Unclassifiable The Darkroom - A Freeform Role Playing Experience

An Introduction​

Have you ever found yourself harboring a burgeoning desire to create something, with no avenue to harness that desire? Wishing you could take that pesky idea that won't leave you alone and materialize it in an environment for others to enjoy and take part? The good news is you've come to the right place. The Role Playing Forum is home to a myriad of unique, collaborative stories where anyone can create characters and interact with creations from others in distinct environments and situations. Where one person can take an idea and turn it into a playground, inviting others to enter and and take part in crafting stories together, limited only by their imaginations. From the bustling cityscapes of Coruscant, to the homely corridors of Hogwarts; from an Earth dominated by Mutants and superhuman beings, to a distant island where ordinary people fight to survive. Many adventures have taken place, many adventures are taking place right now, and many more will take place in the future.

Now, another question. Have you ever had the aforementioned desire to create, but found yourself lacking the time to do anything about it? Let's face it, Role Playing Games are big commitments either way you slice it. If you are a prospective GM seeking to create a game, there are many challenges you'll face along the way. What kind of player base are you seeking? How many people are interested in the story you want to tell, if any at all? How often will you be able to post updates, and how long will those updates take to write? These are all daunting questions to ask, and potentially discouraging enough to keep you from taking that leap at all. On the other side of the coin, simply participating in an RPG is no small task in itself. Not only do you have to create a compelling character, but throughout the game you will be interacting with other writers who anxiously await your responses to their posts. Sometimes you have to comb through many replies from others, and read through countless lines of text to determine what your responsiblity is and how your character(s) should respond. It can be time consuming and, frankly, exhausting.

Make no mistake, running and/or participating in an RPG is an exhilerating, rewarding experience. There's nothing quite like the rush of launching a new game out into the wild, or taking part in a fascinating story with friends with a character you created. But the fact of the matter is sometimes life happens, and we don't have the time to make the required commitment to others. Because of this simple truth, countless stories are left on the table, cast into oblivion and never to be told. I know I've given up on many ideas because I either a) didn't have enough time to commit to one, or b) didn't think enough people would be interested in participating.

For a very long time I've been casually brainstorming ideas that would help alleviate the burden of responsibility that comes with participating in a Role Playing Game, but still allow the consistent freedom of expression and storytelling that makes us all so fond of the medium. A place where writers can come and go as they please and participate in ongoing storylines with other players, or spontaneously create new ones of their own, without the trying process of typing up a lengthy opening post and facing the pressure of finding participants and responding to incessant tags. I've launched many new Role Playing Games over the years, and with it always comes a nervous excitement over how successful it will be and how many players will want to join me. Today, I'm launching something unlike anything I've ever done before, but I'm as excited as ever to share it with the Role Playing Forum, and I'm confident that we'll see some special stories created here.

Welcome to The Darkroom.​

Overview​

In The Darkroom, you won't find a small novella detailing events of the plot you're to participate in, because there is no plot. You won't find a character sheet for you to fill out and submit to the GM for approval, because there is no GM. You won't find a list of rules outlining how many characters you're allowed to play or how often you're expected to respond to tags, because there are no rules (aside from general forum-wide rules and the TOS, of course). This is a place where you create stories of your own on the fly. If you have an idea and want to explore it through Role Playing, but aren't really sure if it's conventional enough to warrant a game of its own, this is the place to try it! But if you have a specific story in mind and don't want to deviate from it in any major way, be warned: anyone can come in and interact with your story at any point. After all, that's what Role Playing is all about! Interaction with others to create interesting, unexpected stories. If I write a post about a man down on his luck taking a seat at a bar and ordering a drink, another player may come in and write a post from the perspective of the bartender, or another patron, or a sentient jukebox that communicates with others through the songs it plays. Or someone could write a vignette centered on a space marine in the middle of a heated battle thinking back to her time on Earth with her loving husband, and I could come in and write a post about how the husband is coping back on Earth with the absence of his wife. And then a third participant can enter the fray, writing a post from the perspective of one of the aliens doing battle with the first player's space marine. Or a bunch of players could reenact the Battle of Geonosis from the different perspectives of various Jedi and Separatists. The possibilities for unique collaborations are endless in The Darkroom, where any story can be told from any perspective. And who knows, maybe a small story that begins here could grow into a full fledged RPG of its own!

Also, it's worth repeating that there is no pressure to respond quickly in The Darkroom. If you have an ongoing story with someone and feel like you're being waited on, do not feel pressured to respond as quickly as possible. I envision this as an evergreen thread, where even if there are no new posts for months, anyone can come in and breathe new life into it with an entirely new story or a response to an old one. So it will not live and die based on, say, if you had a long week of work or not.

