The Ratings War III: Republic of Heaven (Second Round Finals)

 Pages 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 . . . 21 NEXT
 

"DEAD?! What do you mean, dead?! How could this..."

"Father, he was not especially powerful; mid-level at best. Any powerful angel or demon could-"

"I bloody well know that! I meant 'how could somebody screw over the system like this?!'"

He reached into his desk and pulled out an impressive-looking bottle. Without the term "moderation" going through his head even once, he threw his head back and took a massive swig.

"Father, perhaps you shouldn't be drinking."

"Oh, shut up, Son. Might as well have the whole bloody Trinity here, eh? Father, Son, and Holy Spirits."

"Father, the man is dead no matter how drunk you are."

He glared at His son, then planted His face in His free hand.

"Fuck..."

"My Lord, do not use such language!"

"DON'T YOU TELL ME WHAT I CAN AND CAN'T SAY!"

He hurled the bottle against the wall, shattering it. He then snapped His fingers, causing the bottle (and the liquid within) to reform and return to His hand.

" Please, Father, calm down!"

"Calm down? CALM DOWN?! You two have made me 'calm down' for the last two thousand years! I think I deserve the right to get pissed off once in a while!"

"Lord, I-"

"Be quiet. Gabriel, Christ, leave. I need some time to think."

"As you wish, Lord."

The two men departed, leaving the Lord to sit and ponder, taking swigs from his bottle every so often. He slammed His great fist into the desk, cracking it.

"My Lord, L-Lord Lucifer is here to see you," buzzed His intercom.

"Let him in."

Not like that bastard could make the day any worse.

The door opened, allowing a sharp-dressed man to enter. He looked for all the world like an ordinary lawyer (and was thus absolutely terrifying). He took a seat and placed his hands on his legs, waiting for his Host to initiate the conversation.

"The Hell do you want?"

"Oh, no, I already own it!"

"Hardy-har-har."

"Don't be so uptight. What happened to your sense of humor, Jovey?"

"You call me that, I get to call you 'Lucy'."

The man chuckled.

"That's more like it. Anyway, down to business. I'm sure you've heard about the incident with the Earth realm."

"Just heard about it. Sounds like something you would pull, you bastard."

All joviality exited the guest's face.

"Jove, I may be sadistic, manipulative, and power-hungry, but you know as well as I do that I'm not an idiot. This system of ours has been in place for longer than I care to remember, and we've had PEACE in that time! Peace, for Your sake! Whoever heard of angels and demons living in peace?! Why would I throw that away?!"

He raised His eyebrows, startled by this outburst.

"You may not think so, but I am no longer the type to risk total war for my own petty gain. You taught me my lesson."

Jove nodded.

"Good that you learned; I'd hate for you to have to redo the class."

The two sat in silence as the guest collected himself.

"What do you propose to do, Jove?"

"Same thing we've always done in a crisis: rely on the system. Elect a new official."

"Won't work. This is the first time in the history of the system that we've had a death in office. If we run an election, both sides will accuse the other of orchestrating the killing in a power grab. We've already had casualties from people trying to claim the position by force. We need something drastic."

Jove took a sip from His glass, offering some to His guest as He replied.

"What do you have in mind?"

--

Welcome to the Republic of Heaven.

For a long time, Heaven and Hell did what Heaven and Hell are expected to do; that is, jihad the fuck out of each other. One day, however, one guy had the idea to end the bloodshed and established a Republican system of government, where angels and demons are assigned their own personal areas of governance while a grand council, led by the Christian God, determines matters of interdimensional import.

It was working great, right up until some jackass went and offed the guy in charge of Earth.

There was a brief, violent struggle for the position of God of Earth, but eventually tensions calmed down enough for the big chiefs, God and Satan, to come up with a plan: a grand tournament, like in the days of yore.

At God's orders, Gabriel placed his horn to his lips and blew. All worthy, be they demons, angels, demigods, or mortals, heard the blast, with instructions on where to go and what to do to enter.

Of course, if a worthy one is killed on his way, the obviously more-worthy killer will hear the message.

It can't be politics without double-dealing, however. Secret emissaries from God and Satan have begun to find ringers, ones not judged worthy to enter but immensely powerful.

Who killed him?
Who's going to be a god?

The shit has hit the fan, and like good, honest men, we're solving the problem with violence.

The basic rules are similar to the previous Ratings Wars. You each write an entry depicting your character defeating your opponent's. You may also have two characters acting as a tag-team.

CHANGES THIS TIME AROUND:

There will be a central area, Purgatory, reminiscent of the first Ratings War, where competitors gather between matches. This is actually a test of mental strength; if a peaceful man is forced to kill his opponent, he cannot just forget it. He is forced to ponder and question his actions as he waits. This is to help allow for character mingling.

Arenas will be created for individual matches, but will fall into one of three categories: Infernal, Mortal, and Divine. Infernal and Divine arenas will take place in domains culled from popular myth or imagination, while Mortal arenas are completely up to my choice.

You no longer need your opponent's permission to kill their character, but please be respectful to them when killing.

All interested parties have ten days to submit a character and an introduction post, detailing them either hearing Gabriel's call and performing an act I'm leaving up to your imaginations to be drawn into Purgatory, killing one who heard the call and performing the aforementioned act, or being approached by a divine or hellish emissary and performing the aforementioned act.

Have fun, kiddoes.

ENTRANTS:
Bling Cat (sent me his stuff early)
Crowghast
Ultrajosephine
Dastardos
Wesdabigman
Mshcherbatskaya
SargentToughie
Vanguard1219
Mookie_Magnus
RagnarokTres
Labyrinth
Lord Krunk
Armitage Shanks
Rogueshadows
Qayin
Newclassic
Zemalac
vid20
Meatspace
The_Logician19

NOTE: If I have missed you, please inform me.

My sheet will be posted tomorrow.
I'm very very excited.

In Ireland, on a secluded little hillock in the forests, in a house that appeared to be well past it's prime...

Sitting, solemn and in silence, Tanner took inattentive sips of tea. He was back home, the same he once had as a child. Way back, when life was simple, the world was infinite, and his daily struggles were helping the neighbours with odd jobs, doing chores about the house, greeting his parents when they got home, playing with friends before dinner, and then bed. The building had changed very little, to his surprise, it was still small and unimpressive, but with a comforting aura of quaint times and better days before. The bullet holes in the walls were still there, and the door that had been kicked from it's hinges was still laying in the hallway...

