flame.

Seeking shelter from fire, and knowing he had no time to rise to his feet, Jeremy threw out his right arm to grab as high as he could on the walnut stand to his right, in order to tip it over.  Despairing, he felt his hand latch onto the lower bit below the bottom shelf.  Still, he yanked, knowing he had no time, knowing he was doomed to death in fire, which he had always heard was really painful.

The unseen bolt thwumped out, and smashed into the unfallen stand, even as mushroom laden skull planters rained down around Jeremy's head.  Smelling wood burning, feeling heat, Jeremy dared to look up.

The stand's far end was on fire, and in his right hand, with no more effort than one might use to hold a piece of paper, he was holding above him a hundred pound walnut stand.  Not wanting the fire, he flung it down the hall.

Zefobe ducked the missile which shattered the door at the far end of the hall.  Bits of fire scattered, and burnt in the far room, and Doctor Zefobe screeched in dismay.

A brooch was yanked from his coat, and it stabbed itself into Zefobe's hand.  Fire bloomed out in a line, plasmas able to eat steel, right at Jeremy.  With his right hand still up high, and useless, he pressed off with his left in a one-handed pushup that tossed him high enough to bounce lightly off the twenty-foot tall ingraved wooden ceiling.

The plasma ate at the rug, and the wood underneath it, and Jeremy fell through the sudden hole into the floor.  Zefobe cackled in relief.  And in the dark room below the floor, something came at Jeremy.  He could not see what it was, but it walked like a man, and had fur all over it as it grabbed Jeremy all about him.  And its teeth bit into Jeremy's head.

Wild with fear, with visions of becoming zombie food, Jeremy leapt up, scraping the thing off on the edge of the still smoldering floor.  Hitting the ceiling hard this time, he burst out of the upper lab, and through its roof.  Wobbling a bit, he came down on the roof as softly as he could.  But his balance as always, was not so good.  So he stumbled toward the front edge of the roof, and hoping, he went over it.

Landing lightly, he gasped for breath.
"MOM!"  He cried out, spun around, and in two steps charged up the brownstoner front steps.  Avoiding the bell, for he was becoming less polite, he yanked the door off the hinges with one snap, despite the purple sparks of something unwholesome which trailed from the door.

His mother lay unconscious, a large goose egg on her head from when Jeremy had yanked her free, and cracked her head on the door.

"Oh, Mom, mommy..." Sobbing, Jeremy lifted her up, tried the fireman's carry, but with her hands and heels hitting the ground, he simply was not tall enough.  So he carried her bent in his arms.  Not seeing his feet, stumbling and falling with her in his arms, he came down hard on the sidewalk, ripping his jeans legs open, scraping his skin.

"Owwwww." He yowled, and gulping, put his mother up on the hood of the car.  Turning about, in a fine fury, he saw the damaged house.  Still it was standing.  Perhaps if both his knees were not dripping blood, and yelling at him, he might not have done it.  But he was so hurt, so tired, so worried.

So he reached out his hands to the solid mass of eight steps that led up to the brownstoner.  And he ripped it from the front of the house, raised it to his chest, and being careful not to fling it into the next street, he lofted it up.  The stone mass of four tons, inscribed with enough dark spells to keep a coven of thirteen busy for a witch's year went through the window on the second floor.  Then the jagged block fell through the house, tearing out its central supports on its way down to the sub-basement where it fell on a cage that held a thing much more unnatural than the summoned Yeti that Jeremy had crushed into the ceiling.

The house swayed, and then it fell in on itself.

"Mom." Jeremy turned, and fell to the ground.  He woke four minutes later to see a rope being taken off his waist.  Looking up, he saw a man with wintry gray eyes, and personal BDU, or as some called it, a super suit, with dozens of ropes partly hidden in small pockets all over his uniform.

"Ah..."
"She's fine, young man.  And you're fine too.  By His stripes we are healed."  Cord held up a cat of nine tails which he had just taken off Jeremy.
He held out a hand to help Jeremy up, and the boy took it.  Which ended with Cord being tossed over the car.  Jeremy got up, slowly, not wanting to jump into orbit, or something.
"Um, sorry." He said across the car, past his astonished and weeping mother to the angry looking Cord.  Suddenly, Cord shook his head.
"I should have known.  Don't touch dead flesh, or grapes, or vinegar, or especially get your hair cut.  And watch out for cheerleaders."  Cord laughed, and threw a rope into the air where it attached to a tall building.  As he swung away, he called out.
"Welcome, Judge."
This message was last edited by the player at 17:49, Mon 12 June 2017.
Tadeusz
player, 9648 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Wed 14 Jun 2017
at 22:13
  • msg #285

Re: Practice Bits: Nail Polish


Jasmine Denver pushed aside the half-open box of cigarettes she had found in the back of the metal desk.  Papers, boxes, a much bewailed action figure from fifteen years ago, and the coffin nails she had given up ten years past come back to mock her.

"Henry." She said, wishing he'd grunt in reply.  He wouldn't.  Last words he's said were 'Check the Eastern Gate', and then he'd closed his eyes in the hospital bed.  His insurance the vultures had taken for the final month of his life in the hospital when he was more out of it, than in.

Still, no bills, adequate health, and the Eleventh Street Diner would have been enough.  Then she had heard from her doc, 'no major exertion.'  It seemed her heart flutters were worse.  She needed long walks on the beach, and even longer sitdowns.  Or she'd be joining her husband in two years or so.  She could not convince herself that was a bad thing, but her grandkids and one great-grandkid, little Suzie, called for her.

So, a tiny house, a few hundred square feet, enough AC to survive Florida beach weather, and a contract to move her house if a hurricane threatened it.  She could ride a granny bike, instead of driving.  Which was no shame.  She was a granny, and driving a giant granny mobile had never appealed to her.

And she'd keep cooking for the grandkids.  Just make it easy on them.  No biggie, just visit Granny, she always has cookies.  She'd gotten hard-nosed truckers to say 'ma'am' and 'thank you' with a smile and good food.  She wagered she could get her grandkids to visit her with good food, and an easy life.

Which left one thing to do.

Jana Clark scrubbed dishes, and kept checking on the latest eater.  When she started, everyone read newspapers, but now, it was a phone.  He looked a bit beaten by life, but still fighting.  She gave him kindness, and called him 'honey' and in its own way, the 11st Diner was just as much a haven as the church down the street.

"Jana!" She heard her boss, the owner's wife, no, now owner, call from the manager's room, a little square next to the walk-in freezer across from the stove which backed onto a wall which led to the grill directly behind her, and from there to the sink with its soapy dishes, and the countertop bar, and the tables, and then the front wall.  Flicking her hands dry, she touched them with the dry towel, and went back.

Poor Jasmine, she knew.  Three months, and she had done her best, but she was still spinning without the Earth to her Moon.  Henry had been an old gent.  Easy-going with the help, and most customers, but steal a waitress' tip, and despite the fact that he had to be at least sixty, he'd personally show a Jolson High football player the door.  He had been a Marine, and that sort of thing left a mark on a man.  And as long as you did your best, he never gave her a hard time.  It shocked Jana that the old man was gone, but Jasmine must be devastated.

So she went in to the office, ready to care, and saw Jasmine struggling not to cry.  So they both cried.  Then Jasmine confessed her illness, and Jana felt fear for the nice, old lady, and anger that such evil would come so much, and feeling ashamed, she wondered where she would get a job.  The 11th St. Diner had a dedicated, and well-trained clientele who knew what they wanted, how they wanted it, and their wants, and the cooks skills and waitresses aptitudes were nicely lined up.  To put it simply, you didn't come to the Diner without expecting sausage drizzled with real maple syrup delivered by a waitress who called you 'honey'.  And then you gave her a decent tip, and no lip.  And your coffee was hot.

"That's why I thought of you."
"Hmm, what?" Jana said, struggling to understand.
"I thought you could buy it." Jasmine looked, if not triumphant, at least a bit like a puppy expecting a pat on the head.
"Uh."
Jasmine went on a bit while Jana kicked her brain into gear.  But even as she did, she head the bell for the front door chime, and then ten seconds later, a thundering crash from up front followed by the moan of a man in pain.
Tadeusz
player, 9659 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Fri 16 Jun 2017
at 21:37
  • msg #286

Re: Practice Bits: A GenX Tale of What Was

A publisher is interested in having some people write 2500-7500 words of non-fiction about the world that was, the Gen X world.  Its not meant to be about the writer.

So...

A GenX Tale of What Was

It was the best of times. No, no, it was not.  It was grim and terrible, and Doom hung out with the Apocalypse down at the pool hall.  America, the greatest nation in the history of the world, was faltering, falling apart, flailing uselessly.  The ragged edges were getting more obvious, and the Forces of Evil were on the march worldwide as the Leftward Ratchet of History slowly crushed the Light from the world.

There were computers, but these were Mainframes which ran on Cobol.  They took a large, artic chilly room with a pop-up and pop apart floor under which ran all the cables.  And they had punch cards.  And you could imagine facial recognition, but for now, someone needed to tell the computer that a sloppy '6' was a six.

There were cars, but lemons were frequent.  Don't buy a car made on Monday or on Friday if you knew how was good advice. And then the oil shock hit, and there were lines which the fathers did not subject their kids too as the kids were at home with mom.  And after that, there were these tiny cars which felt from the inside like they were made of tinfoil backed with cardboard, and painted.

The Rise of Japan had come.  Jobs were fleeing America, and Japan was the Future.  Eventually, Japan falters, but for a long time, it seemed like they would own America.  We'd all be working for short, little, clean men with dark hair and short white sleeve shirts with thin, black ties, and odd notions of how doing jumping jacks in the morning before working on an assembly line was a good idea.

At one point, Americans are asked if they would be okay with 25% growth, if the Japanese got 625% growth.  Americans then as now, were keen on giving themselves a hard time.  And there were always those glad to exalt the Foreign.

Drifting back in time, before Reagan, did we lock our cars?  Sure did.  Radios could be stolen, so could cars.  Theft became harder if you got one of those bright red wheel locks to clamp on your steering wheel.

The Seventies were a dirty, nasty decade. Broken concrete, trash on the streets, and weeds growing in sidewalks with tiny cigarette butts everywhere.  The bad kids would snag a cig butt not totally smoked out, left fallen on the sidewalk, and take a few puffs.  It was a time of too much sunlight, and not enough shade.  There were few wells of joy under shaded trees, and many broad hot stinking parking lots of asphalt under the hot, dull fury of the sun.

We had the Bicentennial. It was a bust. But not horrible so that was something.  The Bicentennial quarter coins were for years after a thing that kids collected.  You might get a handful of coins back, and quickly flick through them to find such a quarter.

Things were bad, and the first president I remember was Ford.  Since things were not copacetic, a word we used at some time, we blamed Ford.  Besides, this new guy Carter was a Christian, evangelical even.  Boy howdy, what a mistake he turned out to be!

Jimmy Carter, peanut farmer, now known for his works with Habitat for Humanity, was possibly the worst president this poor country has suffered through.  He talked of 'malaise' as if the country was suffering from depression.  Fair enough, we were.  Socialism and amorality and globalism cause despair.

He called America a helpless giant. At this point, you might imagine hearing a hundred thousand, no a hundred million American teeth grinding.  This was before the Internet.  The Broadcast News spoke to you, and you listened.  Everyone knew they were biased, and no one could do jack about it.  You just had to take it, right in the teeth, and get up next day, and do it again.

Carter is an interesting question.  He seems to be personally moral, but at the same time, a horrifying president. The question occurs 'was he so because he was just that clueless, or because he was up to something?'  This led me to a book entitled 'The Invisible Government' which was chock full of Rockefellers, and the Trilateral something, and the CFR.  I was twelve, okay?  The  notion that the President of the United States (say that with awe in voice) was Just Not That Smart was rejected by me.

The Oil Shock of 73 followed by the Hostage Crisis underlined this notion of weakness.  No one wanted to say we lost in Vietnam.  No one.  But Vietnam was an open sore the media kept poking at. And Nixon was always available in stories and movies, the idea of scary white men doing nefarious things in secret.  So we continued with our external weaknesses, and internal breakdown.

This was the time of Alabama football dominance under Bear Bryant.  So when a poor Yankee kid comes South, he finds there is this massive evangelical movement he's never heard of.  Wow, so many people supporting Christ!  It was the Crimson Tide.  Considering this young lad had only heard the word 'crimson' in church, and 'tide' went well with flows of Christ's blood like a tide covering our sins, you can see where our young lad felt a slight bit of hope for a while until he figured out the locals worshipped Bryant not Christ with such devotion.

The evangelicals had gone liberal, and so the Independent Fundamentalist Baptist Churches were out beating their podiums into surrender. Every time, no matter how small the congregation, there was an altar call.  They were strongly against government taxing churches as the saying went 'the power to tax is the power to destroy'.  Baptists have always been skeptical of government power.  Perhaps it goes back tp John Calvin dunking them and holding them under water since as he said they liked baptism so much.  Its said Madison was convinced of the Bill of Rights by a Baptist preacher.  Well, IFB, or 'fundamentalists' as the curse word of the day went (like 'fascist', 'nazi', 'mysogynist', etc. etc.) tilted the skepticism over into serious distrust.  The IRS was especially hated.  The thing is, in so many ways, they were right.  They started with the Truth as best they could.

And then comes a plot twist in our story of a Great Nation falling apart due to forces outside its control.  Ronald Reagan is elected President.  Let me repeat that.  Ronald Reagan is elected president.  Its that important.

We were on our way out.

We did not call him 'Ronaldus Magnus' then, but in time since, we learned too.
,
Taxes lowered brought in the pent-up creative power of many geniuses.  And that brought us the Age of the Personal Computer.  First, there was the TRS-80, which was called the Trash 80.
Tadeusz
player, 9660 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Sat 17 Jun 2017
at 02:54
  • msg #287

Re: Practice Bits: President

The guards at the remote corporate campus were on edge.  The clear sky, and the open fields about them reaching up to the snow-covered mountains behind the dozen buildings in ImagerTech's site should have them relaxed. Dr. Alan Thompson noted their edginess with approval; the plan was going well.