Guidelines​

Now, while this is a free flowing thread without a lot of structure, there are still some basic things to be expected from your fellow players. It's probably going to be frowned upon to take a previously established character from another player and control them yourself without permission. Also, if you see an ongoing story with an established tone and direction, and you have a mischievous idea to derail it, please refrain from doing so. One, it just wouldn't be a cool thing to do, and two, players have free reign to ignore your attempt at chaos and continue on as if nothing happened anyway. I'm sure the mods would be happy to wipe any blatantly disruptive posts from existence. In general, don't be an ass. Also, in a thread that could potentially be home to multiple ongoing, independent storylines, I would suggest highlighting where and when your reply takes place at the beginning of your post, to make things easier for those reading. For example:

New York City, New York​

The Tipsy Turtle​

August 6th, 2017​

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The man with an oversized coat and rainslicked hair entered the bar as quiet as a mouse...​

You could even begin with a title of your story, and anyone who responds could also put that title at the beginning of their replies to make differentiating between threads even easier. And of course, if you're expecting a reply from another specific player, the standard method of tagging them at the end of your post will suffice. But as The Darkroom is more experimental than most RPGs, we're probably not going to have the optimal way of doing things figured out right at the beginning, so we'll see where it all goes and cross any bridges we need to as they come. There is a separate thread here in the Resource Forum for OOC discussion, so that will be the home for any suggestions on formatting or discussions on storylines.

Conclusion​

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I created the Darkroom for any and every potential role player to be able to enter and experiment freely without fear of failure or rejection, and I can't wait to see what kind of unique stories will find their start here. If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to stop by the Resource thread to voice them, or you can always drop a line in my inbox as well. And without further ado, The Darkroom is now open for use! Stay hungry, and keep creating!

 

Blues for the Twin Suns​

Tatooine, a few miles east of the Jundland Wastes
Five years Before the Battle of Yavin

The silence of the setting suns on the arid deserts of Tatooine was interrupted by the blaring sound of a speeder traveling at its maximum speed against the wind, kicking up dust behind it as it surged across the landscape. There was a man aboard the speeder, and his hands were throbbing with pressure against the throttles. He was a human, with skin worn down by the ultraviolet rays constantly passing through his home planet's atmosphere, and he had dissheveled blonde hair that billowed violently in the wind. It appeared as if it'd been some time since last he shaved his face, and he looked back every few seconds, past the bloodstained tail of his coat fluttering behind him, as if he was fleeing from something. All he could see were vast dunes, barren and vacant. He mumbled something to himself between the large cigarra stuck between his teeth, whose flame had long been extinguished.

Satisfied, he aimed his gaze forward, turning his head far less frequently due mostly to the mild pain in his neck. He knew exactly where he was and where he was going, though he'd had a long and winding path of getting there. In the far distance he could see an isolated homestead approaching, small and unremarkable. If anyone had trailed him all this way, it would soon be an abandoned homestead, but the man was confident that he'd successfully eluded his pursuers.

When he arrived at the off-white dome in which he dwelled most nights, he stood up from his speeder and flexed his fingers, popping the knuckles while he rolled his head from side to side. He took the cigarra from his mouth, spitting out some shavings from the shaft, and placed it back between his teeth as he removed a silver lighter from the inside breastpocket of his coat and relit the end of it. He sucked the cigarra for quite a while, exhaled a small cloud of smoke and stood looking at the suns sinking gently beyond the horizon in the distance as the sky took on a hue of orange and purple. He didn't stick around to enjoy the view for long, ducking in through his doorway and into the warm den inside after tossing the stub of his cigarra into the sand.

"Is that blood?" were the first words the man heard as he entered his home. He looked over at the source, a woman with dark brown hair draped over her bare shoulders who sat on a cot with her feet on the floor and her elbows on her knees, and then down at his coat, specked with dried red liquid that got thicker closer to the bottom.

"Yeah." He shrugged off the coat and tossed it to the corner of the room where it landed in a heap.

The woman, with heavily tattooed arms, stood up, clad only in her red lingerie, and walked over to her partner, looking him up and down. She felt his face with her hands.

"I'm fine," he told her calmly. "Not a scratch."

"And the... did you..."

"Yeah, babe. I did."

Her eyes were wide, and she looked into his, back and forth. "So that's it, then." She laughed a little, clearly relieved by something. "I mean, you did it!"

"Well, I just have to meet with my contact in a few days, but..." he smiled with her. "Yeah. That's it."

The woman shrieked with joy and jumped into her man's arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders, burying her face in his neck.

"Babe, careful."

"It's fine," she said, kissing his neck. "Promise."

"We've gotta head out soon."

The woman nibbled on the man's ear and whispered, "Soon is plenty of time."

A little while later they were both fully dressed, she in a sleeveless red coat with slim black pants and boots, and he in an olive green jacket and brown pants with a small blaster tucked inside, fully concealed. They stepped outside of their shack and into the frigid night air of the Tatooine dunes, where a cool breeze accompanied the bright stars that dotted the black sky. He hopped in the driver's seat of the speeder parked there, and she sat behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her hair was pulled into a bun on top of her head, his back into a small ponytail.

"You good?" he asked her, looking back.

"Yep."

He started the engine of the speeder and kicked it into gear, turned the throttles forward, and they were off.

It wasn't long before they reached their destination, an average sized cantina on the outer edge of Mos Eisley. The man parked his speeder in a group of other similar vehicles, and he and the woman swung their legs to the side and stood. He wrapped his arm around her waste and pulled her close and kissed her.

"Be careful," he told her.

"Back atcha, tough guy," she winked and slapped him on his rear end as she walked passed him and into the front door of the cantina. He shook his head and followed.

Once inside, the man watched the woman head behind the bar and into a room on the other side reserved only for employees. He turned to his right just next to the entrance and raised his chin to the tall, broad shouldered man who stood there with his arms crossed.