The greasy food stains spilt on the floor were still present, as well as the broken glass, the burn scars from the molotovs, the upturned furniture, and the ruin of the ceiling punched in from an impromptu grenade, the shingles still strewn out in the yard.

The only real change was the increased decay and the missing bones of his family.

In the past he had been hesitant... more afraid of returning here. It was in this home that his life took a turn for the stranger, and his purpose, meaning, and reason was layed out in random cards. He chose a card and called it his salvation.

Later, it was proven wrong.

A random choice by a random man, for a perceived random event.

And none of it was random at all.

How life does the change in the blink of an eye... or after several hours of heated debate with a voice in your head that has a physical form.

He wondered how the Sandman faired after that... what was his return like? Did he come home to the desert, to a small, quaint mud-brick village? Within it the shards of an event that had forged his future?

Tanner hoped that those shards were a wife and child that had been waiting for an eternity to see him.

It was there, with the beautiful image of a family waiting at a doorstep, his doorstep now, that Tanner realized, he had wasted his life.

Reeling a little from this thought, he raised an eyebrow and sneered in contempt at himself, he gave a groan of disgust, and threw the tea-cup at the floor.

He leaned forward and rubbed his temples, watching the mental slide-show of the people he had helped, tried to help, the people he failed to help, the countless men and women who had served as targets of his charity.

Those deserving and unworthy alike had earned unfaltering generosity and whether or not he received nothing or something, whether it be a pat on the back, a check with twelve digits, a cold stare and a harsh word, or a smack upside the head and kick in the shins... Tanner had never felt either good or bad for any of it.

He had pretended emotion, he had assumed ideals, morals.

"Humanity earns this", "humanity deserves that".

"They should be loathed", "they should be loved".

Now, situated here, at the very inception of the untold story of Tanner's life, he finally mustered a resolution:

Despite whatever he had done for who, and for whatever ostensibly "empathic" or ridiculously mawkish reason he had flittering in his deranged, grieving mind brought about by whatever damning need for whatever it was that would ease his troubles and loss on which day when...

he was still just Tanner O'Dare.

A tired, sick, sad, and jobless Irishman with no means and no love.

It was apparent now that the best thing that had ever happened to him was that tournament. Better was that he had been pitted against the right enemy, with the right reasons.

He would've called that "random chance" before.

It may have been, but right now, he had that feeling.

And right now, he felt that the unseen hand of God would be more comforting than the infinite probability drive.

He rubbed his temples, deep in contemplation, and winced when the burns gave a twang of pain. His last battle in the tournament... a weak-kneed parlor magician with a funny fire-trick had taken him down embarrasingly quick, and with very little conversation.

He wondered what happened to himself. What? What came over him... it felt like his reservoir of unshakable will had been emptied like so many buckets of water over a wildfire, to do nothing but instantly evaporate.

Accompanying that was the intense feeling that he had earned someone's ire.

He disliked it, but felt he wouldn't grudge whoever it was... another "intense feeling" of understanding took him next.

He lay on the dusty floor, sprawling, and forced himself to smile, wondering what the next "intense feeling" would be.

Keeping his face in that expression, he attained it. Happiness.

Maybe being home, maybe his internal struggle to explain himself, or maybe the tea had calmed his nerves...

Whatever it was, at least it was sincere.

Finally.

"You're such a sap."

He stirred, shifting his weight to one elbow, and turning to the source of the voice.

He saw nobody, he hit his ear with the heel of his palm, repeatedly, and then cupped his hand around it. Listening intently, he could hear footsteps outside.

But those were the steps of men who wished not to be heard... why would they go out of their way to inform him he was a sap?

"I'd ask you to make a second guess, but you're likely to reply with something more stupid than before, here's a hint: I'm in your head."

Funny, the voices came back, they usually didn't return for at least another... month or so.

"What do you want from me?" He asked, stating it as though to someone who actually existed.

"I don't want to tell you your business, but you're going down the wrong road. Here, brooding on your life, when you could be doing something important."

He absorbed the words, and replied. "Well, I have only just realized this, I thought i'd take some time to think." He stretched again, and stood up, putting a hand on the holster at his hip.

"Don't give me that, when have you ever thought about anything when lives were on the line? I remember you rushing forward with daring courage and improvised bravado to do little more than save a kitten from a tree. And NOW you start thinking about things?"

Tanner smiled at that memory, but reverted his face to a stolid, brooding appearance.

"You need to ACT. I don't care what kind of blithering stupid idea you have now, whatever philosophy of life you have, you are going to help people somehow. And you're going to do it actively. This isn't for them, this isn't for your family. It's got nothing to do with YOU."

Tanner felt a twitch in his mouth. He knew where this was going, and put up his hand to mock "blah blah blah".

"This is about the greater good of humanity. You, sir, are one of the rarest humans in the world. One with the guts to do work without payment in mind."

"Or any significant reward at all, you know, something like, feeling good about it?"

"What? You've never felt ANYTHING since... 'you know what' happened. You've always been content with pretending. Why is that different now?"

He turned to look inwards at himself. And then spoke. "Because i've only just realized that. I want to fix all the things i've done-"

"FIX?! Fix WHAT?! Fix saving lives? Fix aiding others? Fix-"

"By FIX I mean't to set straight what man could've done for himself."

"And what about what man couldn't do for himself?"

Tanner opened his mouth, and closed it. He wracked his mind for those words, those words that could get him out of this awkward conversation. He couldn't find them.

"Have you ever thought, for once, that you might be the last good man on Earth?"

"Sometimes." He said dolorously.

"After. AFTER you had your little revelation, after you stopped your search for someone like you?"

Tanner didn't feel like saying 'no'. It was written on his face. "I just don't feel like it anymore, I can't bring myself to do it. I'm resigning."

"Resigning? Resigning?! From WHAT?! What exactly are you resigning from? What is your letter of resignation going to say? 'I do not feel like helping people anymore because my EGO has finally SURFACED after THIRTY YEARS of THOUGHTLESS SERVITUDE to a misguided sense of compassion for the world?!!' Is that what it'll say?"

