NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: I'll prolly give up on this halfway through, but for now this gives me something to do. APLC essays can wait, because I got nothing to write anyways. Crappy rhyme aside, my main NS char has sorta, kinda, died. Not officially, because I cannot continue that RP without Chronosia, but only three outcomes are possible -- (1)She is turned by the Sith, but not before compeltely and utterly frying her own brain, and is eft an empty shell. Ash kills her when the Sith try and put her back in power. (2) She is rescued by ash, but is killed by the Sith. (3) She is rescued by Ash or returns to Weyr with her mind intact, then disappears.

Either way, Alicia is gone from the RP universe. There are RL reasons for this decision, which I won't go into. I have made a replacement char, which will prolly not appear in the NS section of these forums.

As a side note, I have recently been informed that I am either being ignored, or being disregarded by nations with whom I have had no real IC contact. If you are one of those nations, care to explain why?

If you think you can get into this story, feelfree. Otherwise, *shrugs* Anyways...on with the show!

Thunder rolled. Acid rain streaked down ancient glass and eternasone, surging through rusting gutters to the streets below. Mediatrons looked down on passerby who crowded the skywalks and streets, trying to pierce umbrellas and hat brims with tude flashes of light. Mites flowed through sewers, weighed by water, too heavy to fly. Aerostats flew low to the ground, engines straining against the torrential rain.

A man lay in the street, just another drunkard or druggie too wasted to crawl to the shelted down the block. The workers off the five o'clock shift stepped over his outstretched legs. A few made to toss a few coins, faltered, not seeing a begging pan, walked on. Another bum thrown up by the streets, another man out of work, too tired to crawl to the public shelter, too lazy to hide in the steamer station around the corner.

[more to come]

Warning: Mature Audiences Only
OOC: In theory, New York State Law forbids me to read my own writing. Go figure. I'll fix any holes tomorrow, maybe.

Coming thro' the rye, poor body,
Coming thro' the rye,
She draiglet a' her petticoatie
Coming thro' the rye.

O, Jenny's a' wat, poor body;
Jenny's seldom dry;
She draiglet a' her petticoatie
Coming thro' the rye.

Gin a body meet a body
Coming thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body -
Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body
Coming thro' the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body -
Need the warld ken?
~Robert Burns

The soldier was young, and rather handsome. He wad dead, but his mind had not realized that yet, and he tried to scream. The raven-haired young woman, a girl, really, shushed him, her hand over his mouth, lowered him to the floor, gently. A gurgle escaped from where a knife of jagged glass had sliced his throat. Warm, dark blood flowed down her arms, speckled her face and breasts. She shuddered......

*********

"Hey, get a load of this,"{

"Off his knocker, looks like,"

"C'mon, shoot him, and be done with it,"

"Almost a shame,"

"Just shoot,"

The conversation progressed from the roadblock. The man in question was a stranger, dressed in black trench coat and suit, a wide-brimmed hat casting his face in shadows. He stopped, atop a pile of rubble, looked up, straight into the scope of the commander covering this street, who stood behind a smashed wall on the third floor of a twenty-story housing complex. Perhaps he caught the movement, perhaps he had heard the banter, perhaps a glint of glass flashed over his eyes. Whatever it was, the men in the third floor would never find out. Fire erupted, bullets peppered the ground, not one finding its mark. The black man raised a single hand, slender fingers outstretched. There was a flash, a burst of blue. The entire apartment house collapsed, falling inward so none outside it could be grievously hurt.

"Fools," a bystander might have caught the muttered whisper. Smoke spiraled around the towers of the Ratgate Bridge, which rose above the city. The man walked on, towards the oily pillars that were an abomination against the perfect blue sky of summertime Wye City.

*********

Every step brought more pain, until she felt like she was walking through a fog. Her body ached, in placed where there were no bruises, in places where the thought of bruises brought on nausea. The uniform was a size too big, jacket borrowed from the young soldier's companion because it was not slickened with blood. Soles of shiny leather boots ground the glass, rubble, and debris that littered the hallway. Someone rounded the corner.

Her kaster flashed, hissed. The soldier groaned, already dead, his upper body charred to ash. The raven-haired young woman's arms shook, now, but they had held steady for that one all-important second.

She almost fell down the stairs, using both hands to grasp the handrail, bleeding fingers feeling every bump in the chipped yellow paint. The entrance hallway, then maybe she would be free....

"Hey, what's up?" the call made her tremble. 'Wai...ain't you that bitch," a flash of blue fire carried away his words.

*********

The black man looked from beneath the brim of his hat. The girl was the one, there could be no mistake. The orange-crimson uniform was covered in blood and spinal fluid; her face was a giant bruise, the parts of it not smeared with red and brown and gray; the hair, had probably seen better days, her eyes....the eyes....even the one swollen shut....Damn you, the black man thought.

"Who...are you," the woman asked, 'kaster gun shaking in her hands.

"Ash," the man in black stated simply. "I apologize for my tardiness, milady," and bowed, falling to one knee.