Remove ads

Advance Australia Fair [Old World of Darkness]

Reader mode
[X] Force him to tell you where you came from.

Ah, arguments about morality and the Technocracy vs. the Traditions. Smells like oMage.

Interesting origin - rakshasa. Also, kind of weird. The Technocracy's reaction implies that they believe we either are, or have the potential to be dangerous, but not so much that they're willing to kill the son of a Syndic exec out of hand. Or maybe he's been calling in every marker he has to stop us from being smothered in our sleep. Information is needed, so information is what we'll get.
 
[X] Force him to tell you where you came from.

As to why the Technocracy is treating us like shit: We are a Reality Deviant, and the Technocracy hates Reality Deviants. I don't really know about the developments after the Avatar Storm, but has the Technocracy ever given up the Precepts of Damian?

To quote the fifth Precept:
Destroy Reality Deviants. Their recklessness threatens our security and our progress toward Unity.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
And no, this isn't first edition, this is late second edition. (Guide to the Technocracy, to be precise)

Otherwise, googling gave me this on the Rakshasa. It's non-canon Mage-creature for Mage: The Awakening, but it seems to fit pretty well.
 
Last edited:
Girls, girls, girls. You're all pretty.

And my major creative consultant always gets upset and hits me with a rolled-up newspaper when I try to demonise the Union even accidentally.

So relaaaaaaax.
 
MJ12 Commando said:
I disagree. As a card-carrying beep-boop soulless technocrat (and soulless Technocrat) I sacrificed all those prettiness dots for ADDITIONAL FIREPOWER.

Yeah my face might look like an avocado had sex with a older, wrinklier avocado and was then turned into a cyborg by the Strogg but the sacrifice was worth it.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...
Reported for conventionist comments. I'll have you know that my Progenitor appearance mods are an entirely proper Technocratic enhancement, good sir!
 
ManusDomine said:
Edited for accuracy to the real MJ12.

Imposter.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...

First off, the MJ12 favorite is the exoskeleton because it is ridiculous as all fuck

Second, look that's what's under the skin

Just because my face looks like a serial killer potato was fused to a space marine doesn't mean I can't be running high-end military hardware :(

Me IRL:



One might ask "but MJ12 how do you type without hands" and I will answer "Effectors." One might also ask "why did you replace your hands with a plasma gun and a twin-linked Thunderhead" and my answer is "I needed to save the background dots okay?"
 
Remove ads
Chapter Ten: Run Boy Run
  • Threadmarks
    • Revlid said:
    [X] Force him to tell you where you came from.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    "Answer my fucking question!"

    You've been this angry before, you know you have. This is just the first time you've felt it like this, in your bones and in your teeth, like your gums could split open and your lips could shrivel with the heat of your anger. Your grip tightens on his collar, and you're sure you could rip the silk like cheap paper.

    "What am I?! You've never told me anything, now it's all werewolves and robots and fucking demigods and demons? What am I? What did you do?!"

    "It's a lot to explain and I don't have much time-"

    "Condense it!"

    He stills in your grip. Your breath catches in your throat. You listen.

    "Magic exists," he says. "But it doesn't. Except... fuck the nuances, I don't care any more. Magic used to be widespread, used to keep people in line. The unassailable divine right of kings. The will of the gods. Whatever you called it. A group formed called the Order of Reason that wanted to depose magic and replace it with science, science to be distributed and used freely, by anyone. By the time the mages knew they had an enemy they'd, we'd, overthrown them. We took control of the world from behind the scenes, brought about industrial revolution, and named ourselves the Technocratic Union. We've been in control for hundreds of years now. Protecting the world from the things they don't believe in any more."

    "Things like me."

    He doesn't answer you. Not directly. "Your mother and I, we met in Bangladesh in the conflict of '99. The Week of Nightmares we call it now. Something old, ancient, woke up. Some kind of long-lost bioweapon that drove its derivative subspecies mad. It was wetwork. House to house fighting. Exterminating whole nests. Killing the bitten because there was no time, not enough antiserum, not enough men, not enough supplies, not enough. We worked alongside mages because if we didn't, we weren't just looking at losing India. We could lose even more."

    "Mum," you say quietly, your grip on his lapels slowly slackening. "She's a mage too?"