"Not exactly, but it's close." Tanner waved away the voice's argument with indifference.

"You... YOU... Y-... Y-... AHRRRG!"

Tanner tumbled, holding his head in sudden pain. He started screaming, his skull felt ready to split in half. Thrashing on the floor, pounding it with his fists until they were bloody, trying to redirect the pain...

And it stopped.

An "intense feeling" of exhaustion too place inside him. A strange, blue mist escaped from his eyes. He watched it mingle in the dust, before it took shape.

It looked like him... a younger version of him. An angry, younger version of him.

"You! I'm DONE with you! You had best DIE alone and unloved with a TUBE in your throat if you ever want me to be happy for you!"

The spirit of his inner voice floated away. And Tanner felt... sullied and highly uncomfortable.

The footsteps outside quickened a little. Tanner looked out, and a bullet ricocheted off the window sill.

Ducking, he retrieved his side-arm, flicked the safety, and held it ready. Keeping in mind the position he saw the men in, he calculated how far they would have moved, what cover they could have taken, if they have their weapons ready.

Deducing they were heading for him full-speed with guns drawn, he rose, and took aim.

As a hail of bullets tore through the wall.

Falling down in a heap of ruptured holes, spurting blood and failing organs. Tanner stared at his ceiling... in his house... the place of the beginning... at the end.

In walked three masked men, each wearing BDU's and holding assualt rifles. One of them spoke code words into a headset in his helmet. Tanner couldn't understand any of the words. And from his vantage point, he noticed they started swirling in wide arcs, dipping their heads down in great circles... their colors started going bright... dull... bright... saturating with the background. One of them spoke more code, something like, mocks rot... you n' corn... marley... keel low... something else... something else...

Tanner couldn't turn to look at anything else, he had one too many rounds stuck in his neck. They perforated most of his upper body, and had almost snapped off his arm. His thoughts became more incoherent, and he found it hard to take in information.

One of the men ran over and checked his pulse. He nodded his head and whispered into a headset, he nodded again and turned to the other two men. In a hushed, no-nonsense tone, he spoke. "This one's still alive, i'll take care of him. You both move in and check for tangos, grease anything you see. Once the building's clean, we pull out. Got it? Now move out."

The other two nodded and ran off.

Tanner hadn't even had a chance to check the rest of the house. He only just walked into the kitchen and dining room three hours ago. He shouldn't have wasted so much time thinking.

Too late for that now.

He heard gunshots from somewhere in the house. Was something else here? What could they possibly be shooting at? Tanner had a sudden fear that they were defiling the remains of his family, or something like that. He started to struggle against his broken body.

Forcing his good arm to the otherside, he rolled himself over, and pushed himself onto his knees.

His head tilted down, limp, and he smirked at his own resilience. Looking at the damage, he was half stunned to still be alive. "Huh... maybe, six, seven bullets had torn through the neck and spine. Thirteen, maybe fourteen through his torso, possibly fifteen. Of those possible fifteen, he figured most of them had gone through his lungs, and maybe... five or so were lodged in other places. One of them was in an artery, another might've been in his liver.

He didn't know which wound hurt less.

He always figured, that being shot full of holes would be painful.

It was, on the contrary, quite pleasant.

He had never felt so dead.

Feeling alive was, to him, becoming a threadbare sensation.

This feeling of hanging on the verge of expiration... was compelling. It made him want to struggle to live.

Looking to his right, he saw that his shoulder and arm were the most damaged. Mutilated was a better term, as the appendage hung by little more than the gossamer veins of ruined muscles and one or two shards of bone.

He felt the shadow of an arm there, but, the nerves that his brain reached for weren't there.

It was a distinctly unnerving tingle that shivered around a phantom limb.

Unable to turn his head, he swiveled his eyes to see the third man. He was busy smoking, markedly inattentive to Tanner's anomalous movements.

Reaching, straining his good arm to extend, he tried to grab his pistol, which had flown five feet away from him after the first volley, and had settled under the dining table. He reached, and reached. Falling back onto his face, he crawled, using his intact legs to push him, and reach for all he was worth.

The man had finally noticed, pausing after a long drag from his cigarette, and shouted. "Hey! Stop right there, you! Stop your moving!"

Tanner's senses heightened, and his movements became more desperate, he winced his eyes and reached.

The world had become him, the floor, and the pistol. He was in a black abyss, in front of him was that pistol. That pistol. He needed it, because in this void, he felt another prescense, something that would kill him if he did not retrieve the pistol. If he could not reach it, everything he had come to learn over the years, everything he had finally pieced together after his long repose, would be for nothing.

"That's it, I warned you!"

The man took aim down his sight and fired once.

Tanner heard the crack of the gunshot, the expulsion of the case, heard the whisp of heat, and felt a sickening crunch that could only be his skull caving in.

He had experienced his mind leaving his body.

And was still alive.

Tanner screamed. For the second time today, he screamed.

The man who had made the hole sighed, a sigh of relief. He lowered his rifle as the other two walked in. "Get back to work, it's all under control." He told them, in the same dry and pragmatic tone. "Tried to crawl off, I... stunned him."

Tanner was in abject, paralyzing terror. He made a wretched, wheezing sound, as though of hyperventilating. He continued to do so, until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

The good one.

The man with the serious tone shouted over. "Hey kid! Oliver! Next time, try to stay away from our objectives! Especially if we have to kill people there."

The person named Oliver held Tanner's shoulder tightly.

He spoke to him with a blank face and a monotone voice. With a tinge of apology, and just a hint of sadness, se said:

"Sorry about the mess."

Tanner wanted to say "no".

But managed only to close his eyes.

I think I would like to observe this competition, and if I think I could make a valid contribution I may join in on the next ratings war. This seems like an interesting competition.
...and I wouldn't even play a dragon

Seems like fun. I might actually make a character for this.

Forewrd: Great, here i go with angel/demon symbolism and all of a sudden i'm dealing with actual angels. Bollocks.

