There are two kinds of people in this world.
Showing posts with label RP. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RP. Show all posts
Sunday, 24 April 2022
Saturday, 13 February 2021
Countdown
It had started as a good day for Lilith.
She hadn't felt any intrusive thoughts that day. She'd been calm, oddly calm, like a quiet pool where no wind was there to disturb it. She'd had a good breakfast to start - bran flakes, although she didn't really care for the taste of them. She'd gone down to the local gym - Body 'n' Soul - and worked out a bit, although she had to restrain herself from punching too hard in case she broke the bag. And she'd danced to some Trance music and helped Plague sort some problems out across Olympia.
Now she was having dinner.
She shouldn't have been in a place like this. It was much too upmarket for a group like the Cure. But Lilith had Kobber connections, and nobody was going to refuse anyone who was even remotely connected to them. Lilith still didn't like them very much, although that was a gut feeling she was trying every day to get rid of. She just appreciated being able to do normal human things now and again. And treating herself was one of those things.
Start the clock.
Sunday, 20 December 2020
Panty's Christmas Carol - Future (18+)
Something was wrong with Daten City.
It had always been a dirty city, in both senses of the word. Despite being an up-and-coming metropolis, it was usually seen as more of a Chicago than a New York or San Fransisco, with even the most up-market and hoity-toity districts full of dark corners, dodgy secrets and seedy doings. Not to mention the general layer of trash, bubblegum, pigeon shit and dark soot from all the car exhausts. It was almost as if the entire city had an oily sheen to it that the glitz and glamour only accentuated.
This... was a different kind of dirty.
Panty's heels crunched through the snow as she walked through Daten Central Park. Or, rather, what had been Daten Central Park.
But as she looked around, she could see that it had it had... changed.
The once neurotically well-kept gardens and hedges were a tangle of weeds, briars and things the angel couldn't identify at a glance. The trees were sagging under the weight of unpruned boughs and what grass poked through the white blanket was almost up to her knees. The buildings on either side where showing extreme aging - stone was cracked, crumbling and covered in moss, steel was rusting and bending and glass was broken into snow-like shards. Many of the street lamps weren't on, and aside from the silvery sheen from a full moon the place was in almost total blackness.
Everything was deathly still. The only sound, aside from Panty's footsteps and her shallow breaths, was a faint wind that whipped at her hair. Where was everyone... or everything? No cars on the streets, no people, all the doors were locked... There wasn't even a single light on in any of the windows. No signs of life to be seen, not even the singing of birds or barking of foxes.
What had happened? Had some ghost, or perhaps a demon, come through the city and-
The streetlights flickered.
Panty knew what that meant by now, and braced herself. She wanted to be ready this time. No goddamn Ghost of Christmas Fuckery was going to catch her by surprise and-
A sound like the rusting hinges of an iron gate.
Monday, 14 December 2020
Panty's Christmas Carol - Present (18+)
Panty had taken her time with her dress. It was one of her old favourites that she'd kept around for a movie premeire, and she hadn't hesitated in picking it out. Time had been kind to it - the magenta fabric, dashed with cream like something that would incriminate a president, hadn't faded in the least.
Putting it on, however, had lead to some embarrasing revelations. Firstly, that she'd forgotten the white corsage she usually wore with it - but she could make do without it. Secondly, the lower half of the dress, which had once hung from her body like a silken ziggurat, now clung to her hips and rear in a way that, while appealing, had not been a thing when she'd worn it last. The dress might have remained the same size, but Panty definitely hadn't.
She blamed Kouta's cooking. He never did tell her the secret incredient in the Secret Ingredient Noodle Soup.
But she liked to fantasize~.
Now, she was adding the finishing touches to her makeup in the bathroom mirror. And doing it as quickly as she could. Not simply because she knew how to do it quickly, but because she didn't want to be in the bathroom any longer than she could help. It wasn't making any better of an impression than the room itself did. Cracked tiles, a patch of damp in one corner and a dripping tap gave an air of melancholy that only served to lower her mood even more.
Not in the least because she kept thinking about what Garterbelt had said.
All that stuff about her past, and how hanging out with Kouta had mellowed her out. Even if that was all technically true, what business was it of his? Didn't he have enough on his plate, between being a Ghost of Fuckmas Past and preaching his bullshit gospel to impressionable and vulnerable young boys? And that weird question he'd asked before vanishing - "where do you think you are right now?" What the fuck was that, even? Some kind of bullshit Zen riddle, where the answer also didn't make any sense?
The lights flickered again. Panty sighed and put the eye shadow down. God, this place was a dump. The sooner she got out of here, the better. She just hoped for two things when she got to this bullshit party - some decent dick, and hopefully to not have to talk to-
There was a noise behind her that sounded like an embarrassed cough.
The memory of what happened the last time the lights flickered flashed through Panty's mind. She looked up.
And stared at what she saw reflected in the mirror behind her.
"...you gotta be shitting me," she said.
Friday, 4 December 2020
Panty's Christmas Carol - Past (18+)
Panty Anarchy hated Christmas.
And not even for the usual reasons. That being that she'd put the newest and most high-tech sex toys money could buy on her list every year, but get coal instead. Seriously, would that sherry-chugging, home-invading creep ever get it right?! He desperately needed to get new specs, or maybe to just retire his fat ass to the Maldives while someone else took his place. Someone younger, maybe, with a six-pack instead of a beer gut and a dick that could make King Arthur's sword wilt in pathetic embarrassment.
Mmmh~ Now, that would be more like it. She'd definitely let him fill her stocking on Christmas Eve~
Ugh, that reminded her. Stocking always got whatever she wanted on Christmas. And all she ever asked for was sweets. But that was still another reason Panty hated Christmas. How was it that her bratty goth bitch of a sister got her vices fulfilled when she didn't?! There was some awful injustice in this world, and when she found the person responsible, she'd be making them regret it via the medium of holy fucking bullets.
But this year, Panty hated Christmas for quite another reason.
A letter had arrived this morning, unexpected. Stocking had got to it first, and had opened it up. The cry of surprise she gave had been one red flag, and then everything after that was an avalanche of the things. The familiar seal, the gold edging, the fancy handwriting. And one look at the invitation confirmed Panty’s worst fears in a second.
They were going back to Daten City.
Saturday, 29 February 2020
Better Off Alone (NSFW)
WARNING: The following contains themes not suited for younger audiences or those of more sensitive dispotion. Viewer discretion is advised.
"And in related news, the Olympia Police Department have released the names of the two men killed in a bizzare incident in the Undercity Market Square. The individuals, Mercurio Pozzi and Umberto Ardizzone, were found dead outside a fruit stall owned by local gardener Bertrand Bellincioni at half past three two weeks ago in a mangled condition, with the only clue being an unidentifiable energy trace on the corpse of Ardizzone.
"Police have yet to identify the killer of the two men, who were known to be associates of the small-time Capitani crime family-"
"THE VEG DID IT"
"Stew, this isn't the time to editorialize right now."
"No, come on, it's so obvious! Two men dead in front of a fruit and veg stall?! CHECK THE VEG! The real killer's there!"
"...you never got over that incident with the courgette in high school, huh?"
"I swelled up like a balloon, Chick! It was awful! And I know for a fact that anything that grows underground is never good for ya! Ask that gardener what he's been growing in his back yard!"
"And a reminder, folks, never to watch Attack of the Killer Tomatoes before a major murder happens. Now, back to actual news..."
"And in related news, the Olympia Police Department have released the names of the two men killed in a bizzare incident in the Undercity Market Square. The individuals, Mercurio Pozzi and Umberto Ardizzone, were found dead outside a fruit stall owned by local gardener Bertrand Bellincioni at half past three two weeks ago in a mangled condition, with the only clue being an unidentifiable energy trace on the corpse of Ardizzone.
"Police have yet to identify the killer of the two men, who were known to be associates of the small-time Capitani crime family-"
"THE VEG DID IT"
"Stew, this isn't the time to editorialize right now."
"No, come on, it's so obvious! Two men dead in front of a fruit and veg stall?! CHECK THE VEG! The real killer's there!"
"...you never got over that incident with the courgette in high school, huh?"
"I swelled up like a balloon, Chick! It was awful! And I know for a fact that anything that grows underground is never good for ya! Ask that gardener what he's been growing in his back yard!"
"And a reminder, folks, never to watch Attack of the Killer Tomatoes before a major murder happens. Now, back to actual news..."
Wednesday, 26 February 2020
Good Faith
The playlist of the Body-n-Soul Fitness and Faith Center was definitely not one you'd hear at the club.
Nor was it one that you'd expect to hear in a place of worship or even a gym. But Body-n-Soul was both, a place where one could praise the good word with one hand and knock back a protein shake with the other. Where closeness to God was measured in push-ups and donations taken in where written down next to how many reps you’d done that week. A strange place, but in a place as strange as Olympia, the strange was home.
"Fifty-four... fifty-five... fifty-six..."