"Your eyes look different, Tyrus," the tall man said.

Tyrus tilted his head. "Is that right?"

Tall man nodded. "That's right. Fatherhood is changing you already."

Tyrus laughed and turned around to face the doorway behind the bar where his woman had yet to return from. "Well. I'm not a father yet."

"Oh, I beg to differ." Tall man's voice was laced with wisdom, as if he spent all of his spare time in deep thought. "There is a child inside Lora that you care for, is there not? The fact that it has yet to meet our twin suns does not make it any less real."

"Well." Tyrus turned back around to face Tall man. "What are you doing here anyway, Sal? I thought Brick had this shift?"

"Brick couldn't make it."

"Shocker."

Sal shrugged. "Work is work."

"I'll drink to that."

Sal laughed, unfolded his arms, and clapped Tyrus on the shoulder which caused the smaller man to take a step to the side to keep from falling over. "No drinking for you, my friend. You're on duty now." And with that, the large man took his exit and left the cantina through the front door.

Tyrus looked down and shook his head with a grin, and then took his position where Sal had stood before and folded his arms the same way. It wasn't a quiet night in the cantina, rarely was it ever, but thankfully it wasn't a loud night either. Not yet Tyrus surveyed the scene with his eyes that had apparently changed according to his friend, although Sal never specified how. But something inside Tyrus had changed, he admitted to himself as Lora came out from the back room and entered the serving area of the bar. She was immediately called upon by a Rodian customer who wanted something stiff. She was stunning, and he'd worked hard for years to earn her affection. And now they had a little one on the way, a little one Tyrus knew couldn't grow up in the same place he did. But things were looking up. The father-to-be had secured a way of getting out of his current situation with his family. There was only one thing left to do, and then they'd be gone. The three of them, free, with an entire galaxy waiting.

 

Blues for the Twin Suns

Tatooine, Cantina outside Mos Eisley
Five years Before the Battle of Yavin

"New day, New job, New me." That's what she said to herself into the mirror of her too small apartment above her new work place. A no name cantina outside a 'hive of scum and villainy', yeah she was really coming up in the galaxy.

Well it was better than where she came from. She opened her eyes, actually the shutters on them. The unsettling red glow reflected off the polished metal before her. Her eyes felt like they weren't her own, these burning crimson orbs that filled the sockets were her kind blue ones used to be. There was some debate as to whether or not she had kind eyes. Did she have kind eyes that night, the night stained with blood?

It seemed the jury didn't think so, nor did the judge.

Ten years hard labor, that was the sentence, that's what she served. Her body was marked, crudely and painfully with black ink, commemorating first jumping, her first fight, her first murder inside, her first…other things. That's where she lost her eyes, working in the mines. An 'accident' a spurt of some corrosive chemical splashed across her face leaving its indelible marks, and taking her 'kind' blue orbs. By that time, they had lost that shine, taken away by the years of imprisonment.

They left her blind for a long time, the rest of her sentence. It was like being in eternal darkness having to feel her way around. It took her years to become accustomed to the black, and where she was, she never felt safe, not knowing what was around her.

They called her 'Eyes' after that, their cruel joke.

When she got out, the first thing she did was find someone, anyone that could give her sight back. She did and the price was steep, to people that were not acting out of the goodness of their hearts. Now she has to pay them back, pay them back with the only job an Ex-Con who's been in the spice mines since she was eighteen.

What she might fear more, is someone from her past coming back. She did a lot…a lot of things she was not proud of, and could if the right words meet the right ears, send her back. At the moment she just had to focus on the now, keep her head down and do her job.

She showered and got dressed in the uniform, if you could call it that, for the cantina. There were bonuses to living in an apartment attached to your workplace. The rent was reasonable, thought the space was barely bigger than her cell back on Kessel. At least she was alone, for the first time in ten years she felt alone, no prying eyes constantly watching her, no malicious glances thrown her way, just her. She bound her shoulder length blonde hair at the back of her head with a black ribbon, more to keep it out of her eyes than for any aesthetic reason. In fact it drew even more attention to the pockmarks and scars that surround her eye sockets.

Leaving her apartment, locking the door behind her, she made her way down to the cantina. Entering through the front she cast an eye around, it was getting lively. It wasn't loud, though after years spent in in the spice mines a Glimmik concert was quiet to her. She stepped behind the bar, and into the employees only section, passing by Lora, was it? She was only trained yesterday and this was her first day so, it would take some time to get to know people. What was striking was the tattoos on her arms, they looked more professional that the ink that graced the former pirsoner's back she wondered if each of them meant something, like hers. Another thing was her looks, dark brown hair and a shapely figure and eyes that seemed to glow.

The ex-convict on the other hand had a sturdier frame, one built up over years of manual labor, and daily exercise. The one thing you have a lot of in prison is time, time to bulk up, to become stronger so you become less of a target. It also didn't help that her eyes were burning red, and made of metal.

She clocked in and began her shift alongside Lora. A mass of beings greeted her their voices all talking over each other. She didn't shrink back, she stood at her full height, not imposing but, taller than most human women. Right away a bulky human man called for a drink, a whiskey. She nodded her head turning around to pull down the bottle and open it. As she poured the ambler liquid into a glass he asked her,

"Hey," he said getting her attention again. His face was unremarkable except for the scar that ran along his jaw. There must have been a story behind it but, she wasn't here to hear stories, she was here to sling drinks. "You're new, what's your name?"