Act 1: Fall

Chapter 1: Fallen

-After the fall, before the angels-

'I'll ask again. What is your name?' comes the droned question. You can almost see the foggy inconsequence of the words, shown up in the dim, yellow bulb-light of the 'interview room'. Bleached white walls, a grey table, two dark chairs. Another depressing room in an asylum of depressing rooms. They called it medium security, but the guards didn't worry too much; these were men trapped inside their own mind more completely than any amount of barred windows could achieve.

Watch out, you could go crazy in here.

The speaker's eyes are unfocused, locked imbecilely on an internal schedule that shone steadily towards the time when he could return to the comforting dullness of his home. The sweat in his pits serves as a testament to a hard eight hours, the sweat that runs down the crack of his ass testament to just how easy those eight hard hours were. He asks for the name again, rolling the phrase around his bloated jowls before breathing it over the face of the prisoner across from him, my face. Everyone fucking loves nutjob duty, we never talk and nobody expects us to talk, to him it's half an hour with each peanut before they wheel them off to whichever local grinder they kept them stored in. The man rubs his watch nervously, running the cheap shit he thinks is gold around his pale, pasty wrist; he hasn't been outside except to park his ass in his car for fifteen fucking years.

The clock behind my left shoulder keeps drawing his eyes, swivelling in their sunken pits. I wonder if he knows it's rolled over for daylight savings, and he should have left fifteen minutes ago? It's hilarious. Not that he has anything to go home too, mind you, I'd bet money that the last time he rubbed his cock against a woman was when his wife kicked his balls good morning. Kicked his balls good morning, that's funny. I should write that down somewhere. The chuckle creeps out of me before I can stop it, but it feels too good to stop now, it must have been weeks since I last had a good laugh.

He doesn't like my laughing, because he's heard the stories, they all have. You don't do fucknut rounds without perving through at least a filing cabinet of reports and psyche evaluations per patient, a legal and disgusting voyeurism into everything we are. Sure as shit he's read the one on my laughter, and probably one on how many hairs there are on my balls. I'm guessing if you took all the paper that he works with daily, and rolled it up onto a cardboard tube, you'd have just enough to wipe the expanse of his ass for one sitting. Oh man, today I'm on a roll, but then again I haven't had a more perfect subject matter for months, this fat shit is actually too pathetic for me to hate, even with him stealing his way into my reports. Not that he's read my report, however, because when you don't expect victory there's no point in preparation. This man stinks of someone eternally under-prepared.

"What's funny?" He says, the patchy underside of his chins twitching in indignant confusion. He's rubbing his watch again, was it a present? That watch intrigues me, what the fuck is so god damned important about it? I should ask if he can add that to my report, pointless habits drive me nuts.

"Help me settle a bet" I say to him, and the ape nearly falls out of his god damned seat. He blinks as if flickering his eyes will shoo away the words from someone not supposed to speak. "Last time you touched a woman was when your wife kicked you in the balls, right?" I ask, with the deadpan I had made infamous. Jesus, you'd think I'd sung the fucking score to 'Cats'. His mouth just keeps making nervous chewing motions, which would explain why he's on the last notch of his belt, he's a man who has no concept of self-control. No, that's not it. I know the indulgent, they don't anger me, and t turns out this man does fill me with rage I haven't felt since they threw me in here. "Come on, last time you slipped any part of your sorry ass in a hole was when you shoved your kielbasa-digits down your throat to make yourself throw up that burnt toast you had for breakfast, right?"

Do you know, I have no idea how long it's been since I last spoke? It must have been a while, since the fleshy, sorry excuse for a man is practically shitting himself in his chair. He rubs his watch again, which is really starting to piss me off. He clutches for his precious paperwork, the sheer shock of success so alien that he can't cope with it. There's three things I cannot stand, are those are apathy, people, and angels.

This ass barely qualifies as human, but he has more than enough apathy to make me want to shove that watch into the cavity behind his eye. I can feel his question, it's working it's way up his well trained oesophagus and already I can feel the nervous spittle on my face. I have to give him credit, he gathers enough testicles to say it with some dignity. "What is your name?" He asks.

"Disturbed teen kills 3" I say, and the old familiar thrill of getting inside a head comes rushing back. It's like riding lightning, it's like playing god except the bearded man is your bitch, mistress and caddy. He blinks, and rubs that god-damned watch again. "Costumed Killer Claims Family" I quote from memory, and he flicks through my report to find the headlines. I know them by heart, and shit this feels good. I can feel eyes on me as the pervert camera on the wall feeds my words straight to the people who matter, the Angels. "My personal favourite is from the Herald" I say, and he flicks to the article. He reads it, and reads it again, and then flicks back to page one that's been staring at his fucking face for the past fucking fifteen minutes but he couldn't be bothered to fucking read.

"Is that why you use this name?" He asks, and he leans forward in anticipation. Wheels are turning in that padded head now, and he's starting to ask questions again. Playtime is over, the petting zoo is closed before I even got to feed this walrus. Not a total loss, however, it's at least seven times funnier to watch him grapple with the silence that he was willing to endure only 30 seconds ago. I should talk more. Interesting people show up when I talk, the perverts behind the cameras. The buzz is in my blood, the thrill of knowing that even with my arms strapped to my sides I can dig my fingers into their grey matter.

The man stares into my eyes, confused and bewildered at words he should have dreamt of. If there's one thing I know, it's people. I know people as only a predator truly can... and I love having my questions answered.

Evilthoughts:

1) What is being done about deadlines?
2) Is there an official strategy to allow the defeated to continue to write?
3) Will there be character quality control?
4) What's your upper limit on brutality? (I'll be aiming for it, in places)

Ultrajoe:
Evilthoughts:

1) What is being done about deadlines?
2) Is there an official strategy to allow the defeated to continue to write?
3) Will there be character quality control?
4) What's your upper limit on brutality? (I'll be aiming for it, in places)

1. Ten days per match. I'm in another tournament and that's worked fine for it.
2. Pretty much free reign. Keep in mind, when you die, you're going to Heaven, Hell, or somewhere in between. You could (quite literally) come back in spirit.
3. Yes. Mary-Sues, fancharacters, and all-around shitty charactes will be turned away at the door.
4. Rip their balls off. Just be respectful about it.





Quick question. Is there a set era this is taking place in? So far it seems like present day but if it's possible I'd love to be able to go back about a century.

If the need arises I could have a demon zap me to the appropriate time-frame, I'd just need to know in advance if it's nessacary. Or legal.