Jenny's feet pounded rapidly on the treadmill, her shoes almost blurs. Her breath came in minute gasps and pants from between her parted lips. Her face was flushed and her olive skin was shining with persperation that also matted her messy fringe. The silver ichthys bounced around her neck with every step, which came at a pace that would have made a casual jogger balk. In front of her, the eyes of Jesus Christ stared back at her from the glossy plane of a poster.
A poster captioned "Lord, show me the whey" as Jesus smirkingly held up a pot of protein powder.
She hated that poster so much.
Nor was it one that you'd expect to hear in a place of worship or even a gym. But Body-n-Soul was both, a place where one could praise the good word with one hand and knock back a protein shake with the other. Where closeness to God was measured in push-ups and donations taken in where written down next to how many reps you’d done that week. A strange place, but in a place as strange as Olympia, the strange was home.
"Fifty-four... fifty-five... fifty-six..."
Jenny's feet pounded rapidly on the treadmill, her shoes almost blurs. Her breath came in minute gasps and pants from between her parted lips. Her face was flushed and her olive skin was shining with persperation that also matted her messy fringe. The silver ichthys bounced around her neck with every step, which came at a pace that would have made a casual jogger balk. In front of her, the eyes of Jesus Christ stared back at her from the glossy plane of a poster.
A poster captioned "Lord, show me the whey" as Jesus smirkingly held up a pot of protein powder.
She hated that poster so much.
Sunday, 16 February 2020
Breakout
It had once been the Curse's most well-kept secret. Not even Hardcore Prawn had told some of his biggest allies about it, not even Giovanni. It had been hidden away in the bowels of the Undercity, close enough to the Green Hell Zone that not even the most insane escaped convict would have wished to step foot in it. It was to be their ace in the hole, the knockout punch that would have seen the end of the Kobbers and their total control of Olympia.
Yet CRAY and Seanet had been defeated. And with their downfall had come the downfall of this place. Now it was nothing more than a rotting shell - lab equipment, computer monitors and cabling left to decompose like a whale's beached corpse, with not even any warning lights illuminating it.
But even this would have consequences.
-------
Somewhere, a computer monitor flared to life once more.
WARNING: Unable to connect to power supply. Check power cable connection and reconnect again.
The cyndrical capsule stood at the very end of a row of the things. They were identical in all respects - uniform grey, polished metal, like oversized drinks cans with a hinge at one end. Their only defining features were the numbers and names printed in black at the foot of each. No indication of their contents within. And each one was connected to a massive series of pumps that had, long ago, stopped pumping whatever it was into them, now rusted and still.
Whatever had been in those tanks, whatever project the scientists of the Curse had been tinkering on, had probably long died. Never to be unleashed against the Kobbers.
At least, that was the assumption.
WARNING: Critical power supply failure detected. Connecting to backup power systems...
ALERT: Unable to connect to backup power systems.
WARNING: Internal life support battery at 0.04%.
The tank marked "KK-010 LILITH" began to flash a warning light at the top. A loud beeping noise came from somewhere inside, probably an automated system. But that was quickly drowned out by the muted but furious thumping from within, like fists were bashing against the interior.
Something clicked.
WARNING: Potential danger to subject's life functions: 99.8%.
Disengaging subject from life support... Complete.
Commencing automatic ejection of subject.
Like some perverse clam, a parody of that famous painting, the tank cracked open. Pale blue, viscous fluid drooled stickily from the sides. A light shone from within, almost etherial, filtered to blue by the fluid. Something inside writhed like a newborn shark inside the egg-case.
DANGER: Power supply-
The monitor flicked off. The lights and sounds ceased. The door ground to a final, almost disappointed halt.
It had, however, opened far enough. The thing inside bucked and writhed, seeking an opening. It found one, and got a foot over the lip of the tank, then another. The legs followed, the hips pivoting to help pull the rest of the body along for the ride. One foot touched the ground, then gave way almost immediately, the concept of "standing up" too new to it. With a decisive thump and a gasp, the thing that lived in Tank KK-010 slid out and hit the floor in a heap.
But darkness had turned to light, silence had turned to noise. And it was too much all at once.
She gagged and spluttered. She writhed on the sticky floor in the manner of all newborns thrown suddenly into the world. She clawed at her eyes and ears, everything too bright and too loud. She tried to speak and instead puked more amnotic gel onto the floor. Her first breath was ragged, and then she clutched at her own throat as she tried to stop it, terrified by the sensation of air in her lungs.
Thoughts flashed through her head, and they terrified her more. They were fast, too fast, and she couldn't catch any single one. She tried to stop them by bashing her head against the edge of the tank. But the pain made her collapse again, wheezing. She scratched at her skin - which scraped, why did it scrape? - and clawed at the thing that revolved and hummed where her abdomen should be - why was that there, why, what for?
"Fuuuuuck," was her first word. She didn't know what a fuck was, or how she knew about it. But it seemed like the best word to use at the moment. Harsh and sharp. It described her entry to the world perfectly.
A single thought suddenly struck her. She didn't even know if it was hers. But this one stuck like stubborn wasp on a window.
Get outside.
Outside? What was outside? She felt cool air on her skin, and wondered if that was where outside was. Her eyes still stung, but she could make out shapes and colours now. She could feel the floor beneath her, hear the hum of some great machine far off beneath her own hyperventilating and spitting. And speaking of, she could taste - and smell - the nutrient fluid. Ugh, like ammonia and mustard in an abusive relationship. Whatever those were.
Somehow, she managed to roll onto her stomach. This made her puke another quantity of fluid from her lungs. Once that was out of the way, she braced her arms against the floor and pushed. They were still very weak, and all she could do was lift her chest off the floor. But it was enough.
She reached out and grasped the ground ahead of her, then pulled. Then she did it again. And when it proved too slow, her legs got in on the act, feet pushing where arms pulled.
There was a light ahead of her.
She crawled towards it.
Yet CRAY and Seanet had been defeated. And with their downfall had come the downfall of this place. Now it was nothing more than a rotting shell - lab equipment, computer monitors and cabling left to decompose like a whale's beached corpse, with not even any warning lights illuminating it.
But even this would have consequences.
-------
Somewhere, a computer monitor flared to life once more.
WARNING: Unable to connect to power supply. Check power cable connection and reconnect again.
The cyndrical capsule stood at the very end of a row of the things. They were identical in all respects - uniform grey, polished metal, like oversized drinks cans with a hinge at one end. Their only defining features were the numbers and names printed in black at the foot of each. No indication of their contents within. And each one was connected to a massive series of pumps that had, long ago, stopped pumping whatever it was into them, now rusted and still.
Whatever had been in those tanks, whatever project the scientists of the Curse had been tinkering on, had probably long died. Never to be unleashed against the Kobbers.
At least, that was the assumption.
WARNING: Critical power supply failure detected. Connecting to backup power systems...
ALERT: Unable to connect to backup power systems.
WARNING: Internal life support battery at 0.04%.
The tank marked "KK-010 LILITH" began to flash a warning light at the top. A loud beeping noise came from somewhere inside, probably an automated system. But that was quickly drowned out by the muted but furious thumping from within, like fists were bashing against the interior.
Something clicked.
WARNING: Potential danger to subject's life functions: 99.8%.
Disengaging subject from life support... Complete.
Commencing automatic ejection of subject.
Like some perverse clam, a parody of that famous painting, the tank cracked open. Pale blue, viscous fluid drooled stickily from the sides. A light shone from within, almost etherial, filtered to blue by the fluid. Something inside writhed like a newborn shark inside the egg-case.
DANGER: Power supply-
The monitor flicked off. The lights and sounds ceased. The door ground to a final, almost disappointed halt.
It had, however, opened far enough. The thing inside bucked and writhed, seeking an opening. It found one, and got a foot over the lip of the tank, then another. The legs followed, the hips pivoting to help pull the rest of the body along for the ride. One foot touched the ground, then gave way almost immediately, the concept of "standing up" too new to it. With a decisive thump and a gasp, the thing that lived in Tank KK-010 slid out and hit the floor in a heap.
But darkness had turned to light, silence had turned to noise. And it was too much all at once.
She gagged and spluttered. She writhed on the sticky floor in the manner of all newborns thrown suddenly into the world. She clawed at her eyes and ears, everything too bright and too loud. She tried to speak and instead puked more amnotic gel onto the floor. Her first breath was ragged, and then she clutched at her own throat as she tried to stop it, terrified by the sensation of air in her lungs.
Thoughts flashed through her head, and they terrified her more. They were fast, too fast, and she couldn't catch any single one. She tried to stop them by bashing her head against the edge of the tank. But the pain made her collapse again, wheezing. She scratched at her skin - which scraped, why did it scrape? - and clawed at the thing that revolved and hummed where her abdomen should be - why was that there, why, what for?
"Fuuuuuck," was her first word. She didn't know what a fuck was, or how she knew about it. But it seemed like the best word to use at the moment. Harsh and sharp. It described her entry to the world perfectly.
A single thought suddenly struck her. She didn't even know if it was hers. But this one stuck like stubborn wasp on a window.
Get outside.
Outside? What was outside? She felt cool air on her skin, and wondered if that was where outside was. Her eyes still stung, but she could make out shapes and colours now. She could feel the floor beneath her, hear the hum of some great machine far off beneath her own hyperventilating and spitting. And speaking of, she could taste - and smell - the nutrient fluid. Ugh, like ammonia and mustard in an abusive relationship. Whatever those were.