What was her name? Was she still the same woman that made a mistake, the same woman that survived ten years in the spice mines? The woman that lost her eyes? Who was she now, a free woman on her own? What sort of name does a person like her take?

She gave the man a weak smile, she'd have to get used to smiling again, she'd almost forgotten how to do it. Wasn't much call for it on the work crew.

"Red," she said pointing to her eyes, "Call me Red."

Red, a new name for her new life.

"Is it always this busy?" Red asked Lora as she passed. "Nice ink, who did the work?" she added looking at the art that covered the other woman's arms. "I might want to look them up."

She might want to mark her first day at a new job, her first breaths of free air, and the new life she was starting.

TAG: Reynar_Tedros

 

Blues for the Twin Suns

Tatooine, Mos Espa cantina
5 BBY

While pouring some ale for an impatient Rodian, Lora noticed a customer inquire as to the name of her new coworker. Red. She'd have to be careful with those types, as Lora was quick to find out when she first started working the bar a year ago. First they wanna know your name, then your age, then where you're from, and soon enough they wanna know what you look like underneath the layers and they'll do just about anything to find out whether you want them to or not.

She cast a small wink over at the watchful Tyrus, unsure if he noticed it or not.

"Is it always this busy?" Red asked Lora as they passed each other.

"Sometimes less, sometimes more." She handed the Rodian his ale and took another order from a Duros. "This is average. On the weekends when they get a band in here is when it's the worst." Lora thought back to her very first shift at the cantina, a weekend all-nighter. Countless orders, impatient drunkards, too many wolf whistles. She probably would've quit then and there had a strapping blonde with tanned skin and ice blue eyes not taken a seat in front of her. That first smile had caused the entire scene to become a slow motion blur.

"Nice ink, who did the work? I might want to look them up."

"I have a guy in Mos Espa who's done all of mine, I'll give you his info after we close." Maybe he can fix some of those, she thought to herself, checking out the markings on Red's skin. Clearly not done by a professional. But then again, good artists were hard to find on Tatooine. She'd gotten lucky with Boris, a childhood friend who'd always dabbled in endeavors of the creative kind.

Meanwhile, Tyrus kept watch over the crowd. Various races of various types and colors. Mingling about, drinking, smoking, laughing, arguing, flirting. Typical night. Bouncers at cantinas were rare, but the owner of this particular joint liked to keep his place in good shape. He'd had one too many irate customers trash the place and, fed up, decided to hire some help to keep it from happening again. The rowdy types usually didn't make it this far to the edge of Mos Eisley, and when they did, they tended to avoid this cantina due to its well earned reputation of having some pretty... tactical security. Tyrus was arguably the nicest of the bunch, and he had a bloodstained trenchcoat lying in the corner of his home. As to whose blood was on it, well, only time would tell if that mattered or not.

Tag: galactic-vagabond422, anyone

 

The Butler and the Question​

It was an odd place to meet, but that was the least of The Question's curiosities. She sat on a bench on the outskirts of Gotham City, close to a pier that overlooked the river. She wasn't sure what the river was actually called. Never thought about it. It was just the river. She had the envelope that summoned her to that bench folded up in the chest pocket on the inside of her brown trenchcoat. It wasn't often someone found The Question. Typically it was the other way around, but she could smell unusual circumstances in the air like a faint stench wafting in from the other side of the water. After all, these were extremely tumultuous times for her city. The likes of which she'd never seen before.

She heard a pair of footsteps approaching in the distance behind her. Her gun weighed heavy in its holster on the left side of the belt beneath her coat. She turned her head to the side, then shifted her body so she could get a better look at the newcomer. The streetlight in the distance outlined his silhouette in blackness. A man of average height and build, older judging by his gait. He held a parasol in his right hand, his left free. As he came closer she could see he was in a suit, and he was indeed older. She relaxed slightly, stood to meet him.

"Evening," the old man greeted with a gentle British accent.

"Evening," The Question responded. She was surprised that he didn't seem to be taken aback at her featureless mask, the mask that made her face look as if it was covered in skin and nothing else. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. No features whatsoever. But if he had the means to contact her, he likely was aware of her... uniqueness.

"The Question, I presume?" The tip of his umbrella was pointed at the ground, his body still.

"You're the man from the letter."

"Alfred Pennyworth. Pleasure."

Ah. The butler. She'd been to Wayne Manor before, fundraisers and banquets and the like. Sans mask of course, during the day when she was Renee Montoya, detective for the Gotham City Police Department. Alfred was a kind man, that much didn't require much deduction from the time she'd spent in the halls and dining rooms of the lavish mansion in which her new riverside acquaintance worked. Lived.

"Wanna sit?" The Question motioned to the bench in front of her.

"Gladly." Alfred approached her as she stepped to the side. "Legs aren't what they used to be." He leaned the umbrella against the back of the bench and sat down with the care and speed of a man who'd bid his youth farewell long ago. The Question sat opposite, leaving a generous amount of space between them. They didn't speak for a moment, and she watched the lights of the riverboats and bridges in the distance reflect off the old man's eyes, wet not from emotion but time.