Oh, and no character sheet yet but if anyone wants a short hint about my character: I like to think of him as Lawful Evil the way it's supposed to be played.

Khedive Rex:
Quick question. Is there a set era this is taking place in? So far it seems like present day but if it's possible I'd love to be able to go back about a century.

If the need arises I could have a demon zap me to the appropriate time-frame, I'd just need to know in advance if it's nessacary. Or legal.

Oh, and no character sheet yet but if anyone wants a short hint about my character: I like to think of him as Lawful Evil the way it's supposed to be played.

Psh. When there are asses to kick, time and space can go fuck themselves. No set era.

The Sorrow:

Khedive Rex:
Quick question. Is there a set era this is taking place in? So far it seems like present day but if it's possible I'd love to be able to go back about a century.

If the need arises I could have a demon zap me to the appropriate time-frame, I'd just need to know in advance if it's nessacary. Or legal.

Oh, and no character sheet yet but if anyone wants a short hint about my character: I like to think of him as Lawful Evil the way it's supposed to be played.

Psh. When there are asses to kick, time and space can go fuck themselves. No set era.

Good to hear. Oh and sorry but I've got one more question. How touchy are we as a community on the subject of slavery? I doubt it will come into the fights but it is a fairly important part of my character's backstory and partially personality.

In essence, I'm echoing Ultrajoe's question about the limits of gore you'll accept. I made my character with the intent of being morally uncomforting rather than physically. How far can I go with that? Slavery? Racism? Sexism? Rape? Genocide?

I said it in the last thread but that was a while back so I'll say it again. No one is supposed to like my character. I would be quite disturbed if anybody did. I hate him and I'm the guy writing his entries.

Oh, and just because I feel guilty not having a character sheet up but posting anyway. His name is Lex. First person to make a Lex Luthor joke dies.

Khedive Rex:

The Sorrow:

Khedive Rex:
Quick question. Is there a set era this is taking place in? So far it seems like present day but if it's possible I'd love to be able to go back about a century.

If the need arises I could have a demon zap me to the appropriate time-frame, I'd just need to know in advance if it's nessacary. Or legal.

Oh, and no character sheet yet but if anyone wants a short hint about my character: I like to think of him as Lawful Evil the way it's supposed to be played.

Psh. When there are asses to kick, time and space can go fuck themselves. No set era.

Good to hear. Oh and sorry but I've got one more question. How touchy are we as a community on the subject of slavery? I doubt it will come into the fights but it is a fairly important part of my character's backstory and partially personality.

In essence, I'm echoing Ultrajoe's question about the limits of gore you'll accept. I made my character with the intent of being morally uncomforting rather than physically. How far can I go with that? Slavery? Racism? Sexism? Rape? Genocide?

I said it in the last thread but that was a while back so I'll say it again. No one is supposed to like my character. I would be quite disturbed if anybody did. I hate him and I'm the guy writing his entries.

Oh, and just because I feel guilty not having a character sheet up but posting anyway. His name is Lex. First person to make a Lex Luthor joke dies.

Is he bald and have a kryptonite obsession?

But I have rape in the backstory I'm currently writing.

Khedive Rex:

The Sorrow:

Khedive Rex:
Quick question. Is there a set era this is taking place in? So far it seems like present day but if it's possible I'd love to be able to go back about a century.

If the need arises I could have a demon zap me to the appropriate time-frame, I'd just need to know in advance if it's nessacary. Or legal.

Oh, and no character sheet yet but if anyone wants a short hint about my character: I like to think of him as Lawful Evil the way it's supposed to be played.

Psh. When there are asses to kick, time and space can go fuck themselves. No set era.

Good to hear. Oh and sorry but I've got one more question. How touchy are we as a community on the subject of slavery? I doubt it will come into the fights but it is a fairly important part of my character's backstory and partially personality.

In essence, I'm echoing Ultrajoe's question about the limits of gore you'll accept. I made my character with the intent of being morally uncomforting rather than physically. How far can I go with that? Slavery? Racism? Sexism? Rape? Genocide?

I said it in the last thread but that was a while back so I'll say it again. No one is supposed to like my character. I would be quite disturbed if anybody did. I hate him and I'm the guy writing his entries.

Oh, and just because I feel guilty not having a character sheet up but posting anyway. His name is Lex. First person to make a Lex Luthor joke dies.

Go nuts.

Dastardos:

Khedive Rex:

Oh, and just because I feel guilty not having a character sheet up but posting anyway. His name is Lex. First person to make a Lex Luthor joke dies.

Is he bald and have a kryptonite obsession?

Actully, yes. He is bald. No kryptonite but he does have a fancy suit and bit of a superiority complex.

Oh, and now I need to kill you. Where do you live by the way? So hard to slaughter people over the internet...

Khedive Rex:

Dastardos:

Khedive Rex:

Oh, and just because I feel guilty not having a character sheet up but posting anyway. His name is Lex. First person to make a Lex Luthor joke dies.

Is he bald and have a kryptonite obsession?

Actully, yes. He is bald. No kryptonite but he does have a fancy suit and bit of a superiority complex.

Oh, and now I need to kill you. Where do you live by the way? So hard to slaughter people over the internet...

Texas suburb.
But if you wanna kill me do it like a man!

Do it in Genre Wars, My Brute, or Ratings War.

Real life killing is so underrated.

I am glad we have ten days to post the intro, since my life has taken a turn for the hectic since I moved to a new place yesterday. Yes, I love the people and the place, but it will mean much work nonetheless. A comment I have is on the setting, and that comment is: fucking awesome. It will work well with my character, and by God will it be epic.

SargentToughie:
[spoiler=and so it begins again]

My character sheet will be up in a little while.. my character I'm using is totally bitchin'

My character is a fucked up junkie who likes to execute people...

Character Intro and Charcter Sheet

Act 1: Fall

Chapter 2: Pure

-The beginning. Before it all.-

"Yeah, can I get just a quarter pounder please". I don't know why I say please, it's not like she doesn't hear the same order 500 times a day. I'm paying her, right? Doesn't that conclude the proceedings? I'm hardly going to thank her for her winning attitude, pleasing outlook and care to appearance, because the bitch looks like a porcupine died on her head and acts like one died in her ass. That's funny, I should tell that one to Stuart when we get back to the table. I can't help a tiny snicker, and miss prickle-knickers shoots me more venom with a gaze than the spiders lodged where her eyebrows should be could produce.