Inside, he chatted quickly with Tonya, the front door guardian, and receptionist.  Her son was on track to being valdevictorian, but the school was talking about not having such ranks this year as it was exclusive and 'reactionary'.  She was angry, but worried because there had been anonymized Facebook taunts calling her son a racist, and suggesting he kill himself.  He wanted to tell her they'd fix things, but honestly, he was not sure they could.

Taking the one-way escalator with excellent fields of fire and drop blocks that could lay down eight stone barriers, each ten tons in weight in a quarter-second, remained his most peaceful time. He cleared the guards at the bottom with perfunctory ease since they had the tenth of a mile of slow traffic to scan him as he came down.  Thankfully, ImagerTech had not paid for this.  It had been a leftover of the Cold War, and snatched up for half-penny on the dollar.  It was more secure than Cheyenne Mountain.

Walking into the Silent Room, a bubble free of electronic interference and acoustic sampling by spies due to its Faraday cage, and vibrating plastic double hull bubble around the Table in the center of the room.  The doctor took a chair, and waited.

Jenna, and Cap, and Joe, and Lena, and their Head of Project, Dr. Lamath came in.
"TABLE load." Alan said after a look from Dr. Lamath who sat at the far end of the table, at what was its 'head'.
"Do I have too?"
"Yes."
"Its so cramped.  I get claustrophobia just thinking about the Table."
Cap shook his head, his thin white curls under his Navy Aviation ballcap.  Lena just looked like she was not there, and Jenna gently smirked.
"But we want you with us."
"Now thats a way to go, get a hot babe to schmooze me." The voice said as lights began to ripple in the Table in front of them.
"You don't have a gender.  Nor do you feel claustrophobia." Alan muttered, his face a touch red as he took in Dr. Lamath's skeptical eyes, and Joe's covering his mouth to hide laughter.
"Loaded. Man, it smells in here, who..." Alan cut the audio feed from TABLE.  Joe got up, and closed the curved plastic, double-walled door from the inside which created a small buzz as the whole room began to shake slightly.  It was supposed to be undetectable, but Lena claimed it gave her headaches.  Already, she was massaging the temples next to her long auburn curls.

"Doctor Thompson?" Lamath said, but it was a question, and a command.
"TABLE is operating at 92%.  Its trying to integrate new humor forms into its Human Leadership Model."
"Boy's humor forms, I assume." Jenna said mildly, tilting her head to the side to let her brown hair fall past her shoulders.
"Uh, how..." Alan began, and then stopped.
"Its what I do, Alan." She said sweetly, and he already knew she had gained a point for the later fight.  But it was so kindly done it was hard to be angry at her.

"I think this little episode demonstrates why we can't have TABLE run the bot." Cap said, leaning forward, putting his hands flat on the Table.  Alan grimaced slightly.  He disliked seeing TABLE sneered at, but Cap was right.  TABLE would say something, either bad, or obviously weird.
"I still disagree." Lena said.  "He's demonstrated incredible ability.  If only we cut him loose from the artificial belief system you've imposed on him, I think he can be not only great, but awesome."
Lamath looked down the table at Alan.
"It pains me to agree with Cap."  Lamath studied Alan a bit longer.  Only those two knew that Alan's absolute insistence on a moral code developed from the Bible had kept Alan from being Head of Project.
"TABLE is indeed impressive. Astonishing actually. But I'm going to vote with Cap."  Lena snorted, and Cap nodded to himself.  Lamath gave Alan a small nod.  It was his way of saying 'we do it your way on this issue'.  Alan was grateful, but this was not the true test.  TABLE was incredible, but he could be flummoxed, emotionally overwhelmed, driven into vindictive furies, and he had always a sense of humor that sometimes veered wildly from the human norm.  Which made sense as he, or more precisely  it, was an artificial intelligence.

"So, let's see the nominees." Lamath said, rubbing his hands together.  Lena, to his left, began.  She described two candidates.  Both were bright, but not too bright.  Both had considerable gaming skills in the Virtual Reality games, and a legion of female fans.  This was due to them both being six-pack abs, and touselled hair.

Alan had considered one of them himself, and he was struck by the insight and generosity of the older.  "I like, no love VR.  If it was up to me, I'd just play, and get maintenance exercise to keep my health.  After all, as a VR player, why do I need to be able to bench four hundred pounds?  It does help with my aggression and focus, but its a lot of work as well."  With that, the vid had shown him rippling his muscles.  "Girls watch VR.  They buy stuff in VR.  They want to buy Unicorns from the quester who rescued the Unicorn Herd of Desmotial who in real life looks like he could do that.  So, I can charge fifty to a hundred percent more for my unicorns than RattleTrap, who is actually a better player than me, by a smidge.  But he's also a fourteen year old boy with a body that could fit in a straw.  I've got him set up tho' with some trainers.  In a few years, RattleTrap is going to set VR on fire."

Lena liked the other guy better who had learned to VR in jail.  He had just been released for stealing fast cars.

Cap looked apopletic at the thought of having a jailbird in their Project.  His words were polite, but the tone could have cut steel fiber airframe.

He took out his two candidates.  One was on his way, TABLE thought, and had told Alan earlier, to a Senatorship in time.  Right now, he was a weatherman after serving in the Navy as a ship commander.  He had excellent leadership skills, proven personal bravery, high IQ, and good stage presence.

The others looked impressed.  Alan regretted having to speak up.

"He's wedded to the current system.  He's no doubt going to be a superior leader, but he's conventional."  The point sank the candidate.

Cap showed the other man who was a former All-Star quarterback, and now ran a small computer tech company.  No one said anything about this young man.  Cap looked at Alan with slight aggravation in his controlled face.  Alan said nothing.

Joe popped his neck, and showed a pair of businessmen.  One was older than any of the others suggested, but had started and sold three different companies, and made his first million by the time he was seventeen.  The other was an ice-cold mathematics quant, who had made his first hundred million by the time he was twenty-two.

The others said nothing, uncomfortably.  Joe looked about, increasingly impatient.

"Jenna." Lamath said.  She smiled, patted Joe's arm which relaxed him, and then began her pitch.  "I was assigned by Dr. Lamath to find two candidates for the Insertion Project.  Unfortunately, I only found one." She then went on to describe a female of such undoubted wonders and graces that no doubt angels came down to bathe in her radiance.  Finally, Lamath grunted, and indicated he wanted some facts.

"Dr. Shawna Maybell" was the name on the file, and to look at the resume, she was a very capable person.  She had experience with brain surgery, and with eye surgery, and had finished her classes with a long list of adulatory comments.  And to be blunt, she looked like she might do well in a SI swimsuit issue.

"This is our choice." She said with soft confidence, and then she looked at Lamath for him to make the decision  The doctor grunted, and nodded at Alan.

"Impressive, but Alan has something to tell us as well."
"Oh. I forgot." She put her hand to her mouth in surprise, and Alan grinned to himself.  She was good.  Having Jenna manipulate you was generally pleasant.

"Indeed. I began as all of you did.  Our esteemed head, " Lamath nodded, accepting his due. "Set us to find two candidates.  I found two.  But then I thought to ask TABLE what it thought.  TABLE gave me a totally different answer, one that I frankly would never have even considered.

The candidate I have does have the requisite abilities, but we would never have chosen him."

"Why?" Cap asked.

"Because we're human. We respond to Human leadership signals. Both your choices, Cap, are strong men with short hair, and cool under pressure.  Rather like someone I know."  Alan grinned, and Cap quirked his lips.
Tadeusz
player, 9661 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Sat 17 Jun 2017
at 20:10
  • msg #288

Re: Practice Bits: President 2

"I chose proven leaders." Cap snapped, his eyes firm and cool.
"Yes. You chose Alphas. Top dogs. And good ones.  Joe chose leaders based on what he thinks is most important, versions of himself..."

"Hold on, there. I didn't earn a million by twenty."
"Yes, but how many businesses have you started, including this one.  Feel free to tell us how much your net worth is, Joe." Alan replied.
"I didn't..." Joe began but softly.
"I'm afraid you did, honey." Jenna said with a smile.  "Dr. Lamath is our fair-minded leader.  Dr. Thompson is the genius inventor.  Cap, our guardian.  You are the moving spirit that got this all together.  Without you, we would have just been pieces laying about, not getting anywhere."

Joe tried to protest, but its hard to protest a sincere compliment, and besides he saw no disagreement around the Table.  He was the man who had first started talking up the notion to some big funders, who had gotten Alan and Cap in on the thing.

His eyes cool, Joe nodded.  "Fair enough. But with us being twenty-five trillion dollars in debt, a clever money man, and innovator to generate new wealth might be just what we need."
Alan opened his hands easily, conceding the point.  There was a breath as everyone regrouped.
"The men did as my darlings do, but I chose without...." She paused, and everyone knew what Jenna meant.  "Clear-minded, without that nasty testosterone poisoning."
"Wait a minute, there lady." Lena rallied, seeing Jenna about to sweet roll the men.
"Cap may not like my first choice." And her snide tone implied that it was because of a lack of manliness that Cap, a veteran of decades of Navy Aviation, now retired, did not want a jailbird.  "But my second is wonderfully clever, so kind, so generous." What she did not add was "So scrumptious."
"Sister." Jenna said rebuffing her, and not adding "Support the Sisterhood against the Patriarchy."  Joe looked confused, and Cap was still aggravated at being slighted on his manliness.  Dr. Lamath was imitating a sphyinx.  The two women were still polite, but hands were on their daggers.
Joe tried to explain that generosity in a president, when we were in debt to our eyeballs was bad.  Neither of the women listened, as 'generosity' in this case meant something a bit different.

"Alan, continue....please." Dr. Lamath bestowed a glare on Jenna, and then one on Lena. Being told without words to shut-up, they did.

This made things awkward for Alan.  He needed to disabuse the others of their choices before presenting his, or TABLE's own.  Still, he had it to do.  Even if he failed, he  could only try.

"Lena mentioned RattleTrap."
"I did not." Lena began hotly, and then remembered her own presentation.  Her second choice had mentioned a young kid named RattleTrap who was a smidge better than him.
"You're kidding me..." Was the first comment, and Alan was not sure by who, but others flew at him.  Each of his harsh, but accurate takedowns of the last few minutes added fire to the fuel of disbelief.  He sat, and took it, until finally Dr. Lamath tossed a heavy book on the table.  The room quieted.

Dr. Lamath retrieved the book, and put his copy of Poland by James Michener back in his briefcase.

"Does anyone need a time-out? Perhaps a cookie, and some special time with the school counselor to help them work out their feelings?" His acid voice scarred them, slashed at their exposed egos, and a quick round of 'No sir.' started with Cap and ran around the Table.  Alan did not answer, but that was to underline the point that he had not said anything in the furstorm.

"Dr. Thompson, I admit, I share some of your colleagues incredulity. Please explain."
"Yes, sir. Let me let TABLE do that."
Alan released the audio hold on the AI.

"Finally." It said snidely. "To begin, Dr. Thompson made the same mistake most of you made.  He chose deep-thinking political scientists, who while they were not AI researchers, were considerably in the mold of what he is himself.  Surprisingly, there are a number of them in VR world games.  At least surprising for Humans."
"Explain, TABLE." Dr. Lamath ordered.
"Yes, sir. Humans have a variety of biases and filters which arrange, intercept, modulate, and weight information.  My biases are generally different, more hard-edged, and fewer.  In short, I can see paths that a Human mind never could see because of their blindspots."
"Like the almost AI that won the Pacific Rim Wargame by surrendering a dozen ships which had been infected with a virulent smallpox strain.  The unknowing prisoners spread their disease to their captors.  And the victorious side told the losers that they could not go back to port lest they spread the disease among their own populations.  Meanwhile, the side led by the almost AI had his ships run away for a week from the vengeful enemy, until enough of the enemy died that the AI was able to terminate the thoroughly weakened hunters."

"Indeed, Cap. Exactly so."
"That was a monstrous mess." Cap growled, his teeth clenched.  "It would be a war crime."
"End result was approx. 4,000 Good Guy sailors 'dead', and the loss of fifteen ships to the loss of 138,000 Bad Guy sailors 'dead', and the loss of 237 ships at the end of the wargame.  Near flawless victory." TABLE replied with equanimity.
Cap just ground his teeth.

"OK, TABLE, you've made your point that we don't think along the same lines." Dr. Lamath said.

"RattleTrap aka Daniel Wilson, age 17, is the ideal choice for Project Insertion.  Like all candidates, he is gifted in the playing of Virtual Reality games.  But for him, 'gifted' is far too faint praise.  He is stellar."

"Wait a minute, AI." Lena interrupted. "My guy said Daniel was only a smidge better, and I think that was just being nice to the kid."
"Incorrect, miss.  Your liking for the Alpha characteristics, and the physicality of Devin Morgan, has overshadowed your game judgment.  Even then, at the time of the interview, Daniel was consistently better than Devin.  Devin, as a true competitor does not like to admit a superior, but the same competitive spirit forces him to be honest. He compromised by understating the difference.  Back then, three years, and four months, and ten days ago, Daniel was three 'smidges' better.  Now, there is no comparison."

Lena huffed, her eyes shiny.

"Then why haven't...."
"Joe. As you are personally familiar with, Lady Luck or Fortuna always plays a role.  He had a wise and sympathetic mentor in Devin, but the suits that Devin reported to forced the breakup of the relationship.  And he had his parents both die in a car crash.  He is in a foster home that I can describe accurately as 'definitely better than being chopped up in an abortion mill'."

Alan winced. That was TABLE's sense of humor coming out.