He cleared his throat. "You know who I am, yes?"

"Wayne's butler." She wondered if it was odd for him, being with a faceless woman who knew of him but whom he did not know surrounded in darkness without another soul in shouting distance.

Alfred gave a small smile. If he was unsettled, he didn't show it. "He said you were good."

She was silent. Adjusted her fedora.

"It's a funny thing, getting older. You know." He wet his lips, scratched his nose with a gloved hand. Short grey hair moving slightly with the chill wind. "When you're a child, you visit your friends with your parents. You go to birthday parties. Play dates. You get older. Then it's weddings. A bit older. Lose touch." He paused, looked down at his lap, hands folded there. "Then come the funerals. And suddenly, you realize you've measured your life beside the lives of your peers. Your friends. You've moved along side by side, mirrored, like reflections in the water." The Question looked out at the river. "And those that once lived, that once laughed with you, are no longer there. But you are. For some reason. But it doesn't hurt as much when they're old. Like me. They lived their days, long and fruitful. Experienced it all, you know. Passing on was just the last step. Their story's over. But. When it really hurts, I'll tell you, when the pain takes hold of you with a grip like it will never leave..." The old man's jaw moved, his teeth tightened, the wrinkled crevices in his skin shadows like canyons in the dark. "It's when they're young. When you bury someone who should be burying you."

In the silence, she understood. She knew he'd heard enough condolences, and the words 'I'm sorry' would hold no weight, so she didn't speak. She simply sat with him, both of them gazing at the river and the city behind it, the chaos within invisible.

"I'm sorry," Alfred smiled tiredly and looked at the Question, "I doubt you came all this way to hear the sad ramblings of a frail old man."

"It's no trouble," she responded kindly.

"I wasn't sure who else to turn to. I just..." He sighed. "I need to know."

She nodded.

"I need to know who killed the Batman." He took her hand in his, gripped it tightly with the strength of a man half his age. "I need to know who killed Bruce Wayne."

 

Blues for the Twin Suns

Tatooine, Cantina outside Mos Eisley
Five years Before the Battle of Yavin

"Thanks Red." the man with the scar said. It took her a moment to respond. It was the first time she'd heard someone else us that name. The name she made up only a few moments ago.

"Sometimes less, sometimes more." Lora said in answer to Red's question. Red herself fielded another order from a Kaltooinan as she spoke. "This is average. On the weekends when they get a band in here is when it's the worst." Red would have to check her shift see when she was working the weekend. Knowing her luck it would be this week. She couldn't help but notice the slightly wistful look on Lora's face. Shaking her head she returned to her work.

"I have a guy in Mos Espa who's done all of mine," her coworker continued, "I'll give you his info after we close."

"Thanks." Red replied looking away sheepishly, the back of neck, her elbows, they showed the black prison made ink, the rough artistry that defined most tattoos where she came from. There was a little trepidation about showing someone else the full tapestry, as it were, inked across her shoulders. If they knew what to look for, they would see her whole story written out in black and white. The ten drill bits for ten years in the mines, the blindfolded skull the day she lost her eyes, three teardrops for the three lives she took. There were others, so many others gained over a decade of survival and pain. She looked at her wrist, a broken chain symbolizing her freedom from that place.

Another order came in an ale for some species of being, they were all starting to blend together after a little while. Just as long as she got the orders right no one could complain. Though she did just start, so maybe she shouldn't start anything. Her's would be the first head on the chopping block if something went wrong.

As she was serving another drink she finally noticed the man seemingly standing guard. A slight disbelieving smirk pulled at her lip, seriously, this place had bouncers. It didn't really look it. The man standing there was tall tanned faced, good looks with piercing blue eyes. handsome but, not Red's type. What struck her were the blue eyes, eyes that used to stare back at her in the mirror.

Another customer drew her out of her thoughts before they could wonder to that night, the night of her original sin.

Time passed and the grind began to set in, take an order serve a drink, chat, just a little. Soon, it was time for her first break. She almost blew right past it until she checked the chrono on the wall.

"Hey Lora, going on break, be back soon." Informing her co-worker and heading out of the main cantina. She passed through the back and left through the back door. The heat was just dissipating into the night air bringing some merciful cool to this baked planet.

She leaned against the back wall just looking up at the stars. It had been a long time since she'd seen the stars, working underground there wasn't much hope of star gazing. A long sigh left her, another breath of blessed freedom. Though the job was a grind, it was nothing compared to the hours she used to work, even blind they found work for her to do. The shutters on her eyes closed and she breathed in the dusty desert air, it wasn't like home but, nowhere was like home, a place that she can never return to not after what she'd done.

Her red eyes open again seeing the stars stretching out in front of her.

"Hey Eyes." A voice, a familar one, called out from beside her. Her crimson gaze moved swiftly over to the being. Dark hair and darker eyes, a figure much like Red's developed over years of hard labor. "Been a while."

"Not long enough." The waitress muttered under her breath.