Somehow, she managed to roll onto her stomach. This made her puke another quantity of fluid from her lungs. Once that was out of the way, she braced her arms against the floor and pushed. They were still very weak, and all she could do was lift her chest off the floor. But it was enough.
She reached out and grasped the ground ahead of her, then pulled. Then she did it again. And when it proved too slow, her legs got in on the act, feet pushing where arms pulled.
There was a light ahead of her.
She crawled towards it.
Sunday, 2 February 2020
The Epic Trailer
Next time, on Quiz Quest...
"It's over, Ego! The Stones of Mystery may be yours, but I've solved all their riddles and defeated your Enigma monsters! Your power's gone! You've no hope of winning!"
What should have been the final battle...
"Don't be so sure, pathetic human! I may not have the power I once possessed over your planet and your people..."
...and the final answer to all things...
"...but I can still do THIS!"
"What?! No... that can't be!"
...takes a dark turn.
"Say goodbye to your future, Quiz! Because it's MY future now! GYA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA!"
"NOOOOOOOO-"
This year... The past must be uncovered... the future must be saved... and the ultimate question must be answered...
"Who were... the Kobbers?"
--------
As the commercial ended, the brown-haired youth turned to the only other person in that smokey room and beamed.
"Well?" he asked. His voice was like a child that had just made a modern-art masterpiece at the making table in primary school. Which was somewhat incogrous given he was very clearly in his mid-late twenties and, thanks to the pinstripe jacket and fedora he was wearing, somehow looked a lot older.
The other figure, older and portlier, pulled the cigar from his mouth and let the smoke roll forth for a bit.
"I still think it's a lotta hooey," he said at last.
The youth's shoulders slumped. "Oh, come on, pop!"
"No, I told ya before!" the man insisted, gesturing with the cigar. "You'ze wastin' your time with this ridikerous show! If the papes are roight - which itself is a freakin' miracle - you're ratin's 'ave been plummetin' like concrete shoes in a lagoon! If dis bombs-"
"Bombs?!" The youth threw up his hands. "How can it bomb?! We've got everything worked out! Marketing, location, sponsorships! And I've got my best agents-"
"Ya mean, the most crooked ones," snapped the man. "The ones whose palms ya greased so hard, they couldn't even hold their own dickie-birds."
The youth looked at him as though he'd just said the sky was blue. "Well, obviously.
"No, pop," he insisted as the older man rolled his eyes, "that' just what showbiz is! The entire thing's corrupt, everyone's a crook, and the only way to get by is to latch onto the bigger crooks and ride their coattails! You taught me that, pop!"
"I don't remember teachin' ya to prance aroun' in a budget Mardi-Gras costume!"
"Must have been drunk that day, then," came the retort.
The older man sighed and brushed a hand through iron-gray hair. It was clear that he'd had this kind of talk with the youth - his son, apparently - before. But it was hard to tell if he was more exasperated, annoyed or upset by the remark. He quickly jammed the cigar between his teeth again in an effort to stop thinking about that.
"Look, kid," he said. "I know dis is what you'ze wanna be doin'. An' I don't begrudge ya nuttin'. But I still tink you'd be better off gettin' out. What's gonna 'appen when those vampires all up in that studio drain yer dry and kick yer out again? When is you gonna tink of your family and show 'em a little more respeck?"
The youth sighed in return. "Pop, we've been over this. I'm on television now! People know my name and I'm loved by millions! And they kept saying saying I couldn't do it because of who I was, because I was Manny Tamboia's kid. Isn't that enough respect?"
"An' annuver thing," cut in Manny, "you'ze never gonna get the actual, for-real Kobbers! They gots better tings ta do than mess about with yer lousy games!"
The youth suddenly gave a grin. It was a fox's grin - all charm on the outside, but hiding a mind like a steel trap. It actually made the older man recoil slightly.
"Oh, no? Just wait until they get a taste of what I've got to offer them. The moment they hear about it, they'll be flocking to get on stage with me. And then..."
He snapped his fingers as though pulling off a magic trick.
"It's over, Ego! The Stones of Mystery may be yours, but I've solved all their riddles and defeated your Enigma monsters! Your power's gone! You've no hope of winning!"
What should have been the final battle...
"Don't be so sure, pathetic human! I may not have the power I once possessed over your planet and your people..."
...and the final answer to all things...
"...but I can still do THIS!"
"What?! No... that can't be!"
...takes a dark turn.
"Say goodbye to your future, Quiz! Because it's MY future now! GYA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA!"
"NOOOOOOOO-"
This year... The past must be uncovered... the future must be saved... and the ultimate question must be answered...
"Who were... the Kobbers?"
QUIZ QUEST: The Final Problem
Coming soon...
--------
As the commercial ended, the brown-haired youth turned to the only other person in that smokey room and beamed.
"Well?" he asked. His voice was like a child that had just made a modern-art masterpiece at the making table in primary school. Which was somewhat incogrous given he was very clearly in his mid-late twenties and, thanks to the pinstripe jacket and fedora he was wearing, somehow looked a lot older.
The other figure, older and portlier, pulled the cigar from his mouth and let the smoke roll forth for a bit.
"I still think it's a lotta hooey," he said at last.
The youth's shoulders slumped. "Oh, come on, pop!"
"No, I told ya before!" the man insisted, gesturing with the cigar. "You'ze wastin' your time with this ridikerous show! If the papes are roight - which itself is a freakin' miracle - you're ratin's 'ave been plummetin' like concrete shoes in a lagoon! If dis bombs-"
"Bombs?!" The youth threw up his hands. "How can it bomb?! We've got everything worked out! Marketing, location, sponsorships! And I've got my best agents-"
"Ya mean, the most crooked ones," snapped the man. "The ones whose palms ya greased so hard, they couldn't even hold their own dickie-birds."
The youth looked at him as though he'd just said the sky was blue. "Well, obviously.
"No, pop," he insisted as the older man rolled his eyes, "that' just what showbiz is! The entire thing's corrupt, everyone's a crook, and the only way to get by is to latch onto the bigger crooks and ride their coattails! You taught me that, pop!"
"I don't remember teachin' ya to prance aroun' in a budget Mardi-Gras costume!"
"Must have been drunk that day, then," came the retort.
The older man sighed and brushed a hand through iron-gray hair. It was clear that he'd had this kind of talk with the youth - his son, apparently - before. But it was hard to tell if he was more exasperated, annoyed or upset by the remark. He quickly jammed the cigar between his teeth again in an effort to stop thinking about that.
"Look, kid," he said. "I know dis is what you'ze wanna be doin'. An' I don't begrudge ya nuttin'. But I still tink you'd be better off gettin' out. What's gonna 'appen when those vampires all up in that studio drain yer dry and kick yer out again? When is you gonna tink of your family and show 'em a little more respeck?"
The youth sighed in return. "Pop, we've been over this. I'm on television now! People know my name and I'm loved by millions! And they kept saying saying I couldn't do it because of who I was, because I was Manny Tamboia's kid. Isn't that enough respect?"
"An' annuver thing," cut in Manny, "you'ze never gonna get the actual, for-real Kobbers! They gots better tings ta do than mess about with yer lousy games!"
The youth suddenly gave a grin. It was a fox's grin - all charm on the outside, but hiding a mind like a steel trap. It actually made the older man recoil slightly.
"Oh, no? Just wait until they get a taste of what I've got to offer them. The moment they hear about it, they'll be flocking to get on stage with me. And then..."
He snapped his fingers as though pulling off a magic trick.
"...showtime."
Introducing
BARTOLOMEO "BART" TAMBOIA
aka KAMEN RIDER QUIZ
"...I still can't believe you'ze my kid."
"I know, right? It's great!"
"I know, right? It's great!"
Wednesday, 24 April 2019
Test Track
~F-ZERO TEST TRACK, UNSPECIFIED LOCATION, EARTH~
"This is probably a bad idea."
Shockingly, it was not Stephen saying that. It was Russel, stopwatch in hand. And he was staring at Pele, the very dented Toyota AE86 Sprinter Trueno with considerable apprehension. Which was more than justified, as the car now appeared to have a rejected prop from Back to the Future stapled to the back of it. It hummed gently, which served as a contrast to the almost impatient and irritated snarling of the car's real engine.
Noodle's frizzy hair appeared from the passenger window. Underneath it, she was grinning maniacally.
"Hey, it worked when we went into space" she trilled over the rumbling noises. "It's gotta work on the track, too, right?" She patted the side of the Trueno, which seemed to growl in response.
"But that was us going into space!" protested the Boston drummer. "Escape velocity! This is actual steering and manouvering, with gravity and friction and all that shit! That booster wasn't designed for that kind of thing, baby-girl!"
"Only Stephen-kun gets to call me that now," Noodle retorted, sticking her tongue out at him.
