Avalon Crisis

Hey, everyone. This RPG is a bit of an experiment thought up between Malygos, Claymore and myself, which plays around with the basic core fundamentals of how RPGs are run on this site, with the intention of making the RPG that BZPB isn't - that is to say, a tighter, more character focused experience, as opposed to the expansive space opera which BZPB has become (which is by no means a bad thing, may I add). Unlike most RPGs, we're not trying to change the setting - this isn't a steampunk, werewolf or cowboy RPG - it's the same generic, nondescript fantasy-sci-fi we know and love, but made more dramatic, focused, and smaller-scale. Ultimately, this isn't intended to be a new or "improved" version of BZPB - just a change of pace, which I hope you will all find refreshing and enjoyable.

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Here's the basic information for this RPG:

1. The backdrop of this RPG is that the king of the universe is holding an informal tournament. Whoever wins gets a single wish, with no limits to what it can be. This is the sole piece of background information for the universe that I'm going to give - and the king of the universe is never going to appear, and the tournament is never going to end. Whilst this the main "plot" of the RPG, the purpose is to continually give the characters a motivation to act. The main story elements of the RPG will come from what people do in pursuit of being the winner of the tournament - alliances will be forged and betrayals will occur, and there will be lots and lots of fighting.

1.1 This isn't an actual tournament, though. There are no rules, no rankings, and it doesn't take place in one location. There are no sign-ups, either. Characters simply decide whether they want to participate in the tournament or not, and fight - either to kill, disable, or force to give up - anyone they know to be a competitor (with the exception of their allies, or people they simply don't want to fight). There's no obligation to fight other competitors, even if they're not allied, and there's no obligation to openly identify as a competitor. Your characters do not have to be competitors. Remember, this is not a tournament RPG. The tournament is just a backdrop.

2. This RPG takes place in a completely generic, nondescript scifi universe. There are probably empires in the background, but it's not detailed. When creating this RPG we discussed whether it would take place in the BZPB universe, an AU version of the BZPB universe, or a completely new universe - If you have to ask which one of these it is whilst writing, you're putting too much detail into it. By all means - describe planets, cities, locations, ships, weapons, technology, organizations to your heart's content - but this isn't a faction- or setting-based RPG. You can write demons and werewolves and assassins and cyborgs and sentient robots - anything you feel like.

3. It's character based. What we want is a small, focused cast of well-developed, tightly written characters more akin to the cast of a TV show, compared to BZPB which has many excellent characters amidst a huge cast that's more comparable to the entire Star Wars EU. I'm not going to set a limit on how many characters each player can have, but I'd say that you don't want any more than 5-6.

4. We want epic fights. The way fights are going to be handled in this RPG will work a lot differently to BZPB, with an emphasis on description. For example, take a fight that might appear in BZPB:

Sample Posts 1:

In this RPG, battles are handled through puppeteer by both users involved. This means that the other user takes control of your characters for the section of the fight in their post, and you take control of their characters for the section of the fight in your post. As such, the same fight might look like this:

Sample Posts 2:

As you can see, this has the potential to be much more dramatic. Naturally, it has its downsides, which means I've made the following suggestions:

• Ask questions to the other user if you don't know how their character would behave.
  
• Don't write dialogue without the other user's express permission.
  
• Portray the strengths of both characters fairly - if need be, have your character be a little bit weaker. It'll balance out if the other user repays the courtesy.
  
• Don't "win" the fight, unless you've agreed on the outcome beforehand, or it's completely obvious who's going to win - i.e, a noob two-post old character fighting your main character, who's already proven themselves by defeating many stronger opponents
  
• Like BZPB, there's to be no killing or serious injuring of other characters without their user's permission. No exceptions.
  

I don't believe there's a single active user on this site who isn't capable of making this system work, and making it enjoyable. We have no TMVs or 553s (or BZP-Era JSes) who aren't going to take a hit, and we're all very good writers. Remember, the ultimate goal is having a fun story and telling an epic tale, not proving your character is the strongest.

5'. Following a suggestion by Claymore, we'll be doing a similar system, but with dialogue. However, instead of writing the other user's character's dialogue, you work it out with them via PM - whether through a straight up RP, or just discussion. As such, rather than having a conversation split across multiple posts, with one line of dialogue per post, the entire conversation (or a large portion of it) will be incorporated into one post - as if that user was having two of their own characters converse.

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Here are the rules for this RPG:

1. No imported characters*. Appearance/Name/Personality - pick one. There's nothing wrong with taking inspiration from outside sources, but this isn't fanfiction.