TAG: @Reynar_Tedros anyone else

 

The Bruising Red Turtle Nightclub - Gotham City

The club was the hottest club in all of Gotham. Open 3 nights a year. Exclusive. High quality. And due to the patrons: violent. Established in Backport, the lower income crime infested part of Gotham City, it was a direct affront to everything that Batman and the Bat family worked against. It gave criminals a place to collude and plan while doubling as an actually very entertaining nightclub experience. Despite the presence of Joker's gang, Penguin, Bane's entourage, and an assortment of others, famous musicians and celebrities could not deny the payday and notoriety that performing at the club would bring them. Each night it was open, it would trend worldwide on twitter, be all over instagram, and on the news for the next week. There had, to the surprise of all of Gotham, there had never been an incident of violence.

Until tonight.

The night that Bruce Wayne showed up.

Jordan slid across the bar, seemingly in slow motion, and scouted what was going on. Penguin was pulling a shotgun from his umbrella, Joker had stabbed a dancer and kicked her towards Black Skull's table with a bomb tagged on her back, while Bane was tearing his way through the crowd trying to get to batman who had emerged from the shadows. Jordan herself was no criminal, but the owner of the club had very clear instructions(through her employment contract; no one had ever met him).

CLUB RULES FOR EMPLOYEES
- Take no tips from Joker
- No pictures, ever
- Do not annoy the talent
- Do not interfere in altercations unless the club property or more normal patrons were in danger

Jordan remembered laughing at the idea that someone would damage the club property. This club was a safehaven and it opened so rare that there had never been any reason for any altercations to start. What were the chances that all of Gotham's criminals would be here on the same night, with batman, destroying the first level of the club...

Well on second thought, she realized it was incredibly likely. What a dumbass, she thought to herself.

And this was just the first level. There were 5 levels to the Bruising Red Turtle and judging from the radio chatter, the rest of the Bat family were fighting on the next level up.

Jordan's slow motion slide resumed normal speed. She dropped behind the bar and pulled out her 9MM glock as the explosion from Joker's bomb, she surmised, shook the entire ground floor. "Holy ****." she screamed. She peered over the top. Bane was throwing bodies and tables around the club and the casualty count was rising at a horrid rate. She fired a shot at him, missed wide left, before being tackled by one of Bane's crew. She pumped 2 shots into him as he landed on top of her. Then she looked up as the Batman's body flew into the Ace of Spades bottle above the bar, knocking down a board that landed squarely between her eyes, knocking her out.

Joker's voice roared over the speakers.

"Its going to be a loooonnngggg night, Bats."

Tag: Anyone and no one in the riot of the Bruising Red Turtle

 

Simple Men

“Your mom never taught you that?”

“No.”

“Hell. All right, well. Do like this, open both of your hands and put them out in front of you. Spread out all your fingers. Now take your thumbs and put them together like this, just so the tips of them are touching.”

“Like this?”

“Good boy. Now, look in the distance and find something to focus on.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. A tree, a rock, just something that doesn’t move.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have it?”

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“That womprat that’s sleeping, way out there.”

“Good eye, son. Okay, now I want you to take your two thumbs, and put that womprat right in the center of them.”

“What?”

“Put your hands how I told you. Palms out... fingers spread... okay, and thumbs touching. Good. Now move your hands so that that womprat you’re looking at is right at the center of your thumbs. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s in the center of your thumbs?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Hold it there. Now, close your right eye. Good. Now what happened to the womprat?”

“Nothing. It’s still asleep.”

“Did it move?”

“Dad, it’s asleep.”

“Okay. Open both your eyes again. Now I want you to close your left eye.”

“Whoa.”

“What happened?”

“It moved!”

“But it’s still asleep.”

“Yeah. It’s in my right hand now.”

“But it should be in the center of your thumbs.”

“I know, but it’s not anymore. It moved over.”

“Good. Now open both eyes again. And now close your right eye like you did the first time.”

“It’s back in the center now.”

“Where it should be.”

“Yeah.”

“So tell me, what eye should you look through when you’re aiming at a target?”

“My left.”

“Why not you’re right?”

“Because my target moves when I look through my right.”

“And when you look through your left?”

“It stays where it’s supposed to.”

“Good. Now, take the rifle. Easy now. Good. Now I want you to aim at that womprat.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Nice and easy. Center it in the sights. Now close your right eye, the one you can’t trust. Good.”

“He’s still asleep.”

“Then he won’t move on you. Pull the trigger when you’re ready.”

“...He’s dead.”

“Good boy.”

“But he didn’t do anything.”

“That was his place in the universe. He died so that you would learn to survive. So that you would be free to make your way.”

“So I did good, Dad?”

“You did good, Jango. You did real good.”

 

Fallout: Wasteland
Southern California

--

--​

The battered old radio sang out into the emptiness of the ruins, the sound of Maybe by The Ink Spots echoed through out the crumbling old apartment building. Strewn around the radio were pieces of stone and concrete, with an old armchair, drenched in a thick coat of dust, and a skeleton seated in it. Beyond this rickety old apartment room, was more rubble. An endless sea of destroyed buildings and worn-down roads. This city used to be the home of many people, once appeared clean and with air that made you feel refreshed. All of this was gone. In its place, rubble.

Through this sea of destruction was one figure, suited in a hulking mass of armour, wading through the pieces of discarded concrete. A rifle of sorts was slung in the person's arms, and a canister of water hanging from the heavy suit of metal. Some called it power armour in these lands, a worthy piece of protection for any wanderer of the wastes. The sound of the radio eventually faded away from earshot as the metal man walked through the ruins. Every day he walked, trying to find something of worth, to sell for a few caps. Each day was a danger. Maybe falling rubble would kill the metal man, or perhaps a pack of ghouls, maybe even the radiation.