But Russel's expression didn't change. His eyes kept flicking between the car itself and the looping, curving racetrack that stretched out in front of him. The addition of the hyperdrive had been a last-minute botch-job, under concerns that Pele as she stood wasn't qualified for the F-Zero track. But as much as he'd tried to modify it, Russel had no clue if it would even work. He could only see two endings - the engine exploding, or the car shooting off into the sky before exploding.
They ended surprisingly similar to each other.
Noodle ducked back into the car and out of sight.
"How we doin'?" Russel heard her ask her pilot.
"I dunno." Stephen's voice, muffled as it was behind the rest of the car, sounded confused. "Engine seems really hot already, and the oil pressure... She's not happy, Noodle."
"Eh, she'll be fine," was the retort. "Put her in gear, Steph! Let's get going!"
There was a metallic racheting noise as Stephen fought against a gearbox that suddenly seemed unwilling to co-operate. Russel hadn't noticed before, but Pele seemed to be trembling, the body vibrating as if under tension. He didn't like to think of the car as alive - that was ascribing too much to it on the whole. But he could have sworn that the way the engine rumbled and the wheels twitched seemed...
Almost angry.
He raised the stop watch.
"Ready?" he shouted.
No answer from the inside. So Russel took it as his cue.
"GO!" And he clicked the-
Pele took off.
To understand that last sentence, do not imagine a car moving off from the starting line. Imagine a car exploding briefly into white fire before shooting forwards at comet speeds, bellowing like an angry dragon all the while. And imagine a very terrified drummer from a cartoon band throwing himself to the floor with a yell as heat washed over him.
When Russel could look again, the car was gone. And the hyperdrive engine that had taken a whole week to retrofit was in pieces on the start line.
He stared at it.
"At least I ain't payin' Pickle-Puss for the privelage," he muttered.
------
When the car finally came rocketing back and slid to a stop over the line, it had shaved an entire five seconds off the previous record-holder. Russel nearly forgot to click the stopwatch off in his shock. And then he spent several seconds staring at a car that, rather than tearing itself apart from g-forces and velocity, was instead quietly simmering as if to say "Ta-daaaaaaah!"
Inside the car, Stephen and Noodle were a mess. Their faces were sweaty, their hair was wild and tangled and their expressions were pictues of shock. They looked like they hadn't stopped screaming for a long, long while. They blinked owlishly, staring ahead as if trying to see ghosts - and having probably seen plenty already.
There was a very long silence indeed. It was marred only by the quiet purring of the engine.
"I think," Stephen murmered at last, "that she doesn't like being altered."
"Yeah." Noodle tried and failed to smooth down the explosion that was her hair. "Let's... let's keep her like this."
Pele snorted steam from her grille. It sounded almost smug and self-satisfied.
"This is probably a bad idea."
Shockingly, it was not Stephen saying that. It was Russel, stopwatch in hand. And he was staring at Pele, the very dented Toyota AE86 Sprinter Trueno with considerable apprehension. Which was more than justified, as the car now appeared to have a rejected prop from Back to the Future stapled to the back of it. It hummed gently, which served as a contrast to the almost impatient and irritated snarling of the car's real engine.
Noodle's frizzy hair appeared from the passenger window. Underneath it, she was grinning maniacally.
"Hey, it worked when we went into space" she trilled over the rumbling noises. "It's gotta work on the track, too, right?" She patted the side of the Trueno, which seemed to growl in response.
"But that was us going into space!" protested the Boston drummer. "Escape velocity! This is actual steering and manouvering, with gravity and friction and all that shit! That booster wasn't designed for that kind of thing, baby-girl!"
"Only Stephen-kun gets to call me that now," Noodle retorted, sticking her tongue out at him.
But Russel's expression didn't change. His eyes kept flicking between the car itself and the looping, curving racetrack that stretched out in front of him. The addition of the hyperdrive had been a last-minute botch-job, under concerns that Pele as she stood wasn't qualified for the F-Zero track. But as much as he'd tried to modify it, Russel had no clue if it would even work. He could only see two endings - the engine exploding, or the car shooting off into the sky before exploding.
They ended surprisingly similar to each other.
Noodle ducked back into the car and out of sight.
"How we doin'?" Russel heard her ask her pilot.
"I dunno." Stephen's voice, muffled as it was behind the rest of the car, sounded confused. "Engine seems really hot already, and the oil pressure... She's not happy, Noodle."
"Eh, she'll be fine," was the retort. "Put her in gear, Steph! Let's get going!"
There was a metallic racheting noise as Stephen fought against a gearbox that suddenly seemed unwilling to co-operate. Russel hadn't noticed before, but Pele seemed to be trembling, the body vibrating as if under tension. He didn't like to think of the car as alive - that was ascribing too much to it on the whole. But he could have sworn that the way the engine rumbled and the wheels twitched seemed...
Almost angry.
He raised the stop watch.
"Ready?" he shouted.
No answer from the inside. So Russel took it as his cue.
"GO!" And he clicked the-
Pele took off.
To understand that last sentence, do not imagine a car moving off from the starting line. Imagine a car exploding briefly into white fire before shooting forwards at comet speeds, bellowing like an angry dragon all the while. And imagine a very terrified drummer from a cartoon band throwing himself to the floor with a yell as heat washed over him.
When Russel could look again, the car was gone. And the hyperdrive engine that had taken a whole week to retrofit was in pieces on the start line.
He stared at it.
"At least I ain't payin' Pickle-Puss for the privelage," he muttered.
------
When the car finally came rocketing back and slid to a stop over the line, it had shaved an entire five seconds off the previous record-holder. Russel nearly forgot to click the stopwatch off in his shock. And then he spent several seconds staring at a car that, rather than tearing itself apart from g-forces and velocity, was instead quietly simmering as if to say "Ta-daaaaaaah!"
Inside the car, Stephen and Noodle were a mess. Their faces were sweaty, their hair was wild and tangled and their expressions were pictues of shock. They looked like they hadn't stopped screaming for a long, long while. They blinked owlishly, staring ahead as if trying to see ghosts - and having probably seen plenty already.
There was a very long silence indeed. It was marred only by the quiet purring of the engine.
"I think," Stephen murmered at last, "that she doesn't like being altered."
"Yeah." Noodle tried and failed to smooth down the explosion that was her hair. "Let's... let's keep her like this."
Pele snorted steam from her grille. It sounded almost smug and self-satisfied.
Friday, 19 April 2019
Cops VS Robbers
It ought to have been easy. It was the first big break the Lupinrangers had since coming to Olympia. The Gravitas Museum of Art, Science and History was holding a once-in-a-lifetime exhibition, The Treasure of the Ryusou Tribe, to display a groundbreaking archeological discovery. Their prize was part of the collection that was behing housed here for a while, to be displayed in May before being transferred into storage for proper scientific study.
Of course, it was the opinion of the trio that they should have it instead. The man who'd made the discovery had some very old-fashioned ideas about how wealth should be distributed. What better middle finger would it be to yank his hobby out from under his pretentious nose?
They got as far as lowering Touma - Blue - down through the skylight where their target was kept. They had to stifle laughter at themselves to avoid being detected. Seriously, who put something valuable in a glass case underneath a skylight? That was literally asking for somebody to drop down and steal it! Then again, with the Dial Fighters having the ability to unlock literally everything, almost every job seemed easy to them.
Touma was on the point of unlocking the glass case containing the artefact when it went wrong.
But not in the way the Lupinrangers expected. They expected alarms blaring, red lights flashing. Instead, the lights just slammed on to full power with an audible thunk. Practically blinded, Umi - Yellow - nearly let go of the winch that held Blue up, and he would have fallen bodily onto the floor if she'd lost her grip. Touma, for his part, had to shield his hands with both eyes, dropping his Dial Fighter in the process.
"The hell?!" Kairi - Red - cried. He'd been sure they were quiet enough. There was no way they could have been detected, not by the security systems or by the on-duty night guards. So who would even be around to-
"Halt!"
Of course, it was the opinion of the trio that they should have it instead. The man who'd made the discovery had some very old-fashioned ideas about how wealth should be distributed. What better middle finger would it be to yank his hobby out from under his pretentious nose?
They got as far as lowering Touma - Blue - down through the skylight where their target was kept. They had to stifle laughter at themselves to avoid being detected. Seriously, who put something valuable in a glass case underneath a skylight? That was literally asking for somebody to drop down and steal it! Then again, with the Dial Fighters having the ability to unlock literally everything, almost every job seemed easy to them.
Touma was on the point of unlocking the glass case containing the artefact when it went wrong.
But not in the way the Lupinrangers expected. They expected alarms blaring, red lights flashing. Instead, the lights just slammed on to full power with an audible thunk. Practically blinded, Umi - Yellow - nearly let go of the winch that held Blue up, and he would have fallen bodily onto the floor if she'd lost her grip. Touma, for his part, had to shield his hands with both eyes, dropping his Dial Fighter in the process.
"The hell?!" Kairi - Red - cried. He'd been sure they were quiet enough. There was no way they could have been detected, not by the security systems or by the on-duty night guards. So who would even be around to-
"Halt!"
Tuesday, 9 April 2019
King of Time - Interlude
"Why do you eat your hot dog like that?"