    He nods weakly. "A priestess of Lakshmi. When I met her she was just an asset I had brought in for evaluation. She knew the area. Knew the culture. Knew what we were fighting. She was, is... I can't describe it, and we don't have time to waste. All you need to know is that being in a foxhole with someone changes how you feel about them. Race, religion, ideology, it all goes out the window when they're the only reason you're still breathing and vice versa. I stayed in touch with her. I made sure she got to Australia safely. And I married her."

    You shake your head, throwing away the thousands of follow-up questions racing through your mind. You just need one. "Tell me what happened, where did Lakshmi and I come from?"

    "No one... no one knows exactly what makes a mage," he says. "Or people like me. The people who just wake up one day and see the universe fit in a way it never did before. You felt it too, didn't you? When you shot that arrow."

    Your muscles exceeding their limits. The world slowing down. Your eyes focusing like a hawk's. The blast of air behind you as you fired. The ethereal serpent that leapt onto your arrow to bite the werewolf's heart.

    "No one understands Awakening," Dad goes on. "No one. All we have is useless conjecture and putting people who show certain preliminary signs into high-stress situations until they just snap. It's some kind of rare trait, something genetic, atavistic, there's as many theories as there are Technocrats. There could be a social and cultural element for all we know! All I know is what I believed, what your mother believed. That Technocrat children grow up Technocrat and Traditionalist children grow up Traditionalist and that's just how it's always been. How it'll always be. That even with all our knowledge and power we're still slaves to our environments. What's passed on, the genes and the memes. And... and a parent's job is making sure their children have the best possible chance at a future. At being whatever they want to be."

    You don't press him any further. You just wait for him to compose himself. To force himself to keep speaking. You suspect that if you weren't holding him up he'd be slumping. Eighteen years of lies and secrets and fear come rushing out.

    "It was a ritual," he admits in a small voice. "I converted to Hinduism. Valmiki officiated our wedding. We conceived on a holy night under favourable portents. I used my connections to... 'lose' some of a shipment of experimental fertility supplements from the Progenitor branch. We hoped so desperately that maybe, if we combined our resources, science and magic, our child would... would be able to choose. Would be free. And then Bastille Day came. Lakshmi was born."

    Silence. He doesn't go on.

    "Where did I come from?" you ask hoarsely. He doesn't respond. You shake him. "Where?"

    "The Umbra," he replies, not looking at you. "The air opened up and something reached through and just... handed you over. Set you down beside Lakshmi and left. We never saw it again."

    It's so quiet you can hear your own blood pulsing. Your heart racing. Thrumming in your ears. The soft sound as you try to moisten your lips.

    "I'm not even your son?"

    "We were so frightened." He isn't looking at you. He's looking into the distance, into his memories. "Your mother was so weak after the birth and Valmiki was busy trying to stabilise her and you, you were... you didn't look human. I thought about leaving you there. I thought about abandoning you like I didn't even want you and letting you die out there, all alone and unloved."

    He squeezes his eyes shut tight, tears welling from the corners and dribbling down his cheeks. Teeth gritted tight. He turns to look at you, opening his glistening eyes.

    "But you held Lakshmi's hand. That was the first thing you ever did in your life. You held your sister's hand. And I have never thought of you as anything less than my son since that day."

    You let him go. You stagger backwards, reeling. The backs of your knees hit the bed. You sit heavily, the mattress creaking. Looking down at your hands. Human on the surface. Just the surface. You don't know what's squirming underneath. Waiting to break out.

    "What do they want with me?" you ask in a small voice. "The Union wh-why are they keeping me here?"

    "Rakshasa are native to the Umbra. They're not meant to be able to survive on Earth alone, not for any length of time, and not without help. You were... 'born' here. You've adapted. And you've Awakened." Dad nervously smooths down his hair. "I sat in on the meetings. Read the reports the Progenitors sent us. You're a nascent shapeshifter that can process human enzymes into energy at an impossibly efficient ratio and there are no end to the number of Traditionalists gone to ground in Australia that might be willing to help you understand your powers or turn you into a weapon. Worst-case scenario, if you got out? The Orbital Knight would have to be deployed. And that's the best we've got."

    "Then why keep me here?"

    "... your genetic material is too valuable," Dad says quietly. "Maybe, maybe, in a few weeks or months they'll have the infrastructure in place to contain you properly, start working on you as an asset rather than just a tissue farm. It's a risk you can't afford to take."

    "What am I supposed to do?" You lift up your hands helplessly, just to let them slap back down onto your knees. "I don't even know where the door is."

    "That's why I hired someone who makes doors."