Joe nodded, to Alan's surprise.
"Fair enough. I've seen more than one brilliant plan flop, and a year later, the exact same plan by someone else made the man a multi-millionaire."

"Alan." Jenna spoke softly as if too tell sorrowful news. "The boy is obviously gifted, but he's socially maladroit.  She flipped through files put up by TABLE.  "He's had one friend, in all his life, other than Devin. Currently, he's without friends.  According to his foster mother, he doesn't play with the other kids."
"Please review the police files of the other 'children', Jenna." TABLE replied.  Jenna did, and her eyebrows kept going up, and up, until her professional face kicked in.
"Poor boy."
"What?" Cap grunted.
"Four different races.  Two half-brothers who are convicted arsonists.  A girl with addiction problems and three suicide attempts.  A boy arrested for ....eviscerating a squirrel.  Suspected gang influence.  Its a walking, talking nightmare."
A sober air hung over the Table.  All of them were well aware of many children in nightmares.  And worse, Child Protective Services tended to be, if anything, worse.  The contest between a grumpy, drug addicted single mother and an uncaring bureaucrat had been won by the 'crat in the Inhumanity Awards.  They knew this, even if it was not generally known to the public.

"Dr. Thompson..." Lamath began.
"Sir, blame me." TABLE interjected. "But I would like to finish."

Lamath paused, and then leaned back, Skepticism Mode in full display.  So did everyone else show their disdain.  Lena crossed her arms, Joe gave him a flinty look, and Cap just shook his head as he watched what seemed to be a major flame-out.

"When given free choice, he picks the side most closely oriented with Law and Justice 83% of the time in his gaming.  And he does plenty of other games than the rather expensive VR games, so we have ample samples of his behavior."
"He's trying to be good. That's nice, but he sounds broken."
"He is, to a degree, Dr. Lamath.  As Jenna said, he is socially maladroit, and it was thought, although not stated by all of you that a certain amount of 'schmooze' was essential.  It is not."  TABLE waited a second, but no reply came other than raised eyebrows.  This was not good, Alan knew.  They were setting into their molds.
"Go to last page." He said softly.  TABLE paused, letting Alan know that it did not want to do this.  But it obeyed.
A page of data appeared on the Table in front of each of them.  With the whole top of the Table being a computer screen, this was easily done.
"He has maxed out scores in cynicism." Jenna noted.
"Understandable." Cap added.
"Highly optimistic?" Lena looked. "This has to be wrong."
"Standard tests.  Jenna can readminister them as she knows all these tests." TABLE replied.
"I do recognize these tests, but I've never seen such an odd assortment of hope and complete gloom.  His anarchic and institutionalist patterns are near perfect matches.  Surprising, but then his creativity scores are out the roof."
"What do you mean, Jenna?" Joe asked.
"This line.  His perception of reality and creative response to situations yields ...a literally unmeasurable amount."
"He breaks your test, you mean." Cap asked.
"Yes." Jenna replied, engrossed in the data.
"What is he?" Lena asked, fascinated despite herself.

"He is a Human archetype.  The Cold-Eyed Outsider, the Barbarian Who Never Lies, the Gunslinger weary of war who comes to bring peace to the town which will never appreciate him." TABLE replied.
"Shane?" Cap asked.
"No. Something older, more desperate, more savage."

The portentous words echoed in their minds, and then Jenna nodded.
"I see why you like him, TABLE.  In ways, he is like you.  Not quite Human."  And Jenna smiled as she slid in her dagger.  Before, Alan had said they chose betters or variants of themselves.  Now she said that TABLE did likewise.
"An interesting thought, Jenna." TABLE replied, but Alan could detect a frenzy of self-examination, of eternal doubts coming round to torment one.
"Trust." He whispered.  And TABLE heard.  He might not trust himself, but Alan had taught him there was always One to be trusted.  With that as a rock, TABLE spun down from his incipient navel-gazing attack.

"What I am saying is that Dr. Thompson is right.  There has been a lot of choosing from mirrors going on for the Project.  But my candidate is not at all like me, except she is a woman."  She looked around, mustering support, and Alan winced inside.  This might savage a friendship, even hopes of romance.
"And that's why you chose her.  The others chose leaders.  You chose for an ideology."  Alan said, and a heart-breaking look of betrayal flashed out from Jenna's face unfiltered for just a half-second.  Lena's cruel look of pleasure at seeing another female humbled brought more pain.
"Alan, please."
"Feminism. A woman can do anything a man can do."
"But she can." Lena said incredulously.
"Incorrect." TABLE spoke.
"Well, maybe not carry heavy loads, but really." Lena continued the fight as Jenna stared masklike at the far wall.
"More useful than you admit, Lena.  Would you like to know, by my skill tests, what is the gender of the first 197 best VR game players in the world?"
Alan looked up in surprise.  TABLE was being cruel.
"You're going to tell me its Male.  When I know for a fact that Argus Mag has seven women in its top twenty."
"All of them, but two are of 'highly superior attractiveness to the opposite gender'.  How likely is that?"
Lena paused.
"You're saying the games magazines are rigged."
"Correct. A female with three-fourths the skill of a male is generally regarded as equal to a male.  A female of highly superior attractiveness needs only be 32% as good as a male to be considered his superior in skill.  There is no rank of 'equal' to male in skill for highly superior attractiveness.  Its either inferior or superior.  What that says about your species, I am not sure yet."

"But..."
"Cap, what happens when a fighter pilot with equal skills, but 1% superior reflex speed goes up against another fighter."
"Victory for the first, at least 80% of the time." Cap said flatly.  He did not look happy, but resigned.

"Let's get it over with." Jenna said, sounding broken.
No one said anything for a long minute while Dr. Lamath pondered.
"All right, Alan, we will take your broken weirdo.  God help us all if you're wrong."
"Yes, sir."
And the meeting was adjourned, and everyone left.  Alan tried to catch Jenna, but she was already gone from the office by the time he got to her office.  He had won, but at what cost?  And was he even right?  Sighing, Alan left the underground, waved listlessly to Tonya, and left.
Tadeusz
player, 9669 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Tue 20 Jun 2017
at 04:45
  • msg #289

Re: Practice Bits: Thief 13

The leap took him past the edge of the waterfall.  He was trying to lessen the transition shock as his hands clasped on the vine, just above the knot that held the huge trunk pendulum.  His hands tore anyways, sending screeching signals up his nerves, as his stomach tried to get in a word edgewise about feeling itself left behind.  In amazement, he saw his right foot, bare, but covered with thick calouses, brush the outer twigs of a hundred foot tall tree.

And then he fell back, his stomach groaning in protest, not able to breathe as the pendulum swung in reverse.  Trying to scream, he flailed his legs about to climb on board, just reaching it in time to look up in horror as he hit the bottom point of the swing.  Ahead, the dark forest of black, winter trees waited ominously, and his arrival on the plumb bob of the pendulum had given the heavy mass a ponderous swing.

Some of the trunks on the sides were too tight to the edges.  He would be snapped off in an instant he knew if he smacked into a trunk.  And he screamed down into them.

KRAAAAXK.

-15% Damage.
Whiplash Debuff.

And he was near throwing up, and going back.

BOOM.

Another hit of the plumb bob, a smaller one, and it yanked him about again, increasing his Whiplash Debuff by another 5%.

He soared back over the frozen river, over the waterfall's edge, and saw that the Talking Wolf's health bar was in the deep yellow.  That was unfair, he moaned to himself.  The creature had fallen fifty feet onto ice, after being hit with this collossal tree trunk he was now riding.  The only good thing was that the wolf was beneath the ice, and probably losing hit points by the second.

And as he came down, he knew he might not survive the next ride through the woods.  So he guessed as well as he could, and let himself fall free.  Flipping in the air, he angled as well as he could toward the open hole in the ice.  It was a do or die maneuver, and he realized he had waited too long.

He was going to hit the waterfall about thirty feet down from its top, and twenty feet above the lower ice.  And from then, he would fall, and break the rest of the bones in his body.  At which point, the Speaking Wolf would get out, shake itself dry, and go find some Otters to massacre in its great rage.  If he had not come here, desiring to be a hero, desiring to save them, it would have been better.  Then the wolf would have been content to take them one at a time.  But no, he remembered as he fell, the Otter People were being hunted to extinction.

And with that, he drew his legs up a bit, held them loose and waited as he fell like a long pop-up baseball hit.  His legs snapped against the icicles descending from the waterfall's edge, knocking many loose.  And he thrust back, and flipped again, this time diving hands held out.

He flew, and pierced the middle of the hole.  His breath was gone in an instant at the shock of the water.  Ice, Ice, baby, he told himself in whimsical madness even as he struggled to turn about before he hit the bottom of the waterfall's pool.  But he was good, and the pool was deep.  He turned about, and came back up.

The wolf was above him, and he had no air.  The wolf was putting its head up to get air.  The wolf's health line was in the middle of the red.  He did not want to know where his health line was.

Acting without thought except for the will to go on, he swam up behind the Talking Wolf, and pushed his head and chest out of the water on the wolf's back.  Gasping for air, he pushed it down.  It floundered, and came back up with a surge.  Locking his own legs outward, under the edges of the hole in the ice, he forced it down, not looking, still taking in great gulps of air.

It came up, snapping at his face, with a bite that would have taken off half his skull, but it missed.  And it went down again.  But this time, it dove and came around.  Coming back to himself, Bill threw himself out of the water.  The wolf came up, and Bill took one of the large chunks of ice that had been broken and tossed up on the ice of the waterfall pool.  And this he drove down on the Speaking Wolf's head.

And thus it died.

And even as various in-game messages rained down on him, he fell back on the ice, weeping.  Too cold, too worn, too broken to even rise.  But the Otters came to him, and buried him in their warm fur, and huddled around him in a great mound.  And they spoke to him, and told him not to give up.  And after a bit, he listened.  And after a bit, he was able to rise like an ancient.  Aided by the Otter People, he slowly climbed up the path alongside the waterfall until his brain remembered.

It was then that the Debuff Massive Mental and Physical Trauma went away.  And he went up more smoothly then into the Otter People's dome, and slept for a whole day.
Tadeusz
player, 9693 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Fri 30 Jun 2017
at 02:47
  • msg #290

Re: Practice Bits: Thief 14

Bill's automatic disconnect kicked in, and blearily he woke to see a concerned looking Henry on his cellphone.  Picking it up took a few tries.

"Y-yes."
"I'm sending over medical care. Don't fall asleep."
"W-w-what? W-why not?" Bill yawned.  He was so tired. That fight with the Talking Wolf had taken more out of him than he realized.  Just a bit of more sleep in the Otter People's Dome Room, and he'd be much better.
"Bill. Bill." Henry barked.
"What now? I'm doing your job."
"Yes, yes you are. Very well indeed. We're all impressed.  Well, all of us in the Counter-Espionage Committee."
"Oh, do you call it that because that seems...." Bill frowned.  He was dazed.  This was not right.  He was in his own room, not in the Otter People's Dome Room.  And that, oh yeah, that was not real.
"We call it the Soft Drinks Committee.  Ostensibly we're there to make sure all picnics and company functions have enough cola and flavored water."
"What's happening to me?"
Henry looked relieved.
"Good. You're coming out of it.  You spent too long under, way too long.  Its easy to get lost if you stay too long."
"But you should have safeguards." Bill began indignantly, and Henry nodded.
"We do, but your unorthodox entry method revealed a bug in the code.  The code kept reclassifying you, and never ran the line of code that would have kicked you out."
Sirens sounded down the street, and Bill and Henry shared a relieved smile.  He really was cold, and dehydrated, and just generally felt crummy.
"When you do go back in, if you still want to, you need to move west to the next zone.  Its harder, but Shondak has heard of you, and is sending rangers out your way to hunt you down."
"Harder?" Bill croaked.
"Can you do it?" Henry asked softly.
"I don't know." Bill replied as the front door bell rang.

The End (for now?).  Thanks for joining Bill in the Realm and the snow.
Tadeusz
player, 9697 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Sat 1 Jul 2017
at 04:53
  • msg #291

Re: Practice Bits: Superheroic

Mike Land blinked grimy eyes, rolled out of bed, and grabbed alarm clock, knocking aside his keychain, the school debit card, and his ring.  A quick shower later, and he suddenly remembered the boxy, dark metal, layered ring.  He did not have a ring.
 the
Finishing with soap still behind his ears, he darted out of the bathroom on the upstairs causing his mom to jump back.  Her arms were full of a laundry basket heading to his bedroom.  He snagged the whole thing, kissed her cheek in zippy apology, and was on to his door before he heard her sputtering.  Once safely inside, he went with jeans and a dark blue t-shirt to go with his dark hair.
"Ring." He said looking at the nightstand next to his full-sized bed, still unmade.  It was not there.  Keychain, alarm clock, card on lanyard were all there, but no sullenly dark ring.
"I must be losing my mind." He ran his hand through his wet hair, settled for combing it, and got dressed the rest of the way.  Breakfast was rushed as his mom and dad both had to work to afford the new house near Port City.  Toast and jam and orange juice left him full for now, although he knew he'd be hungry in an hour.
Leaving, locking the door, he took out his father's hand-sketched map.

Down Alison and cross Mayton, and he came to the boardwalk.  Jogging along the gray boards, the sea to his right, he headed north a mile.  Stopping at the Charles Conveniences store to catch his breath, he then took a quick dart across the now four lanes of traffic to the accompaniment of horns.  Heading away from the ocean up Hazel Way, he came to Oceanshore High.

It was old, built before the sudden influx of Newbies, like his parents who had been forced to come to the City for jobs.  Back in Appleton, he had friends, hangouts, favorite trees, a shady park with century old hickories and oaks, and hills filled with game to hunt or photo.  Here was just a bland, too bright sky, and concrete.