Vince was supposed to be eating a hot dog. But he wasn't, because he was distracted with the way Kouta was eating his hot dog.
"Why do you eat it like that?"
Kouta was sitting on the opposite end of the table from him. His cheeks were full and his jaw was working. But he was glaring back with childish defiance.
"I hate it when you eat your hot dog from the middle."
Vince's hot dog was untouched. But Kouta's had a bite right in the centre. Not the place one usually begins eating a hot dog. Vince had never seen anyone eat a hot dog this way, and now that he had, his world was crumbling from beneath him.
"Stop eating the middle of the hot dog and eat it the right way."
Kouta said nothing. He continued to chew and glare. The bite in the middle of the hot dog persisted.
"Why are you doing this to me, kid? You're driving me crazy."
Did others eat their hot dogs this way? Vince wasn't sure. But the fact that Kouta, aka Kamen Rider Zi-O, had just done it had horrible implications. Somewhere out there, there was a cabal of heretics who ate hot dogs in this perverse faction. Convinced that this was the proper way to dine on a sausage between bread and smothered with toppings.
He could not allow this. It was time to be the cool mentor guy again.
"Okay, look," said Vince, picking up his hot dog. "This is how you do it. You take the weiner out of the bun-"
"Are you crazy?!" howled Kouta.
~FIN~
Monday, 8 April 2019
King of Time Part 4
(NOTE:
The following is an off-season collab that has no bearing on 2018 and
2019 RP. Special thanks to TheDeleter for writing Vince and Draco for writing Parsee.)
Kouta Tokiwa, looking at the stranger, had a bad feeling. He’d been having them a lot recently, but this one was the most severe. There was something subconsciously wrong about the newcomer, an underlying sense that he felt out of place and didn’t belong. There was a faint aura around him, barely perceptible - a kind of haze that made him look as though he was a badly-applied sticker in a children’s picture book.
The body of the middle-aged man lying in front of him didn’t help matters.
“What do you mean?” he asked, at last. “Change the future how?”
The stranger’s mouth turned up in a smirk. His voice was oddly soft and quiet. But he never took his eyes of Kouta as he spoke.
“His daughter was dying. The Bugster Virus is due to claim her life in a week. So I gave him the power to save her. The power of Ex-Aid, the rider who cured disease. By defeating him, you’ve stopped the future from changing and doomed her.”
“That’s horseshit,” said Vince from behind Kouta. “I’m pretty sure we have, like, five doctors who could cure that shit without thinking.”
The smirk widened. “That’s not what the history books say, Ex-Aid.”
“Fuck the history books, they’re written by assholes.”
Kouta decided to chip in before things got ugly. Not that they weren’t going to anyway, but still.
“...and who are you?”
“My name is Heure,” the stranger explained. “I’m one of the Time Jackers.”
“Gross,” said Vince.
Heure ignored him. “We’re from the year 2068. As you already know, that world is ruled by Emperor Zi-O, who commands all of time and space. The entire planet is a dictatorship and all those who oppose his rule are destroyed.”
“Let me guess.” Kouta rolled his eyes. “you want to stop Zi-O from becoming Emperor. Look, I already dealt with a guy who-”
“Of course not!”
Kouta Tokiwa, looking at the stranger, had a bad feeling. He’d been having them a lot recently, but this one was the most severe. There was something subconsciously wrong about the newcomer, an underlying sense that he felt out of place and didn’t belong. There was a faint aura around him, barely perceptible - a kind of haze that made him look as though he was a badly-applied sticker in a children’s picture book.
The body of the middle-aged man lying in front of him didn’t help matters.
“What do you mean?” he asked, at last. “Change the future how?”
The stranger’s mouth turned up in a smirk. His voice was oddly soft and quiet. But he never took his eyes of Kouta as he spoke.
“His daughter was dying. The Bugster Virus is due to claim her life in a week. So I gave him the power to save her. The power of Ex-Aid, the rider who cured disease. By defeating him, you’ve stopped the future from changing and doomed her.”
“That’s horseshit,” said Vince from behind Kouta. “I’m pretty sure we have, like, five doctors who could cure that shit without thinking.”
The smirk widened. “That’s not what the history books say, Ex-Aid.”
“Fuck the history books, they’re written by assholes.”
Kouta decided to chip in before things got ugly. Not that they weren’t going to anyway, but still.
“...and who are you?”
“My name is Heure,” the stranger explained. “I’m one of the Time Jackers.”
“Gross,” said Vince.
Heure ignored him. “We’re from the year 2068. As you already know, that world is ruled by Emperor Zi-O, who commands all of time and space. The entire planet is a dictatorship and all those who oppose his rule are destroyed.”
“Let me guess.” Kouta rolled his eyes. “you want to stop Zi-O from becoming Emperor. Look, I already dealt with a guy who-”
“Of course not!”
Tuesday, 5 February 2019
King of Time Part 3
(NOTE: The following is an off-season collab that has no bearing on 2018 or 2019 RP. Special thanks to TheDeleter for writing Vince, Cornwind Evil for writing Dawn and TheRubyChao for writing Kaede.)
“Harold Kelman?”
The aged British man, former head of the Ministry of Joy, looked up from where he sat.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
The young man grinned. “Nope. But I know you. They say a lot about you in the history books.”
Kelman snorted. “Nothing good, I’ll be bound.”
“Yeah, they don’t talk much about the Smiler stuff. That was kinda whack. Still amazed a whole nation bought into Martian psychic therapy.”
“Amazing what you can sell if you package it right.” The old man laughed, but there was no humour in it.
The stranger took the seat next to him. He sat back easily, as if unconcerned with what was going on in the older man’s mind. There was a long pause as the duo stared at the opposite wall of the waiting room.
“...are you here to see someone?” Kelman asked.
“Nope, just passing through. You?”
Kelman stared. “That’s rather private, isn’t it?”
“Hey, I’m a chatty guy. I like to get to know people.”
A longer pause. And then Kelman heaved a huge sigh, looking more old and tired than ever.
“My daughter. She… developed some kind of viral infection. The doctors can’t seem to identify it, but she’s… very weak. I pay her a visit every day I can. But with my busy schedule, I fear that someday she might… slip away. When I’m not there to comfort her. Ironic, that my brother created Marmalization to ease pain, and yet now I can’t do anything for my own child.”
His voice became cracked, emotion leaking through. The stranger sucked in air through his teeth.
“Damn,” he remarked. “Heavy. No dad should have to see their kid go before them.”
“And you would know?” Harold’s tone was almost droll.
“No. But I’ve seen it happen again and again, where I come from. Children getting their lives cut short, right in front of the people who love them the most. It’s messed up. Imagine having to cradle the body of your own family when their only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Harold sighed, but offered no comment. There was an even longer silence.
“You care a lot for your daughter,” the stranger said.
“Obviously.” Another humourless laugh.
Then Kelman looked over at the stranger. And he sensed something seemed off when he saw the tiny smirk at the corner of the younger man’s mouth. But he was old, and couldn’t be sure. Ever since the Smiler incident, he’d gone a little paranoid, always looking over his shoulder…
“Would you save her yourself, if you could?” asked the stranger.
The sense of wrongness grew.
“...more than anything.”
Then the stranger turned to him and looked him dead in the eye.
“Harold Kelman. History says that your daughter dies in a week, from the Bugster Virus. But I’ve come to change that. I can give you the power to save your daughter and make things right. In return, I need you to do something for me. Think of it as equivalent exchange - I scratch your back, you scratch mine. There’s a lot at stake, Harold Kelman, and I wouldn’t come to you if I didn’t think you weren’t the man who could do this.”
The former head of the Ministry felt very much like a cornered canary before the cat strikes.
“Do what?” he asked.
The stranger pulled something from his pocket.
“Save the future.”
“Harold Kelman?”
The aged British man, former head of the Ministry of Joy, looked up from where he sat.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
The young man grinned. “Nope. But I know you. They say a lot about you in the history books.”
Kelman snorted. “Nothing good, I’ll be bound.”
“Yeah, they don’t talk much about the Smiler stuff. That was kinda whack. Still amazed a whole nation bought into Martian psychic therapy.”
“Amazing what you can sell if you package it right.” The old man laughed, but there was no humour in it.
The stranger took the seat next to him. He sat back easily, as if unconcerned with what was going on in the older man’s mind. There was a long pause as the duo stared at the opposite wall of the waiting room.
“...are you here to see someone?” Kelman asked.
“Nope, just passing through. You?”
Kelman stared. “That’s rather private, isn’t it?”
“Hey, I’m a chatty guy. I like to get to know people.”
A longer pause. And then Kelman heaved a huge sigh, looking more old and tired than ever.
“My daughter. She… developed some kind of viral infection. The doctors can’t seem to identify it, but she’s… very weak. I pay her a visit every day I can. But with my busy schedule, I fear that someday she might… slip away. When I’m not there to comfort her. Ironic, that my brother created Marmalization to ease pain, and yet now I can’t do anything for my own child.”
His voice became cracked, emotion leaking through. The stranger sucked in air through his teeth.
“Damn,” he remarked. “Heavy. No dad should have to see their kid go before them.”
“And you would know?” Harold’s tone was almost droll.