On he would go, until death took him from this miserable land. On he would go in this nightmare.

--

(music)

The woman had been walking through the desert wastes for three days now. A strange mini-computer was strapped to her arm. She had a location in mind, and she was determined to get there. She was exhausted, a layer of sand coated her blue and yellow onesie, a large yellow 13 on the back of her suit. Her water bottle now only had a few drops left, and she needed to make a pit stop at anywhere possible.

At first she thought her eyes deceived her until she drew closer to a small village, surrounded by a white stone wall with small huts within the walls. As she arrived at the gates, two guards stepped forth to greet her.

"Welcome to the village of Shady Sands, traveler. State your business here or leave." one says, before she slumps down to her knees.

"Please... I need... I need some water..." she murmurs, her voice faint and croaky, a sign of her sheer exhaustion. The two guards looked at each other, and shrugged.

"Alright, there's a well inside the village. You seem safe enough so you can stay." the guard says, the two moving aside to allow her in.

The locals stared at her from a distance as she desperately took water from the well, filling her water bottle and drinking directly from the bucket which fetched the precious drink. She stood, refreshed, but still weary, and turned back towards the gate. The guards stared at her for a moment, before one spoke up.

"Miss, shouldn't you stay a while and rest?" he asked, before she shook her head.

"No... I must get to the Boneyard..." she whispered, before trudging back into the wasteland.

 

The Battle of Selvazuella
A Pilot for a possible upcoming game from Vo Studious

---

Selvazuella, a country located in South America, packed with dense rain forests and on the brink of revolution. It was here that the American ambassador to this country was captured by a Communist guerrilla organization called La Guerra.

La Guerra had popped up in Selvazuella recently, targeting the corrupt government of the country, along with the cartels that controlled the power in the land. They had been watched closely by the government, and the foreign powers had acknowledge its existence, but it was only now that they had been placed on multiple watchlists around the world. It was here that the story begins. 1980, deep in the rainforests of Selvazuella, where the organization held the american ambassador.

---

Selvazuella, Deep within the Rainforests, 1980

The 5-ton 6x6 truck trumbled through the rough roads deep within the dense jungle. It was filled to the brim with camouflaged soldiers. They didn't look professional, simply wearing loose jackets and all holding AK-47 rifles, but they looked serious. This was La Guerra, the communist revolutionary organization that had just captured the ambassador to Selvazuella from the United States. He was the only one currently not in camo, but had a bag forced over his head and was shivering relentlessly.



The truck took a turn of the road, diving into unconquered ground, and rumbling the passengers more, who bobbed around in the truck like a buoy in the sea. The ambassador jumped from shock, calling out a useless plea for help as he felt the vehicle shift onto rougher ground. The revolutionaries started talking in rapid spanish, laughing a bit before the truck came to a halt and the ambassador was pulled out of the vehicle and forced to the ground.

His crying grew louder, before it was silenced by a booming voice, one he did not recognize from the journey.

"Quitar la mascarilla!"

The bag was quickly yanked of his head, and the Ambassador finally had a chance to take in his surroundings. He found himself in some sort of camp shrouded by trees, with tents and tarp on poles surrounding him completely. What intimidated him was the amount of armed revolutionaries surrounding him, with one in particularly catching his eye. The one who yelled for the removal of his covering.



The man stepped towards him, with a casual air around him and a smoking pipe billowing smoke into the air.

"Hola, Señor embajador" the man said, his voice low and smooth, something that would be quite soothing if not given the situation. He waved a hand, as another stepped forward.



The first talked quickly with the other in Spanish, whom nodded and looked directly at the ambassador.

"He wants to know if you know why you are here, Mr. Ambassador." the man said in English, tilting his head as he asked the question. The ambassador shook his head, before blurting out a spew of desperate pleas.

"P-please let me go, I can pay you money... Whatever, just let me go and we can forget this happened!"

The English-speaker laughed, before talking to the other man, who seemed to be in charge, which led him to laugh too.

"We are not interested in your money, Mr. Ambassador. We are interested in sending a message." he replied, clearing his throat and crouching down to be eye-level with the ambassador.

"You see, we have a foreign reporter coming to show the world what we want, and what we mean... That man over there? That is Dante Alvarado." the man informed, tilting his head towards the pipe smoking man.

"He leads us. We are La Guerra. You are be going to spending quite a bit of time with our group, Mr. Ambassador." The man stood up straight, before nodding to a soldier.

The last thing the Ambassador remembered was being knocked out with the butt of an AK-47 rifle.

-

The reporter and their camera team had been blindfolded as they were transported deep within the rainforest. When they stopped and were allowed to see, they found themselves in a camp filled with soldiers carrying weapons and going about their daily business. One of their transporters spoke up in broken English.

"You film now." he said, giving them the permission to capture footage of the camp. Dante Alvarado, whom they would be aware of, stepped forward and motioned them towards a tarp covered area with a few chairs and a table. He was clearly ready for an interview which they had been allowed to take. The reporters were in the belly of the beast, and it didn't seem like they could go back now.

(possible reply as reporter/camera crew)

---

Somewhere in the rainforest...