To be fair, I'm only taking the piss because she's as grumpy as all balls and is taking it out on everyone else, trudging back and forth to get my order slower than a senior's sack race. With feminine grace she *plunks* my drink down forcefully enough to pop the lid off partially, giving me a gum-chewing-stare challenge, daring comment, and beckons the next unlucky patron over to bask in her aura of sunshine. Honestly, I don't care much, today is too damn good to let some menstrual angst splatter obscure the view. Ugh, not an awesome visual. Funny, though.

Stuart likes my laugh, he's the kind of person who loves to see other people smile. To be honest, it can annoy the hell out of me sometimes, but when it's worth it it's worth it. If it's not a joke it's an act, if it's not an act it's a song. Right now he's listening to my appraisal of our serving-beast and her roguish demeanor; "I'd hit it" He says, nodding appraisingly, "Sure, she might act like she's several drinks short of sober, but deep down she's just looking for love". I take a bite of my burger and wait for the punchline, because it wouldn't be Stuart if there wasn't one, but he just takes a bite of his Big Mac. He has a fondness for big burgers that is reflected in a slight softness around the edges. "What, you'd seriously try to date that sack of unhappy?" I ask. Stuart looks at me in mock horror, putting down his burger indignantly "Where'd you get that idea?" He demands "I only said I'd hit her. A doorframe would be me first choice of weapon"

Oh man, classic... I snort my coke out of my nose and we both dissolve into fits of snickering laughter. I know it's wrong, but the way he tells jokes is just so right, and we both sit there in immature giggles, laughing at one another's laughter, until the hilarious thing is that we're laughing at the fact that there's nothing funny to laugh at. Come on; don't say you've never done it. Personally, I think it's the best kind of laughter there is, and it always makes me laugh out loud. Whahahahahaha, Classic.

We banter without thinking for another fifteen minutes, before Stuart heads off to his job. Work, my work (or lack thereof) troubles me, because I get the feeling I should really have a job, and I'm in that state of wishing one would fall into my lap. I just want to be able to say 'Going to Work', because for some reason the idea fills me with a warm thrill. Stuart reckons I'm just overcompensating for a complete lack of maturity in all other parts of my life. I laughed when he said it, but it still stung a bit. He also reckons I'm trying to impress someone.

He's right.

I'm in, and I'll have my character in sometime soon. Definately within the week. I'm out of state at the moment, and thus internet might be a little hard to come by. I'll manage, though.

Been looking forward to this one. I know exactly who my character is, too.

This has always looked interesting. May I join?

Side note: I lurked the second, and may I say, Khedive, that that last post was of Heinlein's level at his finest. Truly compelling.

I'm going to attempt to make a new character because apparently the story/character I had was to offensive, and contained "To much mindless violence, and pointless swearing, with not enough masculinity"

So I don't know what the hell my new character is going to be.

I had that one planned for a long time.

I'll try to have a new one up as soon as possible.

Dastardos:
I'm going to attempt to make a new character because apparently the story/character I had was to offensive, and contained "To much mindless violence, and pointless swearing, with not enough masculinity"

So I don't know what the hell my new character is going to be.

I had that one planned for a long time.

I'll try to have a new one up as soon as possible.

Who told you that?

The Sorrow:

Dastardos:
I'm going to attempt to make a new character because apparently the story/character I had was to offensive, and contained "To much mindless violence, and pointless swearing, with not enough masculinity"

So I don't know what the hell my new character is going to be.

I had that one planned for a long time.

I'll try to have a new one up as soon as possible.

Who told you that?

Quite a few people in Escapist IRC

The Beginning

One came to his door. A man in a suit and tie, carrying a suitcase. Probably a salesman. He hoped the last one might tell his friends to stay away, Guess not. Nothing a few scare tactics wouldn't solve, he supposed. He tried his best to sound like a normal man, but the thought only filled him with disgust in his own form as he grumbled.

"Mmmm?"

"I'm a Jehovah's follower, sir. Here to spread some good news." The voice echoed coldly, without emotion or tone.

"Isn't that 'Jehovah's witness?'" His own voice was hoarse and unnatural.

"Not quite..."

Suddenly, a fist ruptured through the front door and wrapped around Elsewise's throat. "I have a rather important job for you to do, Mr. Ipswitch..."

Stupid, stupid, should have acted first. He smashed the arm at the wrist, an act that should've broken his arm in two. Should've, yet the grip on his neck only tightened. He pulled the door open and smashed the man's head into the door. It didn't matter if he saw his face now. He wouldn't live to leave this house anyway. He was small, gangly, not at all as expected. The man, merely smiling, had a hole in his head from a nail left in his door. No blood dripped from his skull. He lifted Elsewise off the ground by the throat and slammed into the floor of the entry. The house was empty and bare with only two things in the room: A needle and a dagger. Elsewise smashed the man across his skull, forcing him to release his grip. He leapt off the ground and dove for the needle. He held it in his back pocket and then took the dagger off its place and turned back to face the man. Took too much time... the brawler was already right in front of him. He smashed his face in and tripped him to the ground, then held his foot up to smash his head into the ground. A mistake he was going to pay for... Elsewise slipped out of the way of the deathblow and stabbed the man in the calf muscle. He used the knife as leverage to pull himself up quicker as the knife descended further into his leg. He reached the needle out of his back pocket and held to the man's throat from behind. "Last words? And try not to make them poetic, they just come off sounding egotistical..."

The man smiled, "You're very good. I believe we can use you after all..." The man's head jerked back and almost caved in Elsewise's skull. He fell back, blood running down his hands, as the man ripped out the dagger from his leg and threw it at Elsewise's feet. The hole in his head was gone, as was the foot long gash that should have been running down his leg.

"You ever read the Bible, Mr. Ipswitch?" The man said, taking a seat across from on the floor.

"Don't believe in reading fairy tales..." Elsewise replied, grabbing the needle from the floor and sewing his head back shut. The last attack had busted his head open. He couldn't afford to fall apart.