“No. But I’ve seen it happen again and again, where I come from. Children getting their lives cut short, right in front of the people who love them the most. It’s messed up. Imagine having to cradle the body of your own family when their only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Harold sighed, but offered no comment. There was an even longer silence.
“You care a lot for your daughter,” the stranger said.
“Obviously.” Another humourless laugh.
Then Kelman looked over at the stranger. And he sensed something seemed off when he saw the tiny smirk at the corner of the younger man’s mouth. But he was old, and couldn’t be sure. Ever since the Smiler incident, he’d gone a little paranoid, always looking over his shoulder…
“Would you save her yourself, if you could?” asked the stranger.
The sense of wrongness grew.
“...more than anything.”
Then the stranger turned to him and looked him dead in the eye.
“Harold Kelman. History says that your daughter dies in a week, from the Bugster Virus. But I’ve come to change that. I can give you the power to save your daughter and make things right. In return, I need you to do something for me. Think of it as equivalent exchange - I scratch your back, you scratch mine. There’s a lot at stake, Harold Kelman, and I wouldn’t come to you if I didn’t think you weren’t the man who could do this.”
The former head of the Ministry felt very much like a cornered canary before the cat strikes.
“Do what?” he asked.
The stranger pulled something from his pocket.
Sunday, 25 November 2018
King of Time Part 2
(NOTE: The following is an off-season collab that has no bearing on 2018 and 2019 RP. Special thanks to TheDeleter for writing Vince and Cornwind Evil for writing Dawn.)
~THE TEAPOT~
It had taken one or two more explanations from Vince and Kouta before Dawn understood what was needed of her. And then her eyes lit up with curiosity.
“Well, well. An original Rider. We're moving up in the world.” Her eyes flickered as she scanned the Space-Time Driver, which was lying on top of the work table. “Right at the start of his calling, too. For better or for worse.”
Kouta did not look any less out of place or in the loop than he had at the start. It was kind of crazy, how quickly he’d gone from kicking a future cop in the face to being very confused. He’d only barely grasped that Dawn was an android - not that Vince’s explanation had helped much.
“...I'm sorry,” he said, “am I supposed to understand any of this? Because I feel like I should, but I'm not.”
Dawn fixed him with a look.
“What do you know about Kamen Riders, Mr Tokiwa? Appropriate name, by the way.”
“Some parents can be so cruel.” Vince, standing off to the side, watched the proceedings with mild disinterest.
Kouta shrugged.” Didn't the news come up with that term? I think it's kinda silly. Why not just call them "Masked" Riders instead of shoving some random Japanese in there?”
“Ever heard of a contronym, Mr. Tokiwa? It's a word that means both what it means and its opposite. Take the word bolt. It can be used in sentences to denote securing AND fleeing.” Dawn picked up the driver and turned it over. “My point is, language is weird and you never know what quirks are gonna stick despite themselves. So, that's all you know? News reports?”
“Pretty much. Um…” Kouta scratched his head. “They wear weird belts and they fight monsters?”
“Basically yes. At the core, each Rider is a sort of greater 'immune response' to a large problem. The Gaim Riders, for example, were a way to keep an invasive alternate dimension from consuming our planet. Vince here, however, is NOT the Ex-Aid that was called to deal with the danger Ex-Aid was tasked to stop. That was a man named Emu Hojo. He succeeded, and the mantle moved on to Vince. He is, for lack of a better term, a copy.”
Vince rolled his eyes. "Ow, my self-esteem."
Dawn ignored him. “My son is not the original Build. I borrowed an original Rider's powers briefly myself for a time. It's gotten easier over the years, probably as the ease of Riders copying each other's powers grew. Your attacker copied the abilities of Shinnosuke Tomari, Kamen Rider Drive, who was a good guy, not a would be assassin.
“But you, Mr Tokiwa?” She fixed Tokiwa with another look. “You are the chosen original of the Rider Mantle called Zi-O. Your great task, whatever it may be, lies ahead. That also means you haven't begun to fully understand and increase your power, but that's fine, we'll compensate.”
There was a pause.
“...okay, then?” Kouta looked even more lost than before.
"Don't worry, you'll figure it out,” remarked Vince from the corner. “I did."
“Trust me,” put in Dawn as she set the Driver down. “If Vince can fumble his way into being a worthy heir… but I digress.”
"You're killing me here. Don't get no respect."
Again, Dawn ignored the peanut gallery. “So. You are being targeted by some time cop who wants to kill you because you turn into someone bad. You maniacs. You blew it up…” she muttered, rolling her eyes.
Kouta nodded. “That pretty much sums him up. He was wearing a weird belt like mine, too. Although Vince's store copied his belt to make mine, so maybe it should be the other way around?” He looked at the Driver. It continued to sit there and provide no answers.
“Or it summoned the belt you were meant to have, having seen an example of belts that would be based on yours in the future.”
Dawn was met with a blank stare of incomprehension.
~THE TEAPOT~
It had taken one or two more explanations from Vince and Kouta before Dawn understood what was needed of her. And then her eyes lit up with curiosity.
“Well, well. An original Rider. We're moving up in the world.” Her eyes flickered as she scanned the Space-Time Driver, which was lying on top of the work table. “Right at the start of his calling, too. For better or for worse.”
Kouta did not look any less out of place or in the loop than he had at the start. It was kind of crazy, how quickly he’d gone from kicking a future cop in the face to being very confused. He’d only barely grasped that Dawn was an android - not that Vince’s explanation had helped much.
“...I'm sorry,” he said, “am I supposed to understand any of this? Because I feel like I should, but I'm not.”
Dawn fixed him with a look.
“What do you know about Kamen Riders, Mr Tokiwa? Appropriate name, by the way.”
“Some parents can be so cruel.” Vince, standing off to the side, watched the proceedings with mild disinterest.
Kouta shrugged.” Didn't the news come up with that term? I think it's kinda silly. Why not just call them "Masked" Riders instead of shoving some random Japanese in there?”
“Ever heard of a contronym, Mr. Tokiwa? It's a word that means both what it means and its opposite. Take the word bolt. It can be used in sentences to denote securing AND fleeing.” Dawn picked up the driver and turned it over. “My point is, language is weird and you never know what quirks are gonna stick despite themselves. So, that's all you know? News reports?”
“Pretty much. Um…” Kouta scratched his head. “They wear weird belts and they fight monsters?”
“Basically yes. At the core, each Rider is a sort of greater 'immune response' to a large problem. The Gaim Riders, for example, were a way to keep an invasive alternate dimension from consuming our planet. Vince here, however, is NOT the Ex-Aid that was called to deal with the danger Ex-Aid was tasked to stop. That was a man named Emu Hojo. He succeeded, and the mantle moved on to Vince. He is, for lack of a better term, a copy.”
Vince rolled his eyes. "Ow, my self-esteem."
Dawn ignored him. “My son is not the original Build. I borrowed an original Rider's powers briefly myself for a time. It's gotten easier over the years, probably as the ease of Riders copying each other's powers grew. Your attacker copied the abilities of Shinnosuke Tomari, Kamen Rider Drive, who was a good guy, not a would be assassin.
“But you, Mr Tokiwa?” She fixed Tokiwa with another look. “You are the chosen original of the Rider Mantle called Zi-O. Your great task, whatever it may be, lies ahead. That also means you haven't begun to fully understand and increase your power, but that's fine, we'll compensate.”
There was a pause.
“...okay, then?” Kouta looked even more lost than before.
"Don't worry, you'll figure it out,” remarked Vince from the corner. “I did."
“Trust me,” put in Dawn as she set the Driver down. “If Vince can fumble his way into being a worthy heir… but I digress.”
"You're killing me here. Don't get no respect."
Again, Dawn ignored the peanut gallery. “So. You are being targeted by some time cop who wants to kill you because you turn into someone bad. You maniacs. You blew it up…” she muttered, rolling her eyes.
Kouta nodded. “That pretty much sums him up. He was wearing a weird belt like mine, too. Although Vince's store copied his belt to make mine, so maybe it should be the other way around?” He looked at the Driver. It continued to sit there and provide no answers.
“Or it summoned the belt you were meant to have, having seen an example of belts that would be based on yours in the future.”
Dawn was met with a blank stare of incomprehension.
Monday, 12 November 2018
King of Time Part 1
(NOTE: The following is an off-season collab that has no bearing on 2018 or 2019 RP. But i hope you enjoy reading it anyway :P.
(Special thanks to TheDeleter for writing Vince)
If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow and which will not;
Speak then to me.
And say which grain will grow and which will not;
Speak then to me.
- William Shakespeare, Macbeth (1605), Act I, Scene 3, line 58
The first thing Vince knew about it was when the kid burst into his store.
He couldn’t have been any older than nineteen. He looked about as generic as a person could be - brown hair, scrawny frame, blue eyes. His face was red from exertion and his eyes were as wide as dinner plates. And he didn’t do himself any favours by tripping over his own feet and crashing to the floor of the store. Not the best first impression.
Yet his first words upon seeing Vince were definitely not generic.
“Hide me,” he whined, in the voice a hunted animal might use.