But the high school at least had some character.  Someone with a love of balanced squares had built the place.  It had two wings of four story cubes, and a central joint of half the size of either wing that went up half again as tall.  At least it was not the modern school design which could have passed for a prison to the unknowing being built as hard to escape, and hard to damage.

He walked in, and found the principal's office.  The wide-bottomed secretary took a glance at him, and the papers he held in his right hand, and announced to the room at large.
"Another Newbie." With a sigh, she flicked her head to give directions, and he went down to sit among five others, all with similar packets.  Suddenly he realized that his presence here might not be just an annoyance to himself, but to the long-term residents.

He was processed in, which took until almost lunch.  In that time, he heard two different accents of his native tongue that were incomprehensible.  Not enjoying this, but figuring it was better than regular school, he did as he was bid, and moved where he was told to move, and signed enough papers to give him a wristache.

In English, he interrupted a lecture by a peeved instructor by joining the class halfway thru.  The room was already packed, and he was watched the whole time by a silent teacher, Mr. Randall, until he got one of the two seats left.  Nobody introduced him.  The teacher went on to talk at great length of Beowulf as a fictional tale of a man vs. a goblin.  Mike felt a need to jump up, and correct him, but he kept his mouth shut.  One pointed stare seemed to convince him of the wisdom of this as the teacher saw his enthusiasm.

Later, at lunch, all the seats were full, except one table that was empty.  He asked if there was a problem sitting there, and except for small smiles on the nearby kids no one said 'boo'.  So he sat.  Two minutes later, a horde of lettermen, the local football team started piling down on the table.

Realizing his mistake, he tried to rise only to bounce back from a passing footballer who snapped, 'watch it.'  And sitting there, with a bunch of guys, all larger than him, and some very cute girls, he felt his stomach rumble.

A wadded up napkin landed on his applesauce.
"Get lost, kid." He looked up, and a hard-lined face stared directly at him.  "Our table."  He was about too when a relaxed voice from the middle of the group spoke up.
"Let him stay. At least until Drew shows."  Mike glanced over, and saw a guy with a commanding way, and an easy smile nod to him.  It was the first sign of friendliness he'd seen, and he fumbled the smile back.
"K, QB." The first shrugged in fealty to his leader, and dug in to a plate stacked with food.  Figuring that whoever Drew was, he'd be along quick, Mike followed his example, and ate with determined speed.  Nobody paid him any further attention, and he realized that his friends back home had been wrong.  The football players were not going to murderize him.  To them, he was too small to bother with.  And listening to the one they called QB, he realized he saw someone genuinely nice.  Unfortunately, he already had more friends than a man could need with many coming up to him to say 'hi'.

Leaving the table, he made his way to the line for disposal.  And there he was tripped for the first time.
Tadeusz
player, 9698 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Tue 4 Jul 2017
at 03:02
  • msg #292

Re: Practice Bits: Pax Patriarch

If Alan Cowpers were not himself, this tale would not be.  He was tall and gawky.  His eyes were a twinkly deep blue, and his limbs were often akimbo.  Hair stood black and at ends, and he was kind, and brave, and unsure.  He also had thirty seconds to live.

Leandra was cute, and knew it.  When the guy with the great eyes looked over at her from across the glass counter, she knew he fancied her.  When he blushed and looked down, and stumbled back behind TechHome Center's cash register, she grinned  to herself in her head.

He was too uncool to go on a date, but she could tease him.  Putting her most innocent smile on her full lips, she blinked at him.  Biting lips to hold in her laughter, she watched as he crossed his feet, and toppled back.  A flailing, long, too skinny arm caught a cardboard box.  Yanked off its counter, and another on the opposite wall by the other hand started an avalanche.

Leandra was not worried when she saw the boxes pile on him.  Guys were tough.  That was why it was okay for her to stamp on their feet with her high heels.  It was not like it actually hurt them.

A flash of light from the pile, and a stink of fire scared her.  She leaned over the glass counter, and screamed. There was no body.  Even afterwards the firemen had finished watering the remains of the store, she insisted that there had been another young lad in their.  The manager agreed with her, but no one found any body, much less bones.

In time, it was just one more of those unexplainable things mentioned in books by conspiracy theorists and students of the odd and scientifically anomalous.  But it did change Leandra.  Before, she would have gotten married at twenty-five, divorced at twenty-seven, married at twenty-eight, and divorced at forty to live with her cats.  Now she got married at twenty-one, and stayed, realizing that Life was scary and serious.  She had seventeen grandchildren by the time she was eighty.

But Alan has more lives, many thousands more lives to change.

Brother Chestnut walked slowly, his long white robe swishing about his ankles, his bare feet comfortable on the granite stones of the walkway to the Garden of the Coming One.  The stars of the Milky Way looked up at him, and he wondered for a moment where Earth was now.  A quick look toward Fomalhaut on his left, near the horizon, and toward Vega on his right, and forty degrees between them.  There was Sol, Earthhome, fifty lights away, and still gleaming.  He could, with sandbox and stick do the math to find out what year and what season for the Southern and Northern Hemispheres of Earth it was, but not in his head, not like Brother Brocoli.

If he wanted to pass the Annuals, he had to spend more time studying, and less time brewing.  But for now, he needed to be calm, and for that he turned to the Garden and prayer.  Passing under the woven rose arch on the eastern side, facing Aristotle Mount, he smiled as the woodbirds chirped to greet him.  A minute later he was running, trying not to scream, as he bolted for the Cavernium.

His heavy thudding frame took him down one path, cross two more, and up the Great Stairs at a full run.  Not breathing hard, but sounding like the coming of a herd of beefalo, he came to a halt at the doors of the Great Cave.

They were fourteen and eighteen feet tall, and well-carved with scenes from the Bible, and of rockets following the Great Migration.  After a thousand years, the deep-cut bas relief of the doors had crumbled in places, but young initiates were at their weekly task of repairing them to exacting standards.  It was thought to give the youth a most important task to impress serious devotion upon them.

Brother Chestnut thundered to a stop in front of Brother Almond.

"Sir, he has come." To his credit, he only panted a little despite the more than two mile sprint.
"Who has come, Chestnut.  The Emperor's Man?  It was supposed to be another week...." Brother Almond also had a white robe, and bare feet, but his robe had a gold fringe, and his hair was no longer gold, but white.
"No, sir, him..." And Brother Chestnut pointed to a central picture in the midst of the door.  It was not from the Great Migration or the Bible, but from the Visions.  A young man, with odd hair, and too thin arms, laying in the Garden of the Coming One.
"You...you...now?" Brother Almond had never been seen to almost stutter, and the last was almost a wail.
"Yes, Brother, I saw with my own eyes." Brother Chestnut said, his face growing pale and his manner still as panic fled, and he began to absorb the immensity of the news.
"Uh, then we must go at once." Brother Almond spoke. "Fetch....no one, fetch no one.  Novices, with great care, take out this panel and these dozen attending panels. Store them in my office. Hear?"
A half-dozen youthful faces stared in shock as the raised voice of their teaching master came to them.
"Now, sir?" Asked one of them.
"Yes, Tomato, now would be good."
The lads bowed, and set to work carefully even as Almond had Chestnut lead the way back to the Garden.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:11, Tue 04 July 2017.
Tadeusz
player, 9720 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Tue 11 Jul 2017
at 21:28
  • msg #293

Re: Practice Bits: President 3

Daniel Wilson would not have called himself 'immeasurably creative'.  In fact, he would have laughed at the assessment.  He thought he just looked at the world at an odd angle, and with truth.

Pasting the last of a five broken up wasp nests to the sleeping bag's underside, he checked on the door.  The chair under the handle would not keep out the brothers, or Snake.  Last week, he had gotten tired of being punched hard enough to leave bruises when in VR, so he had blocked the door.  The brothers had soaked his door with gasoline and set it on fire to impress Tonya, the theatrical 'I'm gonna kill myself for real this time' crazy easy.

"Mom" as the crazed drug user downstairs insisted all her "kids" call her had told him it was his fault that the brothers nearly burnt the house down.

A trapdoor in the ceiling, well camouflaged, let drop a pulley rope.  The rope took the sleeping bag up to the attic.  Odd roof creaks, and rope sighs made suspicious noises, and what the others in the house overlooking hell as Daniel thought of it lacked in intelligence they made up for in low cunning.

So, knowing that it would infuriate them, he cranked up his music.  Specifically 'Amazing Grace'.  It was a good song, but not Daniel's favorite, but he chose it for its effect on Snake.  Screams, shouts, and shrieks rose from  Snake's room in the basement, or as they all called it, The Pit.  Any Christian music set off Snake, but this one drove him around the bend.  Daniel, a struggling Christian himself, was more than half convinced that Snake was demon possessed.  There was something wrong in a hair-standing on edge way with him that wasn't that way with the other residents.  Even 'Mom' treated Snake with caution.

The music and the shrieks and the accompanying chorus of complaint covered the sound of him jumping on his bed, and leaping to hoist himself into the attic.  A quick yank of a slipknot on the leg of the chair blocking the door, and the door was open.  Just as Tonya cussing came in to turn off his blaring radio, he put the trapdoor back down.

Climbing on his impromptu hammock, he used a multi-set of pulleys to lift himself to the roof line of the attic.  Once there, he resembled a very large wasp nest, or so he hoped.  Adding to the verisimilitude was an actual wasp nest right near his foot.

Now safe, he breathed out, and took the VR headset from his pants' pockets.  The World of Southern Knights awaited him.  It was a world of justice, and chivalry, and beautiful scenes.  In it, he was the Knight of the Seven Hands, each hand symbolizing five knights he had bested in honorable combat.  His castle stood on the shore above a misty sea, that used to be called the Pirate Sea, and was increasingly known as Seven Sea.

The connection took him away from his stinking, hot reality to another place where goodness was not a broken dream.

"Connection halted. Management message.  Y/N?"
Tadeusz
player, 9764 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Wed 19 Jul 2017
at 23:08
  • msg #294

Re: Practice Bits: Ruler

Tyler Cooper drooped over the thrift store desk, and the out of date laptop running a video explaining solid geometry.  His public school education had focused more on avoiding gangbangers and offense seeking crybullies than on math.  Now his community college expected actual learning to occur, and it was a bit of a shock to the system.  Struggling to identify which axiom went with what problem, he got up, and crossed his tiny apartment to the kitchenette.  There, a microwave and caffeinated tea and a mug 'World's greatest son', a gift from his parents, yielded a brew that promised alertness.

It failed.  Tyler had yet to absorb the love of math that he might have gained in time.  A sudden head and shoulder drop, and the mug tipped, and hot liquid splashed across the keyboard.  There had been rumors about this model.  Strange stories in the urban myth realm, but no evidence.  However, it had been enough to encourage chip designers to go in a different direction.

Tyler lurched back up, groaning in dismay.  Granted it had been cheap, used, but still it hurt the pocketbook and the soul.  Inside, water trickled down to the motherboard even as Tyler tilted the keyboard on its side.  He ran, fumbling for a dry towel, and came back just in time.  Inside one chip, a strange substance, yellowish liquid, called by the designers of Chimp Chip Inc. 'scriff', which was an acronym for something now forgotten, was touched by water.  Nearby electricity ran over the bridge like little munchkins running for candy.  The scriff became energized.  And it sought out the nearest large, complex electrical system.

No one in this universe knew it could do this.  And if they had, they would not have understood why for at least another thousand years of scientific advancement.  But a bullet does not need to be understood to work.  Some urban myths are true.

A superconducting substance now, the scriff sucked in all available nearby electricity and leapt to the man's central nervous system. It took the bolt of lightning with it, and Tyler fried in a microsecond.  If anyone had been there, they would have seen a bright flash of light, and Tyler was no longer there.  The laptop fell back on the desk, smoking, and the mug slipped over the edge to shatter on the floor.  A strong tang of ozone hung in the air.

Now, ordinarily when one is disintegrated, one dies.  Shortly thereafter, one is led into the Court of the Most High, either ecstatically happy, or trembling with pure horror.  We are patterns that receive and transmit, and support and I/O devices.  A brain to receive the information of the spirit, and to transmit back to that same spirit.  A body to support the brain, and eyes and touch and all the other physical senses to receive information from the material world.  The output is of course voice and hands and the like.

This spirit is attached to the pattern in the physical world.  When Tyler was ripped apart, atom by atom, electron by electron, and even quark by quark, for that is what happened he still had the pattern.  The scriff attached to each piece of him, in that pattern, fled to its natural state, which is between universes.  There a great pool of scriff in which all the various universes of the Multiverse 'float' for lack of a better word, exists.

Now, matter or energy, which really are the same thing, are not native to this realm.  Scriff is also not of spirit, but a substance of non-matter.  So the matter sought to be in where it was supposed to be, not of volition, but the same way a rock rolls down a hill.  Tyler was yanked into another universe.

And here a peculiarity of scriff took place.  Energized scriff holds patterns.  Some speculate this enables the sea of scriff to hold the universes together.  Tyler was put back together, precisely as he had been, except now he was a bit different in some respects which we will get to later.

Laying on stone in a darkened room, he twitched and moaned as his brain rebooted.  He had never not been, never died, but he had certainly come close enough to see the Grim Reaper's mailbox.  A few minutes passed while things sorted themselves out, and he jerked.

Opening one eye a tiny crack, he saw nothing.  His eyes flared wide open, but the darkness held.  Breathing rapidly, he quickly patted himself over finding by touch that all his parts were still attached, and that his clothing of jeans and a terry cloth shirt was still there.  Indeed, even his white socks were on his feet, but he had no boots as those had been in the bedroom under the bed.

With an odd feeling, he wondered if he had left something off to the right, and behind him.  Having nothing better to do, he rolled to his knees, only thinking to check that he would not crack his skull until it was too late.

Shaking his head, he made his way, as if drawn on hands and knees across a rough and cool to the touch stone floor.  Finding seams, it was obvious to him that this was manmade, and not a cave, which cheered him.  Now, he only needed to find a lightswitch.

And then he bumped into something mobile, and soft, but a little rough.  Feeling over it perplexed, he eventually decided it felt like his boot.  Taking a risk, he took it up in his hand, and smelled it.  Definitely his shoe, he decided.  Feeling about more, but with a growing surety, he found the other boot.

They were tan suede, and ran just above the ankle.  Not really work boots, but tougher than the ordinary shoe, he enjoyed the ankle support, and the good traction.  The fact that they pushed his height to just above six feet was nice as well.  He put them on with familiar ease.

Following that same odd sense that manifested best when he did not strain after it, he found a comb, his collection of foreign coins from the eighth grade, a solar calculator, a basketball, and his Swiss army knife.  But still he had not found a wall, and his knees were getting sore, and his arms trembled a bit from the considerable crawling.

He might break something, but he figured that whoever held him here kidnapped should not have dropped him off so tough luck for them.  With this thought, he took up the basketball, and lofted it.  It bounced once, on the ground, and then another time, higher up, which probably meant a wall.  Nothing sounded broken, and he crawled toward the noise of it as it rebounded off the wall more slowly.

This time, he threw it to his right, and in a second, he had his rebound.  So, there was a wall on the right, he deduced.  Waiting for it to come back, he tried forward, which got him a bounce and then a bounce on a wall.  Hitting the last of the four cardinal points, he threw it.  It bounced thrice before hitting a wall, and coming back to him.

Keeping his direction finding ball, he slowly stepped to his feet.  In the black, his eyes wanted to create light, but that was only hallucinatory blocks of light his vision cast up.  Taking a careful step forward, one hand up in front of his face, he made his way to the front wall.

Hitting nothing on the way, he felt his way down the wall to the right, and quickly came to a corner.  No door this way, he decided.  He considered going on the new wall, the right wall, but decided to retrace his steps.  Touching the wall with one hand, while holding the ball under his arm was not easy, but he needed to keep a hand up in case anything pointy was waiting in the dark for him to stab himself in the eye with it.  Twice he dropped his left arm from shielding his face, and took a short break.

Sweat gathered on his neck even if it was cool in here.  Still, he came to the far corner of the front wall, and found no door.  A slippery fear insinuated itself into his heart.  What if there were no doors?  But that was ridiculous.  He prayed, and dismissed the notion.  Making his way along the left wall was slower as his pace flagged.  And to his disappointment, still no door was under his right hand.

Feeling a bit more desperate, he went along the back wall.  Halfway down, he took a break to rest his left arm.  Bringing it down, he felt a sharp, slicing pain in the palm of his hand.

"Ow." He snarled, and yanked the hand back, checking for blood.  It had plentiful, flowing freely.  Tyler might have taken a stop there, just to rest his weary heart.  Or he might have waited to check out whatever was in front of him, or beside him as it were.  But then a line of light glowed at waist height.  He looked at it closely, and realized that it revealed a naked sword blade resting on some sort of stand on a be-rugged table.

Now, as to why it glowed, he had no idea, but the virtue of a sword being useful against his kidnappers who probably outnumbered him, and had guns appealed.  It might not be enough, but it was surely better than his fists and feet.  So he took up the sword by the hilt.

And light rose in the room, from the sword.  Wondering how that trick was accomplished, he examined the blade.  It was three feet long, straight single edged with a curved point, and a basket hilt.  The  hilt was gold-washed, and had some engraved designs, but in the still dimness, he could not see them clearly enough to decipher.

The room itself was fifty feet from him to the front wall, and thirty feet from side to  side with a ceiling fifteen feet high.  It was tiled with rough granite blocks, and smoother granite tiles pieced more tightly together.  Supposing that the rough flooring was for traction, he studied the thirteen different emblems, five feet high, all worked into the granite wall tiles.  They were heraldic, being eagles, and lions, a parakeet, and he thought flames, and a gold harp with others.  But the best thing about the room was that fifteen feet ahead, and two feet to the left was a wooden door with an iron latch.

Relieved that the blood had stopped flowing, and the pain was gone, he walked up to the door, and was about to open it when caution struck him hard.  He pressed his ear to the door, and tried to eavesdrop through it.  But it was good sound oak, and all he could hear was an occasional thump like of a hammer striking wood.

Resolving to be cautious, he opened the door with his weak hand, and stepped out.  The bright light, natural sunlight, blinded him, but he felt rejoicing his heart and praised God for it.  Words moved past him.

"It is time and past time I say..."
"You wish to cut the throat of any who disagree..."

He blinked, and gradually a high vaulted room with great windows ninety feet high came into view.  It was longer than it was wide, and built of great stones like in a cathedral.  To his left was a stage of raised stones, two steps above the floor.  In front of him, perhaps fifty men in an open box shape with their boldly dressed leaders in tabards and surcoats, all with the heraldic symbols he had seen in the room, in full display.

Behind the ten or so leaders were their associates, swordsmen, and ladies in tall hats, and a few had older men with keen eyes with them.  All of  the fifty were dressed in heavy clothing, bright, and the men had scabbards but no swords.

But on one side of the box, standing by himself on the stage was an old man with white, bushy hair, curling, and a full beard, and an ebony staff which he banged on the stone floor of the great room.

"My lords will not insult each other."  His disapproving tone seemed to faze none although the previous speaker, a dark-haired, and well-oiled looking man in a navy blue tabard decorated with Viking like ships in four places only smiled gently as he made an apology.

"Of course, I did not mean to say Lord Alastair is a throat-cutting brigand like....some of his relatives. My apologies." The blatant insincerity of the apology came through loud and clear to Tyler.  A fair-haired man with a green tabard, and some black device on his tabard only scowled in response.

Tyler saw a door to his immediate left, and considered taking it.  But the movement of his blade caught a bit of the sunlight coming through the taller than wide, but twenty foot wide windows.  And on the far side a woman gasped loudly.  Everyone looked at her, and then looked at who she was pointing at with one hand over her mouth in shock.

This was of course Tyler who right then was considering making a break for it.
The closest man on his right, clad in pale yellow with flame devices snapped his fingers, and four men leapt from behind him, drawing axes.

"Put the weapon down, boy." The golden-haired man said with a cool steel in his voice.  Seeing four axemen coming at him in a slow walk, working smoothly together, Tyler gulped.  And then bending down, he put the sword on the stones in front of him.

"You can take it." He said quietly to the golden-haired man whose face twitched in frustration.  He nodded thanks to Tyler, and told his men to stand fast.  They stopped, and held their axes across their chests while waiting for whatever came next.  The words in the stillness of the room with its excellent acoustics carried to everyone.

"No, by my right hand, no!" Bellowed a ponderously fat man in crimson far around the corner to the right, his presence hid by the other leaders between him and Tyler.  An electric charge had run through the crowd, and all were tensely waiting.

"He is not taking it, Lord Crimson." The white haired man at the head, the obvious moderator spoke in conciliatory tones.

"But then who is to take it?"  Said a man in light blue with dirty blonde hair, thin and short, who stood on the farthest angle of the box of men from Tyler.  He only had one soldier behind him as well, and no one else.  The man smiled crookedly, and gave Tyler a wink.

"Well, that is what we are heard to decide, my good lord of the Westwards.  It is the matter of this meeting, and in such a time as this, I think calm and good sense are precious things..." A man on the far side, dressed in gray with a golden trumpet on  his tabard spoke.  Everything about him spoke of restrained wealth, including the eleven soldiers and servants behind him who all nodded in agreement with the wise words of their leader.  By the sneers on the faces of most else, only they found this profound.

"No, I mean, isn't it already decided?" The man in light blue spoke as if surprised.  "After all, Lord Gold, chief of the armies, did not reach to take what was offered."

"Preposterous."
"That is not how..."
"Islander, shut your conniving, little..."
"I see your point, Lord of the Westwards." Lord Gold said from near Tyler.  His voice was deep and steady, and no one spoke up to tell him to be quiet.  And his reply quieted the room.  None spoke for a good thirty seconds.

"I think perhaps a private conversation with the lords is in order." Said a heavyset man in black with his hair buzzed, but still showing gray.  Nods were exchanged, along with a few open hands held in front of themselves, and the moderator slammed his ebony staff down.

Everyone but the lords began to file out.  Tyler still stood there until the moderator waved at him to follow.  Feeling timid, and under the eyes of everyone, he did so by climbing up on the stage.  Here he passed some thrones and other chairs, and went out a wooden door in the back wall.  Once there, he walked down a richly carpeted hall, with large tapestries hanging on either side until they came to a door past other doors.  This door was at the end, and was carved with crossed staves in intricate design.

Following the moderator inside, he found a table, a fireplace with a small fire, and many chairs along with more rugs and more tapestries.  A servant came in, and brought them some hot cider in metal cups.  Then another servant, a maid came in with two more candelabras that were lit.  The room went from dim to decently illuminated.

The moderator sighed, put his staff to lean against the wall, and sat down wearily in a chair.  Tyler did not take another one.

"What in the name of all the gods were you doing, boy?"

Tyler stared at him a bit, and then decided that he needed to take charge of the conversation.  He chose a chair, and took up the hot cider whose smell made his stomach rumble just a bit.  Sitting down, he took a sip, and almost coughed.  It was definitely 'hard' cider.

"My name is Tyler Cooper.  Who are you?"
The moderator bent his head, and stared for a few seconds, and then nodded.
"Very well. I am the Grand Herald Otis."  And he took  his own cup up, and sipped it easily.
"Um, Otis, where are we?"
"Currently in my office, and its Herald, or Master, young sir.  Now, tell me what you think you were doing?  I don't know how you got in.  Do you have on you one of the ancient Devices of Power, a tarnkappe, or something?"  The word meant nothing to Tyler, but Devices of Power, well, the sword had glowed.
"You mean like the sword?" Tyler guessed.
"Yes, like the King's Sword." Otis snapped.  Tyler flinched.
"You did not know, did you?" Otis asked more calmly, almost gently.  Tyler just stared bewildered back.
"Tell me, young sir, did you blood the sword?"
"It cut me." And Tyler held up his left hand to show the wound in his palm.  All that was visible was a line of white scar tissue.  Tyler leapt from the chair on seeing it, shaking all over.  Otis just waited until the boy calmed himself.
"Not familiar with the Tales either.  The King's Sword has many properties, among them it can heal any wound it deals."  Otis leaned back further in his chair lost in more thought.  At last he shook his head and sighed.

"Nothing for it." He raised his voice, and called for bourbon.  "Comes from Lord Green's land.  Look, young sir, or, well, anyways, its like this...." Otis breathed deep, and waited as the servant came in with a small cup of bourbon in a silver cup.  Otis took it all, and threw it back, and gave the cup back to the servant who raised an eyebrow, but then left with silence.

Tyler was jumpy at all this.

"Master Tyler, the King dies, and well, whoever, and I mean whoever bloods the sword next, they are king."  Otis spoke his face pale and serious, his eyes were piercing and dark now.
"So...I'm a king.  They uh, oh, they were trying to decide who gets the sword."  Tyler opened his mouth remembering all the proud, tough men in the room.  Each one of them had wanted what he had held.  It may be true that he who has the gold makes the rules, but its also true that he who has the gold has a thousand enemies.

"Not quite. They were trying to decide the order of attempt.  For the King's Sword does not cut just anyone when it is unclaimed.  Centuries ago, a servant fell, and cut his hand on the blade right after his King's death.  He was king. So, they keep careful, careful watch on it, not trusting each other.

Once the King died two days ago, I, with three other Witnesses took it to the Room of the Ruler, and stowed it there.  The door is unlocked from the outside by a key I carry, and it is guarded at all times when there is not a convention of Lords to guard it."

"It seems some lord might just decide to sprint for the door, and ..."

"Its been tried. Thrice.  One was killed before he could reach the door.  Another breached the door, but the sword would not accept him.  He died soon thereafter.  A third became King."

Tyler leaned back.  The thought of being a king was grand.  It would give him a job of importance, wealth, and an opportunity to do good.  But then, considering everything, he might not last that long.  He decided to keep his own counsel on how he arrived.  If he hinted at secret abilities, he might scare his opponents.  It was like playing poker, which Tyler was not bad at, even if all he played for was nickels.

"So I'm king."

"Well....kind of." Otis frowned. "You see they, well, they none of them want you to be king.  Neither do any of the other powers in the land.  Its..."

"They could just kill me, and be done with it."

"Yes. No doubt that possibility is being discussed right now."  Goose bumps ran up Tyler's back at the thought that men just fifty yards from him right now were discussing whether to stab a few swords in his chest.  It would allow them to go back to their wrangling and intimidating each other, and make one of them King.  He'd also be dead, which Tyler thought was bad.

"I could run."

Otis got up, and walked over to one especially large tapestry.  On it he pointed out the western part of a large continent.  He then jabbed at a castle on it.

"Three weeks in any direction unless you want to go northeast and visit cannibals."

That made running a bad idea, but it might be the best he could find.

"I could put the sword up."
"Not while you're alive."
"No, I figured. I mean, I'd renounce being King, but I'd keep the sword.  They could choose by another method."
Otis nodded.
"Clever.  But they would assume you were secretly backing one of them, and that would lead to civil war, and eventually you'd be dead as well.  Along with a lot of others."
"They hate each other that much?"
"Long memories. Dirty tricks.  Lord Gold keeps them in place as the Lord of the, well, now your armies.  Remove the King, and even Lord Gold's brutality won't keep it together."

Tyler thought back. Lord Gold had not seemed 'brutal', but professional.  And then he thought he understood.  Gold would do what he deemed necessary.  In order to defeat the Communists, America had to threaten to nuke cities.

Tyler leaned forward, and began to pray.  But even before he began, he knew what he had to do.  "On death ground, fight." as Sun Tzu had told students of war for millennia.  A surety known to samurai took hold of him, and as he prayed so did a flickering flame light inside his soul.  He looked up, and Otis jerked back a few inches.