    Dad's watch beeps. He checks it nervously. Then he falls to his knees, throwing his arms around you, and pulls you into the tightest hug he's ever given you. Tight enough that it hurts. You don't resist.

    "I don't know if we'll ever see each other again," he admits. "Maybe I should hope we don't. But this way, there's a chance you'll see your mother. That this doesn't have to be everything your future is. That's enough for me. Look, I-" He bites his lip. "I have to go. The cell's monitoring systems are going to cycle back online in under a minute. Just... wait. Wait and trust me one more time."

    He kisses you on the forehead.

    "Goodbye, Meghanada. I love you."

    He steps away from you. Over to the part of the wall that your meals get pushed through. He presses his hand against a completely nondescript part of the concrete and a panel depresses, an invisible door sliding up from the floor and into the ceiling. Light beyond. Part of you wants to follow him. To push past him and escape right now.To hold onto him and never let go. You don't do either. You just stretch out your hand towards his retreating back as the door slides down.

    "... bye, Dad..."

    You're a good boy for the next few days. You eat your meals. You keep yourself hydrated with the water that seems to just reappear on your nightstand every time you turn away. You flip through channels on the TV, just trying to occupy the hours. Trying to stave off sleep. Your sleep doesn't get any better. It feels like your muscles are moving under your skin, knotting and kinking, getting caught. You must have hurt your hands during the night. Deep, bruised purple-black is spreading through the nail beds. Your toenails, too. Are you sick? Are they all going to fall off? Hah. You have to laugh at yourself for such a stupid thought. You aren't even human. Who knows what the fuck's going to happen to you next.

    You wish you had a mirror. You can't even check how you look through your phone front camera. They took that too. The best you can do is stand in front of the TV with the screen off and stare. Stare at your gaunt silhouette in the dark reflection. You can pick out the shape of your face, rimmed by light. The vague impression of your features. Your eyes, shining from the reflected gleam of the light. Something's wrong about them. It's too dim to know for sure but they're wrong.

    You wake up in pain. Your lip stings like hell and you have a splitting headache. You feel around your mouth with your tongue. Your prominent canines taste coppery. There are twin punctures on your bottom lip. Your scalp feels cold-

    You feel your skull. Your head's been shaved completely. You can feel all the little bumps and valleys, the scabs and scars and stubble. A lump, stitched skin stretched taut. Hurts to so much as touch it, let alone apply any kind of pressure. Feels like someone put a lump of ice under the skin, under the skull. You can feel it the rest of the day, all night as you try to get to sleep. You can't find any way to lie on your bed that doesn't make it hurt.

    You wake up again. The wound's been reopened. The lump is gone. You touch the wound - it hurts. You must've been here a long time. Your nails are getting long. You sleep and dream of nothing at all.

    "Meeeeeeg."

    You stir, your brow furrowing. Eyelids fluttering open, sticking with sleep

    "Meeee~g."

    You rub your eyes, confused. Roll over. Someone calling you? You don't wanna get up. You're tired and cold and in pain and you just want to sleep in.

    "Hey fuckface!"

    You sit upright. Your TV's talking to you.

    The screen is mostly black, the kind of 'bright' black of a screen that's on but showing nothing at all. Nothing save for the emoticon face plastered across it. A horizontal semicolon for the eyes, two white blocks of light that stare unblinkingly into you. A rotated bracket, corners turned upward. It bobs up and down slightly as you watch.

    "You up? Comprende?" A little pixellated 'mouth' opens and closes beneath the upturned bracket. "C'mon man, it's gonna be hard enough to bust you out without you being a zombie the whole way. Do something! Jump! Say 'apple'!"

    "You the... guy Dad was going to send?" you ask, kneading your brow with the heel of one hand.

    "Dingdingding! You're conscious and you can retain basic information, great start, man, great start. Now look under your pillow. It's not money from the Tooth Fairy but it's still pretty good. 'specially in your case."

    You obediently search beneath your pillow, hand finding something small, cool and rigid. You retrieve it. It's a... Bluetooth earpiece? It's not like any model you've seen before, but that's pretty low on your list of concerns right now. You numbly affix it to your ear, adjusting it until it sits right.

    "There you are. Now you can hear and obey my divine commands wherever you go." The smiley face shatters, pixels splitting and forking and stretching out into lines. Sketching out a circular floorplan, corridors arranged like spokes in a wheel. The 'axle' pulses red. "You're on the lowest level of the prison complex, so you're gonna need to head to the lift and take that baby all the way up. Yes the security systems are going to be very scary but don't fret, I disabled them. Your dad gave me an opening when he hired me. Left you his earpiece, too."

    "How much did he pay you?" you ask. A random thought that's simply voiced the moment you think it. You're curious to know what your life is worth. The floorplan becomes a face again.

    "XD You kidding? I always do Union jobs gratis." A pause. "But I did root around in the servers some before I got here. Finder's fee and stuff :V. Now get dressed so your dick's not hanging out and let's get going."

    You get dressed numbly. You're glad you're numb. If you weren't, the full enormity of what's going on might just crash down on you and leave you completely useless. Make you curl up in a ball and sob to see Dad one more time. You lace up your shoes. You zip up your hoodie and pull the hood down over your bald head. You straighten up, heart racing.

    ":S Well you look like shit but it's better than nothing. Plan is for people not to look too closely at you anyway."

    The door slides open to your right. One big slab just rising into the ceiling, out of sight. You see the walkway beyond, a sharp left turn to freedom.

    "Off you go. Remember, I'll be right there in your ear." The TV winks off. Literally.

    You take your first step outside your cell in God-knows-how-long.

    And immediately leap back in when you see the gun turret hanging from the ceiling.

    "I said I'd turned security off you fucking grognard," the mysterious voice pipes up in your ear. "Get a move on!"

    You lean out the doorway, cautiously stretching out your hand into the hallway and waving. The squat, plastic-shelled thing doesn't budge. The twin machine guns stay locked in place, 'staring' straight ahead.

    "While we're young?" the voice prods.

    "Sorry."

    You step out into the hallway. 'Get a move on' towards the centre of the detention level before the voice starts yelling at you again. All around you are cold, grey blocks of concrete like yours. Hanging from the ceiling, ready to be mixed and matched at will. You spy the long, spiderlike limbs stretching out from the centre of the level that can do just that. Rising up, high up. You crane your neck to see as you draw close to the central well, tracking its slanted ascent towards what you can only assume is the surface. You wonder how far down you are. You wonder where you are.

    "Going up," says the voice. You see a platform waiting for you. You step aboard and press the 'P' button on the raised panel by the safety rail, since every other one just seems to be for different levels of the prison. And you doubt it stands for 'Parking'.

    The wide platform starts rising with nary a judder, smoothly guiding you up. Row after row of cold grey boxes pass as you rise. Inert. You wonder if anyone else is in there. What kind of things must be in there if they're sharing a prison with you. All around the central well, on every level of the prison, you see more ceiling-mounted gun turrets sitting cold and lifeless. You see humanoid shapes forged from metal waiting in racks, robots like the ones you saw at home maybe. You see humans too. Or -you think of Ms. Jenkins- things that just look like humans. Suspended in some kind of translucent liquid medium wearing dark grey bodysuits, weapons close at hand. Ready to fight the second they're 'born'.

    "Um. Hey?" you ask.

    "Yo?" You hear crunching. You think the voice is eating chips.

    "What do I call you?"

    "Oh, right. Didn't introduce myself. Name's Ichiban, Ichi to my friends. Maybe you've heard of me."

    Silence, not even the sound of the lift's workings to break it. "... no?"

    Crunch crunch crunch. "It's okay. I was a poor, ignorant soul like you once, too. But we're gonna fix that up right quick. 'cause if we don't you'll probably die or get thrown in a cell again. So, y'know. Motivation."

    The lift slots into place at the very top floor. You're left in little more than a steel box with a dizzying drop below you, separated from you by nothing but a layer of glass. You hear things shifting in the walls, the heavy chunk and thunk of things too heavy to be moved by men. It's not a metal box, you realise. The wall in front of you is actually a thick airlock, even now slowly rising. Spilling light. You double-time it down the short, sterile little steel corridor beyond, hugging your hoodie tight to your body. You open a set of smaller, human-sized double-doors to find...

    A police station. You blink. It's so ordinary it takes you a second to pick out the 'futuristic' additions to the precinct. The desktop monitors are holographic, the keyboards hovering strips of light. But everything else is scuffed, used, lived-in. Abandoned mugs with the dregs of coffee, screwed-up wads of paper, scattered pens, everything. There are a bunch of other doors all leading off to other parts of the station, rooms half-glimpsed through the windows. Drunk-tank. Offices. Locker room. Armoury. The last one almost tempts you. Then you reason that it'd probably just make things a lot worse. Instead you keep heading for what you think is the front and emerge in the lobby, behind the reception counter. Nobody's there either. Just a subtly nodding bobblehead of something that looks like a rottweiler fucked a xenomorph.

    "Where is everyone?" you ask.

    "Out to lunch, on patrol, called in sick," Ichi replies. "Y'know, the usual. The precinct's meant to be patrolled by drones anyway but I have them taking a nice little nap. Front-desk-jockey just got a spoofed text from his ex about their sex tape. I was all set to spring the 'I made one of us in secret' card but he actually had made one, the stupid asshole. Who tapes themselves fucking? What's sexy about that?"

    "I don't really have an opinion," you mutter as you clamber over the desk, quickly crossing the polished floor emblazoned with a 'CSC' shield. Opening the double doors ahead. "For now can you please just tell me how to get- oh."

    You're still underground. But there's a whole city down here with you.

    Space is at a premium and the Union have made the most of it. The level you're on, the 'ground' floor, is almost completely covered by buildings and walkways up above. Everything's dim here, the shadows gathering in gloomy corners and recessed doorways, most of the light coming from the windows. Barracks, labs, medical facilities. Down one street you think you spy a storefront sign with a coffee mug somewhere in the iconography. Down another you see a compact little noodle card, manned by a hovering drone. More importantly you see a turn-off marked as stairs up. You race for it. You climb both flights two at a time, puffing, heart pounding.

    It's like a great subterranean dome. A dome with gigantic window on one side with a view of nothing but blue water, lit only by the docks extruding into the depths. City blocks cling to the buildings, spiralling up to the apex in great tiers. Restaurants, theatres, a school, even shopping centres and holographic ads for what to buy there. Everything's lit like the midmorning sun. Even the air is nice, practically fresh. Feels good to fill your lungs with it. The park is probably the culprit - while you spy snatches of green in potted plants and nature strips here and there, the park is a surprisingly sizeable chunk of real estate that butts right up against the gigantic window to the sea. Trees and grass and bushes and flowers, more than enough benches to sit and relax in the little slice of nature. And dominating it all is a massive obsidian spire, some kind of clutter around the base.

    "Obelisk Park," Ichi notes. "No time to fuck about visiting the monument, we've got to get you topside. Let's seeeee..."

    You hear the sharp kshk of a can being popped. You hear him gulping down whatever it is, but it quickly fades into background noise. The lights flicker above. A single, enormous mass of carefully-arranged light strips that crosses the ceiling in an imitation of the sun's passage across the sky. As you watch the artificial 'sun' blinks back and forth along its track, before finally alighting in its proper place once more.

    "That you?" you ask.

    "Wha- noooo! I'd never!" Crunch crunch crunch. Gulp. Fuck, you're hungry. "Hang a left down the end of the street there. Cross when it's clear, cut through the alley, over the fence, left again, right at the library, go straight ahead for three blocks then-"

    You resign yourself to having to ask for directions every five steps and keep moving. Keep on furtively scurrying like a rat caught out in the daylight, darting from shadow to shadow as it tries to escape the house. You won't stand up to a second's scrutiny, so Ichi doesn't let anyone get the chance. He times your emergences down to the second. All you see of the residents is what you can glimpse from your hiding places, what you watch from the shadows. Men and women in hideously expensive and well-cut suits, their eyes violet or scarlet or gold, looking down at their phones with furrowed brows of concern. You see a seven-foot-tall reptilian, its feathered crest a riot of colour, leaning up against a wall wearing nothing but a pair of black compression shorts. Talons carving little grooves in the pavement as it sips from its coffee cup, listening to its compatriot - a man in some kind of high-tech armour. No, not armour. If it's armour it's too small for his body, nowhere for him to fit. It's him. His body's been replaced from the jaw down, replaced by a finely-sculpted idealisation of the human form in white and silver. He doesn't even bother wearing shorts. He has no modesty to preserve.

    "Now take a right around here past the coffee shop and- oh hello there."

    If Ichi was going to elaborate on his findings, you don't hear it. You follow his instructions too well. You see the little group of people hanging around outside. You flatten yourself against the wall, peek cautiously around the corner. You don't think they saw you. They're too busy reassuring Lakshmi.

    A black woman with bright gold eyes, a gold-plated earpiece looping around one ear. Wearing some kind of sci-fi fusion pantsuit, gilded black. An Asian guy in a jacket and jeans, little metal protrusions framing his face at the jaw. Emerging across the back of one hand from his sleeve. Liquid metal gleaming at his throat, little tendrils reaching up for his jawline. Another guy with golden-brown hair, wearing a half-buttoned dress shirt and designer jeans. Model good looks. A simian tail curling around his waist. An easy smile exposing fangs. They all look so strange, but they're still people. You've seen how people like them hold themselves. Lakshmi's found herself another David. Another of her old friends.