Vince blinked. That wasn't a common request. Thankfully, Beach Episode was a little quicker on the uptake. A few cardboard stands shuffled over, covering up the windows and making a small fort for the newcomer to hide behind.
“Um, hi?” The black-haired man took a few steps closer, staring at the mop of brown hair peeking out from behind a Zeph-O Max standee. “Welcome to Beach Episode? Are the cops after you?”
“Is that what they call them here?” The stranger quickly scurried behind the cardboard fort, as if a little too trusting of the flimsy protection it provided. “Well, yes, if that’s how you wanna put it.”
“I don't think there's any other word for cops.” Vince frowned. “If you're a space criminal or whatever, I probably shouldn't be hiding you. What the fuck is happening?”
The kid turned back to look at him. His voice took on a hysterical edge.
“Nothing! I haven’t even done anything yet! And that’s the problem! They won’t listen to me! It’s some Minority Report shit where they think I’m gonna do something and-”
TIME MAZINE!
A flash of red lit up the window, followed by the thrumming of some kind of engine. The ground shook as something heavy thumped down outside.The kid ducked behind the standees, muttering “ohgodohgodohgod” in a kind of frenzied mantra.
Footsteps approached. Boots.
Vince sighed. It looked like he was back in the game.
“I'm too old for this shit. Uh, no I'm not. Stay here, kid. I'll talk this out. Store, don't get involved unless shit goes really bad, okay?”
He walked outside, unsure what he was going to see.
Thursday, 26 April 2018
Refurbishment
The sight of Big Bobby's Bonus Boss Pavilion was a familiar one. It was hard not to recognize the huge red-and-white big top looming over everything like a big, candy-coloured blob. It was the place for cheap popcorn and stuffed toys, of hurd-gurdy music and the occasional punch-up. But more to the point, it was the place where people - especially Kobbers - came to test their mettle against the toughest of enemies, the strongest foes and the meanest threats. It was a place where boys became men, girls became women and those who were already there got some bragging rights.
So when it suddenly disappeared, people weren't sure what to think. The only clue as to what happened was a hastily-placed signpost, on which the following had been crudely scrawled.
So when it suddenly disappeared, people weren't sure what to think. The only clue as to what happened was a hastily-placed signpost, on which the following had been crudely scrawled.
BIG BOBBY'S IS CURRENTLY UNDERGOING REFURBISHMENT.
WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.
Friday, 13 April 2018
Night of Blood (Part 4/4)
~EARTH ZF-025, WORLD OF BUILD~
Vent Light was making preparations.
In the time between watching the Teapot burn and reaching his own hidden laboratory, he'd managed to make several deductions. One: Faust hadn't just come there to kill his mother, they'd been after something. Two: There was a limited amount of somethings they could be after, and one of them was the most likely something. And three: that particular something had a very specific requirement, one that would mean exposing a whole other world to Faust and it's experiments.
And that was not something Vent was going to stand by and watch happen. So in the comfort of his laboratory, somewhere underneath the streets of Manhattan, he was hunched over his work table and fiddling away. It wasn't the most comfortable space to work in - organized chaos seemed to reign in every corner of the room, with the test tubes having a territorial war with the flasks and the bunsen burners ganging up on the centrifuge. But it was the best he had, and he never was very good at keeping things tidy anyway.
In any case, the immediate concern was the watch-like device in front of him, case open and circuitry exposed as he typed furiously away on the tablet he had to one side of him.
The prototype MKII Sifter was something of a pet project for Vent. Even though the original had served the Kobbers well in previous outings, the tech had long become obsolete to the point that even criminal organizations could copy it. And the major flaw had always been the need to traverse the Bleed, which Vent saw as the equivalent of crossing a volcano by wading through the lava, i.e. reckless and stupid. This new model was designed to cut out the middle man by shunting a person from one physical plane to the other without exposing themselves to the dangerous radiation - a feat that would be admirable, if he could get it to work.
But he'd been struggling for months, and had long drawn a blank. The thing simply refused to acknowledge the existance of other planes, at least based on the theorem he was trying. Unless he accounted for the Bleed travel, the very thing he was trying to avoid, the internal computer would always come up with a null value, and didn't seem to accept any other shortcuts that he typed in. So either the thing simply wouldn't work, or it would probably dump somebody into the coldness of the void to suffocate and die. Or just rip somebody apart at the molecular level.
A sigh of frustration escaped the young man as he put the tablet down and pushed his hair back, feeling a migraine coming on. The answer was somewhere, he knew it, but it just wasn't coming. He thought the theorem of dimensional travel had been cracked long ago, but by his calculations, jumping between two different planes like this was a logical impossibility. And with so much at stake, solving it was becoming more and more of an issue. If he couldn't get this to work...
A ding to his right told him the coffee was done. The machine it was poured out of looked more like something one would bolt onto a starship's engine to make it go faster - because it had once been exactly that. Of course, the filtration systems that had once refined combusted fuel worked just as well for beverages, with the right tinkering. But Vent's mind was far from the intricacies of spaceship engines as he grabbed the cup and took a long, thoughtful sip.
It was in the middle of that sip that the brainwave hit him, hard enough to make him spit-take.
Vent Light was making preparations.
In the time between watching the Teapot burn and reaching his own hidden laboratory, he'd managed to make several deductions. One: Faust hadn't just come there to kill his mother, they'd been after something. Two: There was a limited amount of somethings they could be after, and one of them was the most likely something. And three: that particular something had a very specific requirement, one that would mean exposing a whole other world to Faust and it's experiments.
And that was not something Vent was going to stand by and watch happen. So in the comfort of his laboratory, somewhere underneath the streets of Manhattan, he was hunched over his work table and fiddling away. It wasn't the most comfortable space to work in - organized chaos seemed to reign in every corner of the room, with the test tubes having a territorial war with the flasks and the bunsen burners ganging up on the centrifuge. But it was the best he had, and he never was very good at keeping things tidy anyway.
In any case, the immediate concern was the watch-like device in front of him, case open and circuitry exposed as he typed furiously away on the tablet he had to one side of him.
The prototype MKII Sifter was something of a pet project for Vent. Even though the original had served the Kobbers well in previous outings, the tech had long become obsolete to the point that even criminal organizations could copy it. And the major flaw had always been the need to traverse the Bleed, which Vent saw as the equivalent of crossing a volcano by wading through the lava, i.e. reckless and stupid. This new model was designed to cut out the middle man by shunting a person from one physical plane to the other without exposing themselves to the dangerous radiation - a feat that would be admirable, if he could get it to work.
But he'd been struggling for months, and had long drawn a blank. The thing simply refused to acknowledge the existance of other planes, at least based on the theorem he was trying. Unless he accounted for the Bleed travel, the very thing he was trying to avoid, the internal computer would always come up with a null value, and didn't seem to accept any other shortcuts that he typed in. So either the thing simply wouldn't work, or it would probably dump somebody into the coldness of the void to suffocate and die. Or just rip somebody apart at the molecular level.
A sigh of frustration escaped the young man as he put the tablet down and pushed his hair back, feeling a migraine coming on. The answer was somewhere, he knew it, but it just wasn't coming. He thought the theorem of dimensional travel had been cracked long ago, but by his calculations, jumping between two different planes like this was a logical impossibility. And with so much at stake, solving it was becoming more and more of an issue. If he couldn't get this to work...
A ding to his right told him the coffee was done. The machine it was poured out of looked more like something one would bolt onto a starship's engine to make it go faster - because it had once been exactly that. Of course, the filtration systems that had once refined combusted fuel worked just as well for beverages, with the right tinkering. But Vent's mind was far from the intricacies of spaceship engines as he grabbed the cup and took a long, thoughtful sip.
It was in the middle of that sip that the brainwave hit him, hard enough to make him spit-take.
Thursday, 5 April 2018
Heart of the Forest
~KUWAHAWI ISLAND CHAIN, ZFRP MAIN UNIVERSE~
The Aetherian Forest was forbidden ground, according to the aboriginl lore. It had been since the ancient days, when a terrible war had been fought between the Forest and the rest of the land. The war had made the Forest sick, and the Heart of the Forest had grown mad with the sickness and become hateful. It had tried to push the Forest to where it did not belong, and smother the entire land in green. But the Ocean and the Sky had protested, and thus a pact had been reached, pushing the Forest back to where it belonged.
Now it stood on the one lone island, a blot of vibrant green against white sand and sparkling blue ocean. It looked like something out of a painting of primeval times, or perhaps a scene from a fairy tale, and tales were told of giant flowers, berries and fruits the size of a man's head and animals of spectacular health and energy. But the aboriginals of the islands never went near it, for they said to step on it was to invoke the wrath of the Heart of the Forest. The Heart never forgot the damage that had been done before the war, they said. And it had never forgiven, either.
The man either did not know or did not care. He just wanted to shoot something.
He was one of those rich men who let their wealth, and the respect it brought them, get to their heads. As far as he was concerned, problems other people had didn't apply to him, and when they did all he had to do was throw money at them until they went away. It was how he had gotten away with being a classic big game hunter in a modern world of namby-pamby, hands-wringing conservationists. Who cared about a few dead rhinos here and there, anyway? That was what animals were there for, wasn't it? What good were they for, if not for shooting? Some people were so melodramatic.