"Follow me." Tyler got up.
"Wait, what..."
"NOW." Tyler barked, and opened the door, not looking back.  He needed the man, but the fellow seemed a little lacking in fire.  And with shoulders crawling a bit, he walked on, and heard the door closing.  With relief, he heard the door open behind him, and kept walking despite sputters of protest behind him.

Entering the great room, he saw the ten gathered in the midst.  Only Lord Gold was armed, at least visibly, Tyler thought with amusement.  A sudden burst of insight assured him that all of them must have at least one or two daggers hidden away.  Not stopping, even as they eyed him, and as his legs threatened to lock up and pitch him face down, he went down the stairs.

"Stop."  The words came from a half-dozen throats.  Ignoring them, his back itching, hoping that a flung dagger would not grow there, he went to the King's Sword.  Running feet took away his time, and he took it, and spun about to slap his sword against Lord Gold's.

The slimmer man and the heavier warrior glared at each other for a few seconds.

"You raise your sword against your King, Gold?"  Tyler said in his most arrogant possible voice.  He had a wide variety of choices from television villains to use.
Gold's eyes narrowed, and Tyler braced himself for a sudden attack.  And then Gold stepped back, disengaging.

The others, now scattered in a line from where they began, and going up to him, now stared back.  Tyler noted that Green and Light Blue both had not moved from their original position.  Neither had Brown or Silver he saw.

"I am your King."  Defiance blazed in many eyes, while others looked blank.  More than one had a hand behind their tabard front, clutching for daggers.  This was not enough, Tyler realized.

He walked through them, forcing them to give way, with naked steel preceeding him.  This left his back exposed which covered that back in cold sweat.  Coming to the center of the room, he looked at Light Blue who gave him the slightest of shakes of the head.  Thoughtfully, remembering the wink, he turned to his left to face the fair-haired man in green.  Now this close, he saw a shape unidentifield all in black as his heraldic device.

"Kneel, Green."
Green's eyes stared furiously back, and his hand clearly clutched a dagger, and his other hand was behind his back.  Tyler found himself at an impasse, and then realized what he must do.

"Kneel or die."
"Not in the temple of Lord Pogre and Lady Qual. You must not shed blood." Otis shouted from behind him.  Wanting to curse the old man, Tyler stepped back, and faced them who were all near him.  The moment was gone.

Crimson spat, and Orange stepped up, and put his hand on Gold's sword which was back in its hilt.  Gold began to turn, but Tyler and most others saw the dagger that Crimson poked into Gold's side.  Orange looked at him, a stringy haired man with a furious eye, only one, and smiled.

"You die now, boy." He laughed.
"Not in the temple..." But none listened.
"Draw and die, Orange." Tyler said, again mimicking the television stars, this time a cold-blooded hero.  And then he took up the stance of an overhead attack with his right hand leading.

Orange paused,  looking confused. Tyler crooked his fingers in a come on gesture.  Standing there, like that, felt good and right.  And so Tyler waited, and while he waited, he prayed.  And as he prayed, his face grew to be at peace, and the tension in his form eased.  And as he eased, his form perfected until a kendomaster would have been impressed.

"Hah,heh. Just joking."
"Kneel then, Orange." Tyler said from a quiet place inside himself.  Orange looked to object, and Tyler realized that he would have to kill the man right now.  Suddenly, seeing this resolve, Orange went down on both knees.

Tyler turned to Gold, paused, and then kept turning to Crimson.

"Give Lord Gold your dagger, Crimson." A grunt from Gold reinforced this order, and it was done.  Tyler nodded, and unhappily the ponderous man got down to one knee.  Then Tyler turned back to Gold.  That kneel  was done, and soon all had kneeled.

Tyler wondered what to do, and then gave thanks.  He remembered knighting, and now he understood it better.  What more obvious way to show your allegiance to someone than to publically permit them to put naked steel next to your throat.

"Green." He turned, and tapped the man on his shoulder with the sword.  "You may keep your lands.  Be quicker to obey."

"Light Blue." He nodded, and tapped him, and winked at him all at the same time.  Looking suffused with laughter, the man bowed back.

"Black."
"Brown."
"Silver. All of you may keep your lands."

Then he turned to Gray, and Blue and did likewise.

"Orange. Hmm. Brave but stupid.  You will give me ten percent of your wealth." A gulp was heard by all. "In taxes, this  year." And the room subsided.

"Crimson, you not only helped Orange, for which you will also suffer likewise, but you turned on your brother.  For this, you will also pay him ten percent."  Rage clotted the fat man's face, but he nodded, and spoke no word.

"Gold, you're the only one to actually cross swords with me.  Do you wish to do so again?"
Gold swallowed and looked up into Tyler's eyes.
"No, sire."
"That's all then?"
"Yes, sire. You can dismiss me if you like, sire."
"Hmm. You can keep your lands, and your job as lord of my armies."  And King Tyler tapped him on the shoulder as well.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:50, Thu 20 July 2017.
Tadeusz
player, 9774 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Thu 27 Jul 2017
at 18:52
  • msg #295

Re: Practice Bits:

Thomas grunted as he ate the machine made burger as an aggressive Roomba chased his feet around the table.  He had hardly been here five minutes, and the single manager of the McD's in the lockbox was already trying to chase him off.  Finishing up, he went to the trash, and found it full.  Shrugging because everyone did it, he dropped the food wrapper for the Roomba to clean up.

At the orderface, he repeatedly hit the button for manager.  Finally, the fellow  (it was almost always a guy because few girls wanted to sit in a bulletproof box by themselves for ten hours.)
"Yes?"
"I"d like to apply for a job..."
"No englishe..." The manager quickly forgot what American he knew.
So, Thomas tried in Spanish, and Mandarin.  No luck with either, and he put it on a nearby table.  The Roomba zipped up, a vacuum arm snapped out, and took the one sheeter into its guts to be digested.  Thomas doubled his fist, and growled at the orderface, but it was designed to resist crowbars.  His fists would do nothing.

Outside the tiny shoppe, he saw his Segway being chased around the parking lot by a couple beginner thieves in the fourteen year old range.  He whistled, and the Seg came to him in a whir.  Stepping on it, he was even taller, and a cold stare met a feral consideration as the young Thai? Viet? leader of the duo flipped out a balisong knife, and played it smoothly back and forth, opening and closing it.  Thomas buzzed off, keeping an eye on them because the little vultures might not be smart enough to box in an evading Segway, but they would jump a man the second his back was turned.  Kidneys sold for fifty new dollars.
Tadeusz
player, 9804 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Fri 18 Aug 2017
at 18:52
  • msg #296

Re: Practice Bits: Try Again


Gasping for breath, Jeff Houston rolled up onto the beach, his chains clanking as water dribbled off him and the rusty metal links.  Pure, sweet relief took him over, and he lay there with a silly grin for nearly a minute just enjoying the polluted air running off Dancrow River, and drying his wet face.  The light of a lamppost from a parking lot on a bluff above the river came down to him, making a good-sized pool of light in the deep dark of a moonless night.

Coming down from the natural high, and his sense of gratitude fully in place, he murmured a 'thanks' as he sat up.  It was not easy, and a year ago he could not have managed it.  In that year, he had learned the limits of his body both the hard way, and by lifting iron.

The chains hung about him, not tight, but difficult to get loose of, especially with the ends of them buried in the freshly solidified concrete block around his socked feet.  Working his denim jacketed right arm around, he squirmed free of one chain, which only left three more to go.  One more, and it elicited a gasp as he scraped it over his ribs.

A padding noise brought his head up, and for a second fear took him again.  But then he saw a chocolate Labrador, sans collar, come plodding up to him on the beach in sight of Kenslow Bridge across the river, and in sight of downtown Karak City also across the river.  The dog looked curious, but then came forward, and gave a good lick across Jeff's face.

"Good boy.  Don't suppose you have a sledgehammer do you?"
The dog whuffed his scent, and shook its head.
"Yeah, I smell like the river muck.  I know pooch."  Cheered by the companionship, he continued to work free while the dog sat back and studied his efforts with interest.  Finally free of the chains, he raised his legs up, as if he were doing leg presses for five hundred pounds, and then thumped the mass down.  The wet sand in the dark night took away force and sound.

Frowning, he tried to pick away at it, and nothing going.  It was not susceptible to being brute damage or being picked apart.  Looking about he saw a few large stones, and one fragment of a regular concrete block.  Not wishing to drag himself over to it, he spoke to the dog.

"Don't suppose you could get me that rock thing, there?"
The dog gave him a skeptical look, and Jeff was just about to laugh, when the dog got up, and walked over, and picked up the heavy piece by its mouth.  Astonished, Jeff saw it lift the chunk of block over to him, with several pauses.

"Good dog.  Good dog."  Jeff showered praise and hugs on the lab while the dog wagged its tail stiffly.  Then he took the rock, and with three good whacks broke his feet's imprisonment.  A bit more of handwork, yanking the last bits of concrete confinement, and he stood.  He was in his socks, black jeans, black t-shirt with 'Jesus is Alive' on it, blue denim jacket, and enough river muck to fill a couple laundry bottles.  His dark hair was all akimbo, and stiff with stuff from the river, nasty stuff no doubt.

The dog gave a little bark, and Jeff bent down to him.
"You're such a good dog. You must have had an owner."  And he felt for a collar even though he had not seen one, but nothing.  "Maybe a homeless guy?"  The dog turned its head aside.  "Perhaps a kid lost you...?"  And the dog kept turned aside.  And then a chill ran through him.  "Your owner got brought down to the river for a final swim."  And the dog looked back at him.

It might seem ridiculous, but Jeff had seen a lot of very strange things in the last year.  He had even heard of a skinny kid who supposedly had tossed a multi-ton brick porch up to the second story of a house.  Stuff that could not be explained by hysterical strength, or hypnosis, or hallucinatory drugs was becoming more common.  Most people rejected such as urban legends, but Jeff had his own reasons for not being so close-minded.

"Well, then come with me....Rover....no...Boxer....no...." And as he walked, and the dog padded alongside him in the wet beach as they headed toward the steps that led up to the Kenslow Bridge, he tried out other names.  None seemed to be well-liked by the dog until he hit on 'Pirate'.  At this, Pirate leapt up, licked his face, and then settled back down.  Still, it seemed to walk with a bit of swagger now.  Climbing the half-dozen set of concrete steps from the riverside to the bridgehead dried him the rest of the way out.

Sighing at the top, he cracked his neck, worked his shoulders, and turned to face the disused bridge.  It was known as 'Suicide Bridge' in the single failing newspaper.  The local blogs, and the alt-paper called it 'Murderer's High'.

"Let's just say a conveniently large number of witnesses to crimes, and enemies of the local mayor decide in a fit of sadness to throw themselves from this bridge late at night." He said sotto voce to Pirate.  He growled softly, showing all his teeth.

"WARRE it is, then."  Jeff said softly in reply, and began walking into the dimness of the unlit bridge.  Pirate followed him, stiff-legged, and hair bristling in the dark.

Soon they heard scuffles, and then a clunk.

"Look pal, I don't like this any more than you do.  But I got a girl to get back to.  And its a busy night.  Three punks to dispose of, and...."  The bored, nasal voice came out of the dark ahead of them to be answered by a near hysterical man's voice.

"You're killing me.  You can't hate this more than I do."

"Guy's got a point, Sam." A deep bass voice also replied.
"Shut it, Tom, when I want your opinion, it will be never."
"Just saying..."
"Look you guys seem like.....normal guys..." The blatant lie had choked in the terrified victim's voice.  "Maybe we can work something out."
"You told that blogger twerp that an even dozen of the mayor's friends were doing two jobs for a 100k each, and not showing up except to collect their paychecks.  That's over two million dollars sweet, sweet graft.  What did you think was going to happen?  Mayor Lonagan was going to pin a Good Citizen Medal to your chest?"
"I'd like a Good Citizen Medal."
"Just shut up, Sam!" The nasal voiced one exploded.

"Please." The victim begged.
"Stop crying. It makes me feel bad."
"Look, guy.  I can hit you in the head. Lights out.  Or we can toss you over the side?" The deep voiced one spoke.

It was a good moment as Jeff had come up to his pair of cowboy boots.  It was a thing the local thugs did.  They took off the victim's shoes and left them on the bridge.  There had been ghost stories of shoes running off to find the wife of some poor victim.

Slipping them on, he spoke to the thugs not yet aware of his close approach.

"How about neither."  He retrieved a flare from inside his boot, while motioning Pirate to move left, to flank.  The flare went down, and all could see, although the thug's eyes were half-blinded by the unexpected flash of light.  Jeff had his eyes shut for this moment.

Two dark-coated men on each side of a skinny, pot-bellied man with fear inscribed on his face, a pair of wingtips standing near the bridge railing, and hardening concrete around his socked feet.  There were no chains.  Evidently they had considered Jeff more of a problem.

He waited.

They looked at him, both having retrieved nine mm pistols from beltbands.

"You are...." The threat halted.
"Its him." The big man interrupted, pure terror etched across his face.  Things were going according to plan.
"But we killed him." And Nasal Voice's tone jumped up to sophrano.  And then both jerked out their guns toward him like protective talismans and blazed away.

No, he wanted to scream.  You're supposed to...

And he died.

Now, just like all the rest of us, when Jeff died, he did not cease to exist.  The part of his soul that was not his body separated, and there was Rahiel with a pained expression on his noble face.  Leaning on a flaming sword, his wings spreading and fluttering, the death angel stared with a now, very dry expression on his face.