The man laughed and sighed as he continued, "It's more real than you might think, Mr. Ipswitch. The Devil, Jesus, God, the whole sh..."

"GOD HUH?" Elsewise stood, angrily, "GOD IS REAL? THEN HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?" he said, ripping off several of the bandages from his face. The man's arm reached out and held him still. "I know what you look like, Elsewise and it's true, you are manmade. An abomination. One mistake among many in man's follies in search for the powers of God. And as a result, your faith in the existence of a merciful and just God is miniscule at best. But, that's not what I'm here for." Elsewise relaxed and sat patiently.

"I am Azrael, one of the fallen angels that stayed neutral in God's battle with Lucifer, now considered the embodiment of evil, and the angel of death." Azrael expected another burst of anger or confusion from Elsewise but all that remained was serenity to his presence. "And the God of Earth is dead..." Elsewise's bandaged face hid a grin. "So Nietzsche was right, huh?"

Azrael smiled, "No, not THE God, the God of Earth. You see, the Universe is run as a representative government, with representatives in all bodies for both spiritual and mortal coils and every... You know, for a human being who's never read the Bible, you're rather accepting of all of this."

Elsewise shrugged as he finished patching up his skull. "What do I know about spirituality? I was created in a science lab. Might as well be telling the truth, doesn't affect me."

Azrael's voice deepened and a face of anger overcame his brow. "That's where you're wrong, Elsewise... Heaven has always been ruled by the forces of Good and Hell has always been ruled by the forces of Evil. Earth has been the middle ground. As long as the battle for Earth's soul stays one in a system of checks and balances and no one wins it, peace remains in the afterlife. And yet the fools at the top of this system have decided to try and set up wholly good or wholly evil MORTALS to take the place of the God of Earth, unable to anticipate the chaos that could come of it."

"What's the big deal? So what if a wholly good person becomes the God of Earth? Doesn't that mean God wins? Hip Hip Hooray and all that?"

Azrael sighed and cursed Ipswitch for not being able to comprehend the situation. "Mortals are IMPERFECT! Both sides are overzealous to even consider putting mortals at the head of such a system of government. Anyone could see by the scandals and impotency of the United States government that mortals aren't meant for such responsibility. Even the most morally lawful mortal is a great danger in such a position of power."

"So, good luck to you, Fallen Angel."

Azrael smiled, "I am no fighter. I am a muse, an artist, and a... business man. I have no place on the field of battle."

Ipswitch slipped the needle into his back pocket and the dagger into his sleeve, rubbing the wound to his malformed head. "Could've fooled me..."

"I need a true warrior. One who could win the battle and preserve the Earth as a system with both evil and good in the outcome." Azrael stood up as he spoke. "The balance of good and evil must be preserved, and I believe the two of us can accomplish that."

"And what do I get out of the deal? A position in government? I'm gonna pass on that one...Besides, I am mortal. You just went on a whole tirade on how evil and corrupt mortals are and how they aren't responsible enough to hold chairs of government."

"No, you will win and you will hand power over to me. Time has given me a greater outlook on existence. For peace to continue, one rejected by both sides must take control. And besides, all good and evil must experience death at one point, so I can't exactly play favorites with my job as it is. And in return for your services, I guarantee you... a soul, and salvation."

Elsewise looked up in puzzlement, "You can do that?"

Azrael smiled, "If I'm the God of the Earth, I can."

The whole thing was ridiculous, something out of a bad novel. But...if it was true...would that make him less of a... freak...He had to try this.

Elsewise stood and smiled, though it was invisible behind his bandages. "All right, consider yourself the future God of Earth, Azrael. What do I have to do to enter this tournament?"

Azrael smiled, "Well, there are many ways, but I think the easiest one is this..." Then he held out his hand, and waited for reply.

Ipswitch examined Azrael's outstretched hand and his used car salesman smile. "I know you might not know much about these things, but we call this a handshake.' In which we-"

"I know what a damn handshake is..." he said, still wary toward his apparent ally. He inched his hand forward carefully and stopped centimeters short of the hand. "Is this going to hurt?"

Azrael sighed and reached his hand forward. Black weaved through the air and a mark implanted itself on Elsewise's hand. Darkness overcame him. Yeah...it did, was the last thought that came to his mind as the pain drifted him to sleep.

Dastardos:

The Sorrow:

Dastardos:
I'm going to attempt to make a new character because apparently the story/character I had was to offensive, and contained "To much mindless violence, and pointless swearing, with not enough masculinity"

So I don't know what the hell my new character is going to be.

I had that one planned for a long time.

I'll try to have a new one up as soon as possible.

Who told you that?

Quite a few people in Escapist IRC

You should go with what type of character you feel happy playing as, don't make a new character just to please other people.

I would like to take part in this RW but with my last year of high school mocking me, I feel like if I do play I will eventually have to quit and make a small mess. I've already spread myself pretty thin, taking part in Fleet Command 2. However if I'm needed I would have no problem with returning as a judge. Obviously I've been a judge twice already so I suppose it'll only be fair to let others take up the role.

Consider me as someone who will fill any judge openings if not enough people volunteer for the role. I'm going to watch this game though, very closely.

What the hell, I'll throw down. I've got some free time coming up what with holidays and all. A bio and character sheet will appear sometime soon.

Alternately, let me know if you'd like me to judge.

I'll be trying my hand at this. seeing the previous ones though, i doubt i'll win. still doesn't stop me from having a bunch of fun now does it? i should have my character done by the end of the week.

aside: it will be interesting to see if we actually have any goody-two-shoes runing for god of earth, or if its just a bunch of sick fucks... just 'cause sick fucks are more fun to write.

rogueshadows:
I'll be trying my hand at this. seeing the previous ones though, i doubt i'll win. still doesn't stop me from having a bunch of fun now does it? i should have my character done by the end of the week.

aside: it will be interesting to see if we actually have any goody-two-shoes runing for god of earth, or if its just a bunch of sick fucks... just 'cause sick fucks are more fun to write.

Well, The Lyre from last Ratings War was intended to be a Robin Hood-style character, or at least develop into that due to trauma.

This time, though, I'm going for something much more... despicable. I'm trying something drastically different to my play style this round, you see.