Getting onto the island was easy enough. Tour guides became surprisingly willing to comply when you slipped a thick wad of dollar bills into their hands. Finding anything to shoot, however, was a lot trickier. The forest was so thick and dark that it was difficult to make out anything - even the noise of the birds seemed deadened and muffled, as if someone had thrown a blanket over it all. Once or twice he thought he heard something rustle in the darkness, or catch a glimpse of movement, but with so little sunlight filtering through the canopy it was hard to tell if something had been there, or if it was just the plants moving in the faint breeze.
The man was losing patience rapidly. He'd come here looking to hunt a particularly rare specimen - the endangered Kuwahawi water deer. The finest antlers of any in the islands, the books had said. And the more endangered the animal, the more proud of himself he'd feel once he saw the head stuffed and mounted up on his study wall. But now his trigger finger was beginning to itch - he'd be happy to shoot anything, just so he didn't have to put up with the dead silence.
So the diminutive tree bear had picked a poor moment to run in front of him.
The gunshot was like an explosion in the forest. Everything in the vicinity, startled by the sound, went absolutely still and quiet. But none more so than the bear, who somersaulted backwards with a cry of anguish, crashed to the floor and lay unmoving. Two bloody spots on it's chest told where the bullets had penetreated all the way to the heart, and most likely all the way to the spine. They weren't right sort of bullets for deer, being made for much bigger animals, but the man had wanted to be sure that whatever he hit wouldn't be getting up again.
The man lowered his gun and snorted. What a waste. A tree bear was hardly worth the effort when he had spent almost a full hour looking for something bigger. Then again, it would do for a start - he still had time, and plenty of bullets to spare. Perhaps, once he got the body into the light, it might prove to be a new species unique to this island. He could get it named after himself, and then get the skin made into gloves or something. His ex-wife had been asking about a new fur hat.
He moved to collect the body, and then found his foot was stuck.
He looked down, and saw that thorny briars had entangled his boot, crushing closely around it.
"What the-?" he cried, and drew his machete. But he never swung it - a tree branch suddenly came down and smacked it from his hand, drawing scratches in the process. He pulled his pistol, intending to shoot the vines off, but had to drop it with a cry as vines suddenly sprouted from the wooden handle, lashing at him with hooked tips. The briars were creeping up his legs now, pricking and spearing him, and all around him the forest seemed to be swaying and shaking, as if in the throes of some terrible agony such as can only be found in a nightmare.
The man was beginning to wonder if he should demand his money back when he heard a growl. And then he made the mistake of looking up.
Glowing green eyes, filled with unspeakable rage, glared back at him.
"You have hurt the forest," snarled the thing.
"And now the forest shall hurt you."
If it's any consolation, the man only felt a twinge of pain before the jaws crushed his skull. It wasn't much consolation to him, but it was worth mentioning.
-------
The native guide's boredom at waiting was relieved when the crushed, severed head of Harold Rathbone Esq. was tossed into his canoe. The half-squashed face looked up at him with eyes bulging and mouth hanging open in a silent scream of terror. Blood trickled from the cracked skull and down the temples, giving the appearance of gruesome warpaint. Some of his teeth were missing, and more blood pooled from the hollows in the gums where they had popped out and ran out of his mouth.
On the shore, the trees rustled ominously.
The guide deciced not to stick around to get the rest of the body thrown at him. He paddled away faster than you could say "no refunds".
-------
Harold's death was published as a footnote in the papers. He hadn't been as influential as he'd liked to believe, his only mark on history being all those dead rhinos. A lot of people said good riddance to bad rubbish, and that it was about time this sort of thing was stopped. Others said that it might have been murder, since it seemed odd that the guide would come back with the head and not the rest of the body. Others wondered if some animal had got him, and concluded that it served him right, if that was the case.
But the locals, when questioned, only shook their heads and said the same thing. He'd hurt the forest, and made it angry.
And the Heart of the Forest had taken vengeance.
Introducing
JOHN HURT
as
SYLVANOS
The Heart of the Forest
Wednesday, 21 March 2018
Night of Blood (Part 3/4)
~EARTH ZF-025, WORLD OF BUILD~
There was a long, protracted silence after Kamen Rider Kiva had spoken those words. Night Rogue still reeled from the full-on kick to the face he'd recieved, mask gently smoking. Kamen Rider Build was still on his knees, clutching the wound inflicted by his enemy's blade. And Blood Stalk stood there, taking it all in as the two Smash behind him looked uncomprehendingly at the scene and growled.
Stalk was the first to speak. And, as usual, what he said threw everyone there off.
"Oh, my God, it's Batman!" he cried.
Kiva dropped his stance and turned. "Dude, we've been over this. I'm not Batman."
"Shut up, you're totally Batman!" Stalk looked as thought he wanted to start hopping up and down on the spot. "Come on, do the voice! The growly Christian Bale one!"
"No," groaned Kiva.
"Come on, do it! Do the-"
Stalk was interrupted as, with a grunt and a hiss, Night Rogue came to his senses and pulled himself upright. The shattered glass of his visor, a spider-web of cracks over the yellowish bat-shape, was plainly visible as he turned his head to face Stalk. It looked as though somebody had driven a truck straight into his face - which, given how hard the kick had been, was an apropos comparison.
"Stalk," he growled, "what are you doing?"
Stalk shrugged with almost casual nonchalance. "Who, me? I've been doing the thing you wanted me to do. And I gotta say, I'm doing a better job of it than you are right now. Seriously, you let the comic book nerd get the jump on you?"
Rogue said nothing, too focused on getting back to his feet to come up with a retort. But Stalk's words had a more immediate effect on Build. He immediately began to rise as well, ignoring the pain of his wound - though it made him wince behind the mask - to try and focus on the red-clad invader and his words. And perhaps it was because the words held more significance to him, but he managed to get back to his feet a lot quicker than Rogue did.
"Thing?" he demanded, voice sharp. "What thing?"
It was then that Stalk seemed to notice him. "Oh, hi. Nice colour combo, by the way. Red and green really suits you! Too bad I chose it first, but-"
"Stalk." That was Rogue, already losing his temper.
"Oh, right." Stalk gestured to Rogue and turned to leave. "This way, if you don't mind." And he began to saunter off down the corridor as though he were on the red carpet.
"Wait!" Build moved, dashing to try and catch up with the cobra-masked warrior. But he had to come to a stop, because two other figures suddenly barred his way, snarling.
"Oh, you know," crooned Stalk, "I'd love to stay and chat, Build. I really would. But these guys..."
"...they're kinda overprotective."
There was a long, protracted silence after Kamen Rider Kiva had spoken those words. Night Rogue still reeled from the full-on kick to the face he'd recieved, mask gently smoking. Kamen Rider Build was still on his knees, clutching the wound inflicted by his enemy's blade. And Blood Stalk stood there, taking it all in as the two Smash behind him looked uncomprehendingly at the scene and growled.
Stalk was the first to speak. And, as usual, what he said threw everyone there off.
"Oh, my God, it's Batman!" he cried.
Kiva dropped his stance and turned. "Dude, we've been over this. I'm not Batman."
"Shut up, you're totally Batman!" Stalk looked as thought he wanted to start hopping up and down on the spot. "Come on, do the voice! The growly Christian Bale one!"
"No," groaned Kiva.
"Come on, do it! Do the-"
Stalk was interrupted as, with a grunt and a hiss, Night Rogue came to his senses and pulled himself upright. The shattered glass of his visor, a spider-web of cracks over the yellowish bat-shape, was plainly visible as he turned his head to face Stalk. It looked as though somebody had driven a truck straight into his face - which, given how hard the kick had been, was an apropos comparison.
"Stalk," he growled, "what are you doing?"
Stalk shrugged with almost casual nonchalance. "Who, me? I've been doing the thing you wanted me to do. And I gotta say, I'm doing a better job of it than you are right now. Seriously, you let the comic book nerd get the jump on you?"
Rogue said nothing, too focused on getting back to his feet to come up with a retort. But Stalk's words had a more immediate effect on Build. He immediately began to rise as well, ignoring the pain of his wound - though it made him wince behind the mask - to try and focus on the red-clad invader and his words. And perhaps it was because the words held more significance to him, but he managed to get back to his feet a lot quicker than Rogue did.
"Thing?" he demanded, voice sharp. "What thing?"
It was then that Stalk seemed to notice him. "Oh, hi. Nice colour combo, by the way. Red and green really suits you! Too bad I chose it first, but-"
"Stalk." That was Rogue, already losing his temper.
"Oh, right." Stalk gestured to Rogue and turned to leave. "This way, if you don't mind." And he began to saunter off down the corridor as though he were on the red carpet.
"Wait!" Build moved, dashing to try and catch up with the cobra-masked warrior. But he had to come to a stop, because two other figures suddenly barred his way, snarling.
"Oh, you know," crooned Stalk, "I'd love to stay and chat, Build. I really would. But these guys..."
"...they're kinda overprotective."
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