"You think you can go five minutes without dying?"
"You're here, I thought I'd have a few minutes before..."
"Ever since you got tossed into the river, you've died, um, yeah, nine times, so I got tired of flying for Heaven and then getting ordered to turn around and await you."
Jeff tuned out the angelic complaining.
"My plan should have worked.  They should have ran screaming into the night.  After all, they killed me, I turn up..."
"You're not Batman." Rahiel said.
"What?" Jeff looked up.
"Denim jacket?  Who is afraid of anyone in a denim jacket?  Even if you're an undead revenant determined to exact justice..."
"I'm not."
"They don't know that."
"So I gotta be more scary."
"Yep. And four minutes have passed, so unless you want to give up the coin of Lazarus?"
Jeff shook his head.
And air crashed into his lungs.  Nothing hurt. A second before he had been dead, his body shredded by eight bullets, three of them instantly fatal.  Now all the bullets were gone, and his body totally uninjured.  The only sign of the damage was his ripped clothes.  He did not heal, well any faster than another human being.  What he did was ressurrect.

He heard the two of them finishing up their discussion of 'how could he be alive?' as they dragged a despairing man who could only weep to the edge.  Joe rolled to his feet, and this time decided to pass on terror, and go for steel.  Inside the rather thicker than normal sides of his cowboy boots were a number of interesting items, including two stillettos.

He came toward them, stabbing the big man in the kidney's or thereabouts twice.  He used both knives because he wanted to be sure he did not miss.  The man crumpelled in such amazing agony that he could not even scream.  This gave Jeff time to reach down, yank the blades out, and turn to see Nasal Voice tipping the victim over the edge with a manic look in his face.

Jeff leapt forward to grab the victim, and he got to him in time.  And then he felt cold steel on his skull.

"I don't know who you are, but I expect a bullet to the skull will kill you."

Jeff chuckled hollowly.  He would survive.  He had survived having his head crushed in a carcrusher.  But if he died, the man in his arms would flop over the edge, or be tossed there.

"What's funny...?"  And a growl was heard from behind them.  Jeff turned still holding to the victim, who also clasped to him with desperate strength.  So did Nasal Voice, and with dismay, Jeff saw Pirate running toward Nasal Voice in full fury.

"Dumb dog."  Jeff caught the man's leg with a kick, but it only made one of the three bullets spat out by the gun miss.  The other two went through the chest, and kept going.  And then Pirate leapt on Nasal Voice and ripped out his throat.

Helping the victim to his feet, as the blood from Nasal Voice pooled at their feet, Jeff stared incredulously at the unwounded Pirate.  And Pirate stared back at him with a proud look.

"Good dog." He said, and so did another voice just down the bridge.  A man was standing there, shadow and all, but he was standing in front of an open door free-standing in the bridge way from which spilled light and joy, the sounds of pure laughter and contentment.

"Come here, Pirate. Time to leave." The man said.  Pirate wagged his tail, and walked forward, bent down to pick up a collar with a bronze tag on it that lay on the bridge near where Jeff's boots had been.  Next to it were a pair of tennis shoes.

"No, Pirate.  There are no collars in Heaven."  Pirate looked, and turned back, and walked up to Jeff, and nosed his hand until Jeff held out his right hand.  Then the dog put the collar with the word 'Pirate' on the tag in Jeff's hand.

"Good dog." Jeff said, and so did the other man in a quieter, awed voice.  And then Pirate ran to his master, and they both went into the door which promptly vanished.

"I think I'm going to take my Baptist friend up on his asking me to church." The former victim spoke, shock echoing in his words.
"Good idea. The death angel comes for us all."
Even you. Jeff heard the echoing voice of Rahiel heard only by him he suspected as he bent to start to chisel the other man loose.

The End.
Tadeusz
player, 9814 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Fri 25 Aug 2017
at 00:51
  • msg #297

Re: Practice Bits: Superhero Litrpg

My name is Donald Stone, and I just got the mail for my mother.  She flipped through it, and tossed me back a fat envelope from Supercity Ltd.  My mouth went dry, and I opened it with trembling fingers telling myself that at best I had got a five dollar off coupon for the next showing of a Team Stellar movie.  I unfolded the thick stack of papers, good paper, I noted.

"Dear Mr. Stone, it gives us great pleasure..."

Blink. Reread that.

".....great pleasure to ...."

The words entered my eyes, and somehow fished around in my brain, not settling down anywhere, not making any kind of sense.

Seeing me panting, and as she later told me, red in the face, and starkly wide-eyed, with my dark browns solid black, my mother reached up, took the papers and read them aloud.

"Dear Mr. Stone, that's you, D. It gives us great pleasure to accept you to the In-School Program for Supercity.  Welcome Hero."  She paused, and smiled.  "I knew you could do it."

My whoop of joy and release
Tadeusz
player, 9817 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Mon 28 Aug 2017
at 00:37
  • msg #298

Re: Practice Bits: Gang of Gordon

Gordon Hayes shook as he climbed out the fourth story window above the brick-sided alley.  Worn, sneaker clad right foot went up, stood on a nut screwed into the brick above his apartment window by some long forgotten Icon City telephone worker, and here he hesitated.  This was the scariest moment.  Right now, he could go back, and no one would say a word.  But Mrs. Colson, Mr. Handley, and Mrs. Dennings would lose half their Social security paychecks to the Domingos as toll for their walk through the streets.

It could be worse he knew.  Three blocks over, where El Muerte ruled, the Haitian gang had necktied an old hippie for holding out on them.  By those standards, of putting a tired filled with gasoline around someone's neck, and lighting it, the Domingo street gang were positive saints. He wished for someone to come help them.   The kid with the strength to toss cars, or the Man Who Could Not Die, even the Left Hand he would accept. God, why must we suffer?

Without more procrastination, he put his left foot on the concrete rim above his window.  Reaching for a non-powered wire, one not sufficient to hold his full weight of a hundred-eighty pounds, he feared, he pushed his leg straight.  Up he went, wobbled, and stood.  Now that he was committed, more or less, he went up two more stories to a sixth floor, climbed in to a balcony, and went straight up to the seventh floor.

Shaking, he pulled himself from the last hook, and tipped himself over the edge of the roof.  Laying there, panting for breath from exertion and ecstasy.  He should be afraid, terrified.  But he had again done something that not one in a thousand men could do.  It had taken his full gifts of body and mind, and he had met the challenge.  It felt great.  In his job, in his friends, he was always uncertain, but here, he was...

"Something special." A shadow fell on him, and true terror gripped his guts.  He well knew what the Domingoes would do to  him if they found out he had been taking checks to old folk in his apartment building.  They might torture him.  Or they might respect his nerve, but in the end, they'd kill him.

"Fear not, Gordon Alan Hayes. You are not betrayed to your enemies."  The formal intonation, and the odd sense of forceful intelligence searching for words in a language not familiar to the speaker caused him to look up.  A man with golden blonde hair, cut short, with eyes so green that...

He fell into those eyes, seeing galaxies and stars whirl past him.

A sharp sting across his face, and the man, if that is what he was, retracted his hand.

"You see well for a Child of Adam.  But such secrets are not for you." The man stood still again, but now his eyes were closed.  He stood at the very edge of the alley, and without fear.

"You think such as I, who have stood at the edge of an event horizon, and looked down into a black hole, fear such a paltry drop? I am Amsatlin, and I bring you a message from the court of the Most High."

Not wanting to continue at such a disadvantage, Gordon scrambled to his feet, nearly falling, but righting himself before Amsatlin's hand reached him.  Now he was taller than the angel that faced him, and yet he felt shorter.

"Um, what is the message?" Gordon rubbed his face, nervous.
"Your prayer is answered in the affirmative." And the angel turned aside, and wings were there as if they had always been, white, snowy, and beautiful.  And now the angel seemed much taller.
"Wait?" Gordon hollered.
The angel turned to him, looking a trifle annoyed, and just closing his eyes at the last second.
"What prayer?"
"'God, why must we suffer?'  It was deemed an implicit request for help by the supervising angel."
"But I thought God answered each prayer." Gordon was surprised that this was the first thing that came to his mouth.  But he felt a deep betrayal.  He needed to know God listened.
"He does." And the angel's face turned soft and kind.  "Weep not, son of Adam.  He answers through us, and by Himself, and through others, and with your own heart, and all at once.  He is so much more than you or I can understand, but He has directly decided in this matter as well, as letting us have our part. Your craving for His love does you credit, Gordon."
Now, Gordon was just confused, but then relieved as well.  He was not alone.

"Well, um, what's the answer?"
The angel now sighed.
"You are. The Lord says to you, go forth and make war upon your enemies."
And the angel was gone, leaving Gordon alone on the rooftop as the sun set over Icon City.  And he began to realize that praying could be a hazardous thing indeed, and fear leapt out of the growing darkness with outstretched claws, and he fell gasping to the rooftop.  He could not do this.  No, he was a law-abiding man.

Who breaks into the roof of the Post Office and steals from them the checks of the elders. The voice in his head was calm, mildly amused.  He thrashed.
"But, they need it."
The Voice, for he now realized it did not seem to be him, said nothing, but he felt that the Voice agreed with him.  He was not being rebuked for his theft.
Do not the people need a hero?
"I...I..." Just the mere thought of law-breaking hurt more because it meant standing up to bullies, and to principals and teachers that did not care.  And concern flowed through him, and bound his wounds as he remembered the little pschyopaths who had terrified his days, and the uncaring teachers.
Many of them were not uncaring. The Voice said, and he remembered again.  Not as a kid, not with a kid's perspective, but with a man's understanding of what a kid saw, but did not understand.  He saw the smirk, the secret gleam of approval, the sadistic need that so many of his teachers had held.  And with a cold fury possessing him, he resaw his childhood.  And the chains of false duty that others had sought to force on him fell away.

He stood, his fists clenched, and the things in the shadows, immaterial but vicious, quailed before the resolution in his gaze, and the remorseless fury.  Once they had been great, and wise, and would have gone directly by the High Roads to the Lord of the Infernal Wastes, but now, they could not even scurry for they had forgotten so much, had fallen so far that they did not even remember the road to Hell.  But they skittered back and forth among each other, trying to build up their courage to do something until a cat saw them floating just above the roadway who had once leapt from star to star.  The feline spat and hissed, and the shadows forgot what they had been doing, and fled before the wrath of Patches.  The cat then sat, and licked its paw, well-pleased with himself.

Gordon went his way to the back edge of the rooftop, leapt the ten feet to the next.  Went on to the next in a series of parkour moves, done partially to disguise his efforts as a game, and dove off the next roof which was four feet wide, and ten feet down.  Coming up in a smooth roll, he ran at a full-out sprint, and cleared the fifteen foot jump at the far side.  Once there, he was on easy ground, and he walked over a dozen roofs until he reached the local post office station.

The roof door was easily finagled, and he dropped lightly into the darkened station.  Once there, he went and checked in the carry cartons, big, white, light boxes for the checks.  None were there.  Putting his flashlight down, he paused.  They had to be in here.  So he tried again, and found nothing.  By that, he meant he found other checks, but none of the ones he was supposed to deliver.

Panicking a bit, he swirled around the back room, checked the side office, and went back out into the main lobby.  Something sat on a side counter, where one might place a heavy box before handing it over to the post office worker.  Leaping, he came over to it, and saw three envelopes just sitting there.  He reached for them with joy, but then paused.

A quick check with his flashlight revealed that the one on top was addressed to Mr. James Handley.  Someone had realized what he was doing, and had left them out here for him.  He smiled.  Or, someone had figured out his rather predictable pattern of behavior, and left them out so that once he picked them up he would be guilty of a postal crime, which was federal.  And right now, someone was looking at him through a miniaturized camera with a wifi signal to a van full of eager FBI agents eating donuts.

He frowned, his hand moving toward the stack of envelopes placed invitingly mid-center on the low counter, and then back away, and then forward again in a cycle like a bicycle pedal revolving with its gear.  What to do?  What to do?  He looked about for a camera, but while there was enough light to walk, there was not enough light to find some of the tiny cameras.  Gordon well knew this having played with electronics and robots for many years.

Pray.The idea occurred to him, he thought, and it seemed good, so he did.  Then he added a bit.

"If this is right," He began in a loud voice
This message was last edited by the player at 00:40, Mon 28 Aug 2017.
Tadeusz
player, 9854 posts
As you dimension dance...
Crowbar or Towel?
Tue 26 Sep 2017
at 03:53
  • msg #299

Re: Practice Bits: Human

The 'Generous Offer' sent last week to our parents for the prisoners of Charles P. Adrawnasee Public School to participate in Dreamlands, the greatest Virtual Reality game the world had ever seen had the forty of us on the yellow bus happy.  The teachers got virtual reality schoolrooms with unlimited supplies; the principal got chairs outside his office which forced the rebellious prisoner of school days to sit, and we got a chance for a few hours of deep dive VR gaming after school.

No more kids, and sometimes teachers, shitting in the east stairwell was enough to sell me, but I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.  My name is Merriweather, and I am anything but merry.  The world may not be out to get me, but most of the people in my life are.  Teachers annoyed that I sleep, and yet get good grades; bullies annoyed that I run from a fight rather than let four guys bigger than me punch me flat; principals annoyed that I complain about getting mugged; an older brother who is sociopathic and kleptomaniac and an addict; random gangbangers of various colors who are annoyed I'm white; and all these seem to think I am somehow to blame for everything bad.

Glad to not have faced a beating this time, with everyone so cheered, I wobbled as we rolled over a curb, and into the Outer Parking Lot of Dreamlands.  It was a half-mile hike through a mostly empty parking lot to the front door, and the four-story tall glowing sign.  We walked that way, stopping several times to let the adults wrangles us back into a line.  And we stopped several more times to let the adults catch their breath.

A red sports car buzzed by us, totally unnecessarily, and it got some shouts from us.  Worried looks from the adults checked to see if we were all still alive.  I saw Macon, one of my least favorite persons (Ok, I had no favorite persons, so sue me.) grab up a rock, and peg the car.  The young man, and owner of the pretty beast, hopped out, scorching mad, but we all just looked at him in his clothes worth more than all our clothes put together.  It was the kind of look that a roomful of rats might bestow on you if you surprised them, and had a hunk of cheese in your hand.