Khedive Rex:

Good to hear. Oh and sorry but I've got one more question. How touchy are we as a community on the subject of slavery? I doubt it will come into the fights but it is a fairly important part of my character's backstory and partially personality.

Great minds think alike.

And until I get home in a few hours, that is the only information you are going to get on my character. Unless Sorrow releases the intro I PMed him. Which he is free to do.

I'm in. I'll have a character thought out and typed up by tomorrow.

Cheers, mates.

Consequences
Or
Whatever Happened to Drane?

Velvet, soft velvet. His new body was so beautiful. The wonderful, soft velvet.

The bus was filled with the random swarms of detritus society pumped out every day, all of which somehow found their way onto this bus. The sides, previously a uniform grey, now shouted the confused message of a hundred vandals. Passed on the street, one could easily mistake it for an abandoned heap of scrap metal. Dave Cotton sat in the driver's cab, waiting - as usual - as his charges for today filed on. He had 'The Junker' as it was known around the station, because of his skin colour. He was black, a fact of birth that acted as a curse upon him. Nothing was his; even his life belonged to the bus company. He was watching the 'cleans' tramp onto the bus in a line, wrinkling their noses in disgust at the state of the floors.

His nose... It was incredible! The smells he smelt with his smeller were frankly quite stellar! He chuckled. The man in front of him, the fat one beyond the bars, he was scared of him. That he could smell. That smell was not stellar. That smell made him angry, angry that this man could not see beauty when it was presented to him. A punishment fitting the crime would have to be concocted.

"Is this what we're driving to the station in?" One of his passengers said in a tone of voice that suggested he wanted an answer different to the one he knew. Dave didn't respond, instead turning the key in the ignition, and submerging himself in the sounds of the bus' engine. The miles toward the T.V. station where he would drop off his cargo passed quickly when he could ignore the world and listen to his engine rattle. "Can't we go any faster?" the same indignant voice shouted. He knew these people. Always busy, always hurrying on to their next appointment. He supposed that must be what it's like when you're white and in control of your own destiny. And he considered that they were all equally cursed.

After he had finished turning the man into a thing of beauty, he looked at his surroundings. The bars of his prison were bent and twisted, and four from the left side were missing, taking their part in his art. The man played the part of the centrepiece. He had failed to recognise beauty.

The building loomed on the outskirts of the city, the satellite dish on its roof casting reflections into the eyes of the passengers. The bus pulled up and halted. The process of getting on was reversed and when they had all entered the building of their work, Dave got out and reached for a packet of cigarettes. The ones white people smoked carried warning labels. His did not. That was his second shipment of passengers today. The first had been the morning load of workers, the black slaves and the white people unlucky enough to have to go into the cleaning service, or the canteen cooking service, or the coffee service. He had to wait here for the morning load of cleaners to come out and get on the bus. That could take hours. Part of the reason he had taken up smoking.

The place was buzzing with people. They swarmed in from every orifice of the building, clogging it's arteries with their noisome presence. He didn't like it. The building wept with the stress of it all, and he wept with it. They would have to be shown beauty, the beauty that only he could lay down for them. The beauty of the lord.

Dave had waited for several more hours than he had expected. He had other runs to do today; he couldn't afford to wait around for the cleaning crew. His cigarette stub was flicked onto the ground near the refuse bins, and then he stormed into the building to look for his passengers. What he found inside made him retch. People were frozen in rigor mortis, expressions of terror still on most of their faces. Some were missing faces entirely, erased by the hand of some gory painter. They were suspended by ropes from the ceiling, or pinned to the walls with rods of any and all shapes and forms. He recognised their shape, they were all hung in the way - His train of thought was cut off when he heard someone whistling 'He's got the Whole World'. When he rounded the corner Dave almost fainted. Before him stood a monument to all that was wrong with his world. The man - if you could call him that - had the ears and nose of a large bat, with tufts of hair sprouting from his outer ear. His arms had flaps of skin attached at the wrist and travelling down to his waist, providing an imitation of wings. His hands were the kicker though. Instead of fingertips, he had claws sprouting from his digits. They were caked in blood, and his questions about what had happened to the people were answered by that simple fact. The final fact that struck him as different about... Him was the short, satin like black fur that grew close to his body, covering it like an animal.

A new one! He also seemed to fear him, but he did not run. This made him happy. Others of this man's colour had fled before him, but this one stood his ground.
"What... What are you?" The new figure before him asked.
"I am the lord's messenger."
"I thought I recognised the shape you had made. Crucifixion."
"I remade them in the style of our lord."
"Why?"
"Because they feared beauty."

Dave considered that he had gone insane from the sights he had seen upon walking in the door. He hoped so. "How are you...? I mean, why are you..."
"Like this?"
"Yes"
"Darkness, pain, growth and change!
NO! The pain came first, then the darkness. The darkness was so thick though. And the whispers in that darkness so repulsive. At least, at first I though that. Then I invited them in for pleasantries. Have to be pleasant to the neighbours. We got to talking however, and I got to see their point of view, and I liked the view from up there. The path they gave me. So I followed it. And now here I am."
Dave liked to think that was when he blacked out. He liked to think the blurry images of him having metal rods stabbed through his arms were just fevered dreams that the pain in his legs stemmed from his imagination. But when the monster stepped back and looked at him, and he moaned, he knew that he was just another bloody tapestry on this things wall of horrors. "I am Drane" the thing purred "God's avenger." When the fire collapsed the roof and brought a flaming beam down on top of Drane, the flames were licking around Dave's ankles. When the debris crashed through the door to the basement, to where Drane's cell lay twisted and ruined, the fire had engulfed him. And when the fire crews arrived after the last small torch of flame had burned itself out, he was nothing but a burnt, nameless skeleton chucked onto the back of the truck and taken to the morgue.

Drane was broken. The fire lapped at his form. He wondered why his god had abandoned him. "Drane, do you wish to live?" What was this? A new voice? He wasn't used to new voices. "Do you wish to continue to do the Lord's work?" He smiled, and whispered "Yes."

Alright, my intro post up for everyone to see. Just in case you're wondering, Drane will not have a background supplied. It will be revealed, slowly. How he came to be this way is a complicated string of events.

 Pages 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 . . . 21 NEXT

Reply to Thread

This thread is locked