The ambassador woke up, with a horrible headache and a large bruise on the back of his head. Looking around, he could see that he had been taken away from the camp he was previously in. Instead, he was in a makeshift cage surrounded by dense vegetation. Ahead of him, two guards sat smoking and playing cards.

He looked at the cage, and saw a weak spot. It would be noisy, but this was a chance to escape, or perhaps, as his thirst and hunger crept on him, he could not risk his life and call out for food and drink...

(possible reply as soldier/ambassador)

 

@Master Vo'Un'Var

Saori Nishimura massaged her wrists as the men finally cut her bonds and removed her blindfold. She blinked in the sudden brightness. Once her vision had cleared she shivered with realisation. Her suspicion had proved correct. She was deep in the jungle, in the lair of La Guerra, surrounded by armed revolutionaries.

"This is not what we agreed!" she turned and said to the man she had met in the hotel lobby.

The cold stares and silence, together with the dangerous smiles she received in return warned her she had better do what they said... or she would regret it.

She smoothed her white blouse and black business skirt, wishing she could have a chance to clean up. She gulped, wondering when that chance might ever come again.

Saori looked into the eyes of Dante Alvarado, suddenly feeling like she was meeting with the Devil himself, took a deep breath, and followed him into his "office"...

 

The Courier



The pulsating rhythms of the electronic music thumped perfectly in line with the blinking neon lights littered around the nightclub, patrons everywhere dancing in a collective trance of blissful, bass fueled harmony. Servers adorned in matching black leather attire with golden accents moved skillfully through the crowds, carrying on trays drinks of various sizes and contents to customers displaying differing levels of intoxication and civility.

The human girl with contrasting short black hair and pale white skin weaving through the crowd in a similar fashion was neither customer nor server, though she did her best to blend in as much as possible, walking at a pace that she hoped wouldn’t give her presence away. She kept her head low and hadn’t made contact with anyone, but she couldn’t shake her paranoid feeling that someone had eyes on her.

“I feel like I’m being watched,” she muttered under her breath, completely inaudible to anyone nearby thanks to the Rodian disc jockey at the opposite end of the club vibing to the music he played.

“You’re fine, just keep moving,” came a woman’s voice from the invisible communication device nestled in the girl’s right ear. “The exit’s right there.”

As soon as the voice said this, the girl watched a large Devaronian with a cybernetic eye move in front of the door a short distance ahead of her, the bright green exit sign above it feeling suddenly very far away. He locked eyes with her, one normal and one an artificial red that seemed to bore into her soul, for a split second before she turned on her heel and started walking in the opposite direction.

“**** **** ****,” she whispered frantically. “They saw me. I’m made.”

“It’s okay, you’re fine. Stop talking and keep moving, you can lose them.”

“Do you think someone snitched?”

“Don’t worry about it, just move.”

The girl’s pace naturally picked up as she tried to lose herself in the crowd and find an alternate route out of the club. A distracted astromech droid almost wheeled into her, and she watched an inebriated Zabrak look her body up and down as she passed his table, hearing him whisper to the woman next to him “How much for her?”

When she felt a large hand grab her shoulder, she didn’t bother turning. She grabbed it and quickly bit down on the Devaronian’s red fingers, feeling leathery skin and bone give between her teeth, the taste of blood hitting her tongue before the horned man yanked his hand away and roared in pain.

She spit out the blood and ran.

She didn’t know where to go as she furiously scanned for a way out, but her footsteps seemed to move in the same rhythm as the fast paced music. Out of nowhere a green skinned Twi’lek server kicked her foot out and tripped the girl as she flew past, and she tumbled down to her hands and knees on the black floor where the neon lights reflected.

“Naughty girl.” The server set her tray down carefully and adjusted one of her lekku, and in one smooth motion swung a kick in the girl’s direction, which she was able to barely duck as she picked herself up. The server unleashed a barrage of punches at the girl, which she deftly dodged and deflected until she was able to seize a window and yanked the Twi’lek’s arm out straight and brought her palm up hard into the elbow, snapping it in the opposite direction, a clean fracture accompanied by a miserable scream.

The crowd in the club started to take notice of the situation as the Devaronian reentered the fray, shoving the server out of his way as the girl turned and headed up a flight of stairs. She was met by another human man wearing an eye patch who had the higher ground, but when he directed a kick towards her face, she was able to move to the side, hugging the wall with her back, and grab the man’s leg and yank him to the steps. She stepped on his face as she proceeded up the stairs, and his painful attempt to grab her leg was futile.

At the top of the stairs she saw an emergency exit door to the left, so she took it without hesitation. It led to a fire escape, and when she looked below at the ground level of the alleyway she now found herself in, she met the eyes of two men who she knew were waiting for her with nefarious intentions. So she headed up to the rooftop.

The night air was cool and the wind was brisk against her face, a far cry from the warm and cramped interior of the club. But seeing what she saw now, she instantly regretted her decision.

Two dark human shadows silhouetted against the large moon in the night sky stood still on an adjacent rooftop two buildings over. The girl knew they saw her. She knew what they wanted. She knew what she could not let them have.

Their lightsabers ignited. She could hear the ominous hum of the red glowing blades, and there was only one thing she could do. The voice on the other end of her earpiece crackled back to life.

“Run.”