 We were, at best, feral.  Some of us were working on our third and fourth felonies.  And at least one of us engaged in recreational arson.  I'm not sure who, and really, I did not want to know.  He huffed, and then hopped back into his car, and blazed off, hitting seventy in four seconds before downshifting rapidly to get out on the main road.  Our Principal gave us a half-hearted lecture for thirty seconds.  Meanwhile a dozen of the more cool kids, gave Macon gang signals and other tokens of respect like a kiss from Liselle.

This was good.  Macon was less likely to attack me when he felt full of Status.  That still left Boris, Dox, and Shahtan (I think his mother tried to name him for 'Shaitan' or Satan, but could not spell it.) who might ease their boredom by blackening my eye.  I kept a wary eye out, ready to run, but the scene kept the lid on them.

As we came closer to the towering letters of 'Dreamland' a Hispanic beauty came out to meet us.  She seemed stiff, and I deduced a trifle embarrassed.  We were not to go through the front door.  I smiled to myself.  This was more like it.  The others tho' got angry, and one shoved me, asking me what I was so happy about.

Spotting an opportunity to do more than take a beating, I ran around, and came up behind 'Bianca'.  She looked flustered to see me there, and I was told in no uncertain terms to 'get back' by teachers, but seeing Boris and Dox coming at me, I feigned a knee twitch.  This made the Principal go red in the face because I had started it after Dox had broken my knee, and I had to be taken by ambulance from the Principal's office where he had been trying to convince me I was not injured, seriously.

Bianca was throwing up her hands in fright, and the two thugs were coming at me while my classmates looked on with smiling interest or complete boredom.  I stayed with her as she tried to flutter away.  Finally the Principal was forced to intervene, and send my two tormentors back.  He then locked my neck up, and made me come with him.  It hurt a bit, but not nearly as much as the beating and kicking when I was down would have, so I was good with this 'punishment'.

We walked to the far side of the four story mass, and down a long sidewalk toward a sign that said 'Human Player Entry'.  Inside, we walked past some disinterested workers in a concrete block passageway.  And then crossing to the left in a small atrium we looked up to see glass walkways lined at the edges with yellow for the lower, and navy blue for the higher, strips.

A group of chattering players, all dressed in new, goofy, game-based clothing filed in, on the yellow walkway above us.  We watched with interest as we plodded along the dust cement floor below them.  They had all sorts of merch, or merchandise.  The swords and wands, lightweight, but pretty junk would be markers for game specific bonuses.  Pay to play, in other words.  The paper tunics over the tees were probably just flash to look cool.  Dreamlands tried to monetize every angle they could come up with for their lead game.

"Fresh meat!" One of them called from over the railing down to us.  We did not care.  Perhaps none of them were as misanthropic as I was, but no one in our crowd had a strong belief in human kindness sent their way.  This disappointed the snots above us, and for a second I thought they'd spit on us.  But a girl smiled, and pulling up her GameKey she showed the hologram of a 'High Elf'.

Then she read off the bonuses.  Great scott!!  A first level High Elf could snipe 'left-eye, right eye' from a hundred yards with a bow and arrow, which they got right off.

The next spoke up. "Ogre."  He was obvious. Strong and tough.  But, also he had a ten percent chance of Eating a Human, and thus Healing all damage every round.
"Fairy Kin."  That thing had enough dodge to evade an Eighth Level Human Archer, and at first level.  That did not count the Shield of Invisibility the girl carried as Play to Pay gear.
"Fire Elemental." None of our weapons could even touch him.  Wow.  I was getting a great, big cluebat across my skull.
"Drake."  And he could fly, breathe ice, and had the same number of hit points as half of us, or twenty first level Humans, along with claws that could score stone.  He just smirked, but there was a tinge of pity in his eyes.  From his perspective, with the most Pay to Play character there, we weren't even worth trying to scare.  He would kill us at his leisure when he did not have better things to do.

The cluebat landed even as my more trusting classmates jabbered about how this was unfair.  We were NPC's, non-player characters.  Our job was to provide the elite with victories.  The Principal yelled, shutting the class up, even as the lookie loos laughed at him, which he manfully ignored.  Several of the teachers were giving Bianca the stink eye, but I felt glad inside even as my face was stone.

I could see the Other Shoe.  The budding sadists, which is most children, would enjoy stomping us flat, thus proving their superiority.  We would be more entertaining worms to wiggle for the fish.  Knowing what the Bad  News was relieved me.  Too bad, I did not know the Really Bad News.

We went on, leaving them behind.  Now, with status bashed, Dox and Shahtan made a play fight so obvious I was surprised the Principal fell for it.  We had walked into the Long Corridor, so it was titled, from which ran dozens of doors.  Unlike the rest, it was cleanly painted a pale green with the Dreamlands logo in full view, eight foot tall and thirty foot long on the wall opposite the closed doors.  And Macon came up, and hammer punched me in the nose.

My nose broke, and blood spattered.  Laughing and high-fiving the trio made their way back into the group who all seemed more relaxed.  Hitting me had restored group honor.  The Principal merely gave me a look as if to wonder why I could not defend myself against someone fifty pounds heavier than myself who he forbade under strict punishment me to fight.

Bianca was all fluttery again, but she had a schedule.  An inadvertent slip of the tongue let us know that we were going in after the previous group of lookie loos.  Not all of them got it, but me, standing there, red dripping onto green, it was obvious.  Give the other players enough time to get used to the game, get over the initial shock, which was said to be rough.  Then toss in the fresh meat.  But they could not wait too long either, or the lookie loos might wander off, and miss this Great Opportunity.

I stood there, and the others went in, each to their own door.  Inside, I heard programs greet them, tell them to undress, and enter the deep dive capsule.  Many seemed enthused which was a victory of naivete over experience.  I stood and bled alone, until Bianca came up to me.

"Um maybe we can get you in."  She waved her hands.
"I don't want to drown in my own blood."  I said flat, but without aggression.  "Could I have some salt?" like was my manner.  She waved her hands around again, trying to assure me that was impossible.  I remained skeptical, and did not move.  There was no way, even as young as I was that she could move me.  So unless she called for guards, I was staying here.

Twenty minutes passed, and an older nurse, her hair gray and red came to me.  She took some signs, sighed loudly when a suit came by and glared at her.  This sigh was as effective, almost as a cross to a vampire.  The suit did not burst into flame, more's the pity.  I said as much, and she gave me a sharp look, and then a short laugh.

"Keep your wits about you, boy.  I suspect its no surprise to you that your nose is broken as I can read at least four earlier breaks."
"Yeah." I shrugged. She nodded.
"I see." She leaned forward, sticking a tube up each nose. The pain went away. "Pain reg inside is fifty percent."  She whispered close to my right ear.  I jolted a bit, which hurt my nose a tiny bit.  Pain of damage and wear and tear was supposed to be limited to ten percent.

"OK." I said, not sure what to say.  She glanced in my eyes to make sure I understood, and oh, I did.  I just was not sure what to do.  I wish I had some brilliant plan, but as always, my only plan was to get out of the way.

She left, and an impatient Bianca ushered me, none too gently, to the last door.  I went in, and the door closed, and locked behind me.  Interesting.  Was it that bad?  The Room told me to disrobe, and I did.

"+1 to Intelligence due to good vocabulary."  Hunh, the tests were already starting.  My paltry weight was measured, and an electric shock checked my reaction times.  Neither of those gained a bonus, but my nose earned me a 'Scent abilities -50% Human normal. Injury -5% Health.  Unhealable.'

What? I tried to protest, but a tube leapt up, and lunged into my mouth.  It was down my throat before I could gag, and metal arms folded me over into the deep dive capsule.

"Expedited launch." I heard the Room say in its mechanical voice that reached to the walls on either side eight feet away in this tiny box.  And then the world fell away from me, and I came to rest in a small room, an octagon twenty-five feet across.  Beneath me, stone blocks roughed up my skin, and I was tempted to leap up.

It was cold, and all I had on was a brand-new pair of tighty whities, and a wife-beater which legally could not be removed by anyone as I was underage.  They fully obscured all detail as well.  But my mission, should I choose to accept it, was to avoid the lookie loos.  Bianca had been worried, even though she had not said it, not even on her messages to management, that I would miss my chance to be a pincushion for the Elite.

So, I waited, and twitched in Arrival Shock as realistically as I could.  Actually, it had hardly bothered me, and I could have jumped up.  But spoiled brats tend to be impatient, and I wanted every minute I could.

Finally my Room told me, and this was with a different voice, an old man's voice, roughened by care and whiskey, I imagined that unless I rose I must be disconnected.  I would then be returned to school by taxi, and my parents charged more than my father's weekly paycheck.  Funny, how that part had not gotten mentioned.  Dreamlands was about the money.

I slowly rose, not sure if I had fooled the Room.

"Subject is in the Eighty-fifth Percentile of Arrival Shock.  Subject is Mobile."  This voice was cold, and steely.  I feared it.

After that, I solved a few dozen math problems, and read some English, and some Spanglish, and a tiny bit of Mandarin.  I recited the alphabet backwards, and stood upside down on my hands, which I can rarely do in the Real World.  I liked that.  The following pain tests were not so much fun, but they were not insane either.

"Subject has Pain Tolerance at 192% of Human Normal." I was a tough guy, cool.  "Pain Regulation modified upward accordingly." I spat out protests as fast as I could but they were ignored.  One more pain test, and at this one, I screamed like a mountain lion.  Rage, and fear, and pain coursing through me.  But then I stopped.  Rage would lead to bad places, I knew.  I had reasons, good reasons, but that door needed to stay closed.

"Subject has Level 2 Clarity of Mind."  No pain followed this announcement.  I waited, my eyes closed until a grumble from the old man got me to look up.

In front of me, hovering was a translucent picture of a man in dirty tan linen tunic, Protection +1, and dirty tan line trousers, Protection +2.  On either side of him were arrows, and curious, I flicked through the choices.  There were dozens.  And all of them were grayed out.

At first, I looked at them, wanting to waste time.  Then I, at the Room's prompting, that cold voice, I came up with a new excuse.  I needed to be sure all of them were barred.  Despite assurances, I got to punch each one four times.  Doing this, I became aware of something.  In each panel was a list of average stats, and beginning abilities.  I began to absorb these as well as I could.

After a bit, the Old Man spoke.

"Player Character Knowledge +1"  And in ten more minutes, he spoke again, this time with a +2.  But that was all the time I could waste at that, and I chose Human.  Then I dithered back and forth between picking a Female, or a Male.  There was no chance, I would pick Female, but it let me waste another five minutes.  By now, most of the Room's voices, and there were half a dozen of them, were testy with me.  The Old Man seemed not to care, and he might even be amused.

The standard choices were all that was available.  I could be a cleric, or a fighting man, or a thief, or a magician.  Bards, rangers, paladins, thugs, sailors, samurai, and archers were all Bonus classes, not available until one was Level Five.  Unless, of course, you were again, Pay to Play.  You could start out with Storm Mage, at Level One, and as a granted ability, Cause One Thunderstorm per day.  But before I could do more than begin to pull my previous trick, I was locked out of examining anything but my four.  Still, I took fifteen minutes to pick the one I knew I would.

Cleric.

It was a hard choice.  I wanted Thief.  Really.  Hiding is my idea.  But I need Healing spells.  Potions cost, and are hard to get, I hear for lower level.  Once you get up a bit, its easier, as long as you're willing to brave a city.  I was not.

Fighting Man and Magician were just not me.

So, I made my choice.  And now I was clad in a dirty linen all around robe, Protection +2, but all over my body, except my head.  And it had a hood.  Wanting camouflage, I spent one of my beginning eight coins, that is a copper denarii. Black and Cleric seemed a bad idea as I had no desire to attract a Paladin attempting to rid the world of evil.  So I chose a deep, chestnut brown.  It would improve Camoflage I hoped.

Camoflage +15%
Charisma -10%.Charisma is an important stat for clerics. 

That was meant to scare me off, and if I intended to preach, it would have.  My goal was to be a hermit.

I chose the good nature god, after fiddling around for as long as I could with the other twenty choices.  Another twelve minutes burned.  'Tyrabe' was his name.  With that, I got a leather necklace, Durability 10/10, and a wooden holy symbol of a tree in a circle, Durability 8/8.  It probably symbolized the circle of life, or some such garbage.

I then bought the Miracle, 'Slow Heal' for five denarii.  Slow Heal can be cast as many times as one wishes on a target.  It is a touch spell, and the cooldown is three minutes.  It will raise Normal Healing by a factor of 10.  Stress is 10.

Normal Healing was already pretty fast.  You could recover from something that would put you in the hospital in the Real World for six months in a week, in Dreamland. There was a faster heal spell, but it could only be used once per target.  So, in fourteen hours of gametime, which included School, (I had checked), you could recover from getting shot in the heart by two arrows.  That is, if you could keep dealing with the Stress of meeting with the divine.  It was their way of avoiding Mana for clerics.

With my last two denarii, I bought a 'Working Knife'. This knife is not great for doing damage, although it can do some.  Its a tool.  SPECIAL NOTE: As a cleric, you cannot use an edged weapon.

I was hoping that last did not mean I could not use the knife as a tool.  If so, I was in big trouble, or bigger trouble.

So, shoeless, bagless, sheatheless, without food, water, or coin, I was nearly ready to face the world.  Inexplicably, a bolt of excitement wormed through me, and I did not take as long as I might to choose my name.  "Weather."  I said, and the Room seemed to pause as it searched its vast files of the millions of players, and non-player characters, and then announced "Name accepted. Enjoy the game."
This message was last edited by the player at 06:06, Tue 26 Sept 2017.
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