    Lakshmi's wearing long sleeves and gloves. You hear her curse as her coffee slips out of her hand. The half-monkey guy catches it with his tail, offers some witty comment or another. Lakshmi thanks him, stooping to retrieve it. Her sleeve hikes back a little, exposing metal. You didn't know she wore a watch, especially on her right hand. The half-monkey guy turns to leave, beckoning her and the others. They start to move away.

    Lakshmi stops dead, and turns.

    You dart back behind the corner as quick as you can, pressing yourself against the wall so hard you'd think you were trying to merge with it. Chest heaving, pulse racing. Were you spotted? Are they coming for you right now, calling in to the cops to come throw you in a cage again? You feel bile rise in your throat. Fuck, you're going to be sick. You strain your ears to hear them.

    "Lakshmi? What's up?"

    "I... I dunno. Had this weird feeling, I guess."

    You said goodbye to Dad. Can you risk saying goodbye to Lakshmi too? Could you live with yourself if you didn't?

    [ ] Step out into the open.
    [ ] Do nothing.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Oh, what, you guys wanna start making smart decisions now?

    [X] Step out into the open.

    ONWARDS, TO BITTERSWEET SIBLING DEPARTURE WITH AT LEAST AN ELEMENT OF CLOSURE!
     
    I suppose there's no real way to do this well is there? No manner in which we could slip a note while we walk by? Paper airplane it? Just waiting on the eventual siblings on opposite sides reunion.

    Fine. I'll be the pragmatist, anyways we're connected and these things have a way of binding us together.

    [X] Do nothing.
     
    ZerbanDaGreat said:
    "The Umbra," he replies, not looking at you. "The air opened up and something reached through and just... handed you over. Set you down beside Lakshmi and left. We never saw it again."

    "Rakshasa are native to the Umbra. They're not meant to be able to survive on Earth alone, not for any length of time, and not without help. You were... 'born' here. You've adapted. And you've Awakened."
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Oh Jesus, oh holy fuck. Wow, no wonder the Australian Technocrats panicked.

    [X] Step out into the open.

    But anyways, totally want that bitter scene with the Sister.
     
    ZerbanDaGreat said:
    He squeezes his eyes shut tight, tears welling from the corners and dribbling down his cheeks. Teeth gritted tight. He turns to look at you, opening his glistening eyes.

    "But you held Lakshmi's hand. That was the first thing you ever did in your life. You held your sister's hand. And I have never thought of you as anything less than my son since that day."
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    So... What I'm getting from this is that we are essentially Avenger if she wasn't a dick and was attached to Tamiko Prime.
    In other words, Nega-Avenger. NegAvenger.

    ZerbanDaGreat said:
    You sit upright. Your TV's talking to you.

    The screen is mostly black, the kind of 'bright' black of a screen that's on but showing nothing at all. Nothing save for the emoticon face plastered across it. A horizontal semicolon for the eyes, two white blocks of light that stare unblinkingly into you. A rotated bracket, corners turned upward. It bobs up and down slightly as you watch.

    "You up? Comprende?" A little pixellated 'mouth' opens and closes beneath the upturned bracket. "C'mon man, it's gonna be hard enough to bust you out without you being a zombie the whole way. Do something! Jump! Say 'apple'!"
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    I have no idea who's on the other side that screen, but I want to marry them.

    [X] Step out into the open.
    Omegahuggers are not known for smart decision making.
     
    Omegahugger said:
    So... What I'm getting from this is that we are essentially Avenger if she wasn't a dick and was attached to Tamiko Prime.
    In other words, Nega-Avenger. NegAvenger.


    I have no idea who's on the other side that screen, but I want to marry them.

    [X] Step out into the open.
    Omegahuggers are not known for smart decision making.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Maybe Rob had a backup stored?

    (Let me dream)
     
    Stepping out is suicidal, family or not, we'll be a lab rat, fate worse than death, and it's not like she's our REAL sister, and she left us to ROT hanging out with her new friends, surprise surprise...



    .......thisone'sforunclebobby...

    [X] Step out into the open.
     
    Reader mode
    You must login or register to reply here.
    Remove ads
    Back
    Top