2. No joke characters or memes. Malygos and Claymore don't like them, and I'm personally divided on the subject. Regardless, they're not in keeping with the tone we want to create - and there's already another RPG there for you to write them into

3. Please write in prose. Whether it's for description, character development or fight scenes, it's just so much better. I'm completely understanding of the fact that it's hard to in BZPB at times due to the sheer amount of writing that needs to be done in the average post, but this RPG is (hopefully) going to be much smaller-scale, with fewer overarching plots and less characters. If we could turn this RPG into a book by just copying the posts in chronological order and pasting them into a word document, that'd be the best thing ever!

4. Have fun. This is the most important rule! Please let me know if I can do anything to improve the RPG.

(Note: These rules are subject to change)
*Your own characters from other RPGs are fine, providing they don't break the Appearance/Name/Personality rule.

<The Middle of the Desert>

The man racked the bolt on his rifle, chambering another 12mm round. He tracked the Morgan Aero 8 as it sped across the sand, kicking copious amounts of dust into the azure sky, hazy with heat. Harsh sunlight glinted off the tinted windows of the car, obscuring it from view momentarily, but then the glint faded, and Calim could see into the cockpit again. His face distorted in confusion. The driver's gone. A voice piped up behind him.

"Looking for me?"

Calim leapt from his laying position, scared, pulling a trench knife from a loop on his leg. He turned, his face meeting with a solid blow to the nose. Calim staggered backward, tripping over his anti-materiel rifle and toppling backwards over the cliff. He fell for a second before his assailant landed on top of him, buffeting his body and pushing it at a pace toward-

The pair landed on the bonnet of the Morgan, barely denting the reinforced hood. Calim gasped as the air was knocked from his lungs, and his assailant rolled off, staggered but seemingly unaffected. He felt a firm grip on his ballistic vest pull him off the car and drop him plumb onto the sand. A foot clad in a perfectly made custom Vercetti leather shoe pressed against his cheek, mashing his head into the hot ground. Calim grimaced; he could already feel the sand burning. He squinted upwards, but his assailant blocked out the sun, appearing as a silhouette.

"Fuckin' hell, easy on the face," Calim sputtered through his smushed lips.

"No, no. Don't talk. Let me guess... You came to get revenge for your mother's and father's deaths," the silhouette postulated in a crystal clear British accent.

"What the- Look, are you gonna shoot me or what!?"

"No? alright... You came for the artefact?"

Calim squirmed under the shoe. "What bloody artefact?"

"Blast, thought I had you there," The silhouette said wistfully, leaning on the knee that was connected to the foot that was connected firmly to Calim's face. "Look, why don't you give me a clue? I'm good with clues."

"Oh for fuck sake," Calim spat, "They didn't tell me you were a sadistic bloody looney!"

"Looney? That's... novel. Alright I give up, what do you want?"

"To bloody kill you is all! Now fuckin- let me go or bloody kill me!"

"All you had to do was ask." The silhouette eased back, taking his foot off of Calim's face. The mercenary began to stand before a heavy fist smashed his face back into the dirt, knocking him and two of his teeth out. A mellow voice rose from the driver's seat of the car. A slender woman stepped out, shaking her hair out from a small velour beret. She wore a crimson evening gown which framed her lily-white neck, rising to a perfectly sculpted face. Her lipstick was dark red, her eye-shadow a dusky maroon.

"That was a bit excessive darling." She spoke with the same accent as the silhouette, who now turned to the woman.

"It was fun, wasn't it?" Tarvias Deep would have smirked, if he'd had a mouth. "And anyway, he was trying to kill us. Me. You'd simply abhor it if I died, wouldn't you Rosita?"

"Of course darling. Get in the car."

<The Middle of the Desert>

Kristoffer Lake woke up to find himself tied to a motorcycle a few feet ahead of him. He looked down at his chest and noticed that his Task Force 9 uniform was still intact, but riddled with holes. It was a miracle that he had survived the fight the night before. He looked up, and recognized the driver of the motorcycle as none other than Trevor L. Kane himself.

Kris Lake could barely speak. His lips had been dried by the scorched desert. The motorcycle started up, and started dragging him across the floor. He silently cursed to himself, and hoped to break free from his restraints before would die.

Trevor Kane's motorcycle was getting closer to Tarvias and Rosita.

< The road to Farsprings, a small town on the very edge of the desert where Deep and co are currently located >

There are only two possible outcomes for anyone who enters the tournament. The first is victory. The second is death.

Clearwater continued following the road. His leather boots were coated in a fine layer of dust, and his feet were sore from the trek, though he showed no sign of stopping. He was dressed in a black suit - his black tie was loose, his shirt open to the middle of his upper torso, his thin-lapeled blazer unbuttoned, and the dark brown, knee-length longcoat he wore over it flowing gently in the brisk wind. His dark brown hair, which ordinarily would've flown to his shoulders, was pulled back in a loose ponytail. He was a handsome man; perhaps thirty or forty, with the signs of age showing themselves in the crow's feet under his eyes and the folds framing his mouth, though in that curious fashion that served to enhance, rather than detract from, his attractiveness. Concealed within the shadow of his brow were two hazel eyes, focused on the road before him, and his jaw was concealed under a few weeks worth of stubble, unshaven during his journey.

If I am victorious, I shall be able to define a purpose for this life of my own accord. If I am defeated, then such pursuits shall no longer concern me. But my intent relates to neither of these outcomes.

One of his hands was wrapped around the sling of his rifle, which was hung over his shoulder. The rifle was a Hecker & Koch PSG-1, with only very simple modifications; a polymer fore- and pistol-grip, and a simple folding bipod. In his other hand, he held a black briefcase. He looked up as he entered the town, though his expression remained unchanged. He scanned the main street, quickly locating the local tavern, and entering. He pushed open the door, and came to sit at the bar, sliding the briefcase between him and the stool. Signalling the bartender, he adjusted his tie and collar, giving him some level of presentability.

"Water, please."

The bartender, a handsome, well-dressed blonde man, nodded, picking up a glass. Clearwater looked down the bar - whilst the tavern had a healthy population, the only other person at the bar itself was a scruffy looking girl, who was pouting, with her chin resting on the surface of the bar. She wore a black letterman jacket with dark red sleeves, a white shirt open to her collarbone, a short, red pleated skirt, tights, and a pair of New Balance 574s in black. A blue scarf was wrapped around her slender neck - it looked homemade, almost, as if someone had torn the tattered, bullet hole-ridden sleeve off a duster coat and wrapped it around their neck. She was attractive, if not Clearwater's type, with fierce golden-yellow eyes, a sharp jawline and a short, cute nose.

"Anderson, why does everyone here hate me?" she asked, frowning.

The bartender smiled, running the glass under the tap. "Well, there's the whole literally being a demon thing, followed by the bodysnatching-"

"That was one time!"

"Okay, but you still haven't given it back."

Lucy raised an eyebrow, looking down at herself. "Yeah, but I look awesome! Besides, ownership is a social construct."

"-then there's the grievous overuse of the phrase "social construct", followed by the similar overuse of the term "scrub". Honestly, I think the majority of the hatred stems from that last one. Is there anyone in this town you haven't called a scrub?"

Lucy thought the question over. "...Uh, that depends. Does it still count if they're deaf?"

Anderson sighed, handing the glass to Clearwater. Clearwater handed over a folded note, but Anderson shook it away. "No charge."

"Thank you." replied Clearwater, raising the glass to his mouth and drinking deeply. Anderson watched in mild fascination as the down the entire thing in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand afterwards.

"So, like I was saying about joining the tournament. I'm... probably gonna do it." said Lucy. Anderson turned to her.

"Oh?"

"Dammnit, scrub, you're supposed sound more enthusiastic. Anyway, I'm a demon, right? So I can't really die. But if I could, well, no-one'd miss me, because everyone hates me here. But if I won, I could wish for... Jesus, I don't know. Anyway, this is totally the greatest idea I've ever had, right? "

"Maybe. I mean, you haven't really set the standard very high beforehand."

Lucy folded her arms, sitting up straight on the chair. "Then it's done! I'm now a competitor in the universal tournament. Now, can I-"

Clearwater stood up, turning to leave, but drawing his Beretta 92FS at the last moment, pressing it to the back of Lucy's head. Her eyes shot open, and many of those inside the tavern stood up, readying - but not aiming - their weapons.

"I do hwish you hadn't just said that."

"I fucking called it." replied Lucy, grinning. Before Clearwater could react, Lucy's foot slid through the legs of the stool, breaking both of his knees in quick succession. He fell backwards, firing his gun, which narrowly missed Lucy; she brought her legs up, pushing off the bar and kicking into Clearwater's chest, sending him flying out of the doorway and into the street outside. He scraped along the dirt,  drawing his PSG-1 whilst still moving, and sighting it at the doorway, firing. Lucy disappeared in a flash of red light, reappearing behind him, and wedging her foot between his head and the ground, kicking him upwards. He focused his energy, anchoring his feet to the ground and using Lucy's kick to stand himself up, healing his broken knees as he did. He turned, discarding his rifle and materializing a silver longsword in his hands, which he swung towards Lucy; it sparked in midair, impacting her katana, which she had similarly materialized. She grinned at him through their locked blades.

"Listen here, scrub. Today, you just made the biggest fucking mistake of your whole, entire, soon-to-be-concluded life."

Clearwater locked eyes with her through the blades, his expression unchanged. Then, slowly, a grin formed on his face too.

My intention, then, is to find some meaningful essence to life. It's to find out if I'm truly alive.

<Middle of the Desert>

Quite out of place amongst the desert, a group of sharp-dressed men were up to what could only be classified as 'no good.' Men in suits of white coats paired to black pants, with red shades, ties, and fedoras matched to both color themes, were busy hauling bundles of what appeared to be black TNT with gold and red clocks belted around them up to an immense structure. It was made of beige sandstone, plated in some parts with what resembled industrial-class bronze-ish metal, and embellished with glowing light blue glyphs. Notably, their only entrance was sealed up with bricks of polished metal like what girded the outside.

One man with a beaked nose and slicked back black hair, apparently in a position of authority over the others, strode up to a man of even greater authority. Sprawled on a beach chair beneath a fireball-motif parasol above him, the fair-skinned man whose bowler hat had been tipped over his eyes also wore a suit with longer coattails, had slicked-back vermilion hair tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and reclined with an ornate cane of blood red lacquered wood and fitted gold partial finish leaned up beside him.

"'Ey, Boss," the shades-wearing Caporegime spoke quietly. "We about ready to pop this old building open. You wanna watch?" Waving his bright red-gloved hand with a dismissive air, the Boss sent his subordinate on his way. Stretching languidly, the man rose up, took his cane, and used it to tip his bowler hat back up proper on his head. This necessarily revealed his shocking reddish-orange eyes, and the jagged pair of scars down the corner of his mouth. He had high cheekbones and a rather handsome appearance, disregarding the ugly sneer.

This was a man of much renown and taste, with his hand in many illegal ventures. This was a man trained in arts of the sword since a young age, with an aptitude for both magic and technology. This was a man who could truly be said to be born of the Merchant Empire of Doria Davan, whereas most success stories were merely adopted by its abundant bosom. This was Carmen Adroa, and he'd woken up just in time to fondly regard his gang's explosive entrance into a mysterious desert temple.

Finally, the gang of about a dozen smooth criminals moved back, the Caporegime overseeing them bringing a spool of detonation cord after them. With it fully unwound, he plugged it into a plunger passed off to him by one of his soldiers, and steeled himself. Setting his weight down on the plunger's handle, a bright spark flew down the det cord, leaving ashes in its wake. When it reached the explosive bundles, they flickered red briefly, before glowing with an angry white heat. The following explosion was so tremendous, its shockwave was entirely visible distorting the air even before it threw sand into the unflinching faces of the gangsters, a second before the pillar of flames and calamitous sound sent bricks flying through the air.

The gang noted, however, how surprisingly few were displaced. As they approached with the boss in the middle of the pack, his Caporegime right by his side, they found a hole only big enough for two or three men to walk through side by side punched into the bricked-up entrance. This was enough, though, as the group filtered in. It was...Underwhelming, to say the least. The place was bare of any treasures, no gold coins or weapons or anything of value. Just a weird sarcophagus of beige metal in the center, marked by more glowing powder blue symbols. The gang looked to Carmen, who sighed, "Bust 'er open. We need to take what we can get." Thus, two soldiers moved ahead, blood red crowbars in hand, and set to prying the top off.

To their surprise, it popped off of its own accord, and promptly imbedded itself in the ceiling. The palest of blue vapors poured out of the interior, a distinctive royal blue with chains of powder blue glyphs descending into it. The two soldiers peeked in, and were surprised by an empty helm of interlocked beige plates rising up. From the darkness in the helm, two cute, distinctly feminine ovals for eyes lit up in pale blue, with matching glyphs blinking into life in four rows off to the upper and lower left and right. Lifting her gauntleted arms as their own glyphs lit up, she gripped the edge of the sarcophagus with her cord-like bronze fingers, and hefted herself out. Two elongated wedges with yet more glyphs tapered down to the ground as her legs, and her central body was of a banded bronze coloration. Looking around with a certain mystified quality, the golem girl noted the approach of Carmen and two scarlet tommy gun-toting soldiers of his gang. He asked with certain disdain, "And what the hell are you supposed to be?"

For a while, the golem girl didn't respond. Finally, though, she chimed pleasantly, "Shoshana." Meanwhile, in her head, she was looking at things through a display with royal blue and pale cyan tinting around the edges, as she was updated on her own situation. It seemed that approximately 90% of her functions were currently missing...And in order to reactivate them, she needed to first locate a map of their locations amongst the Zegrots Monuments. Immediately disinterested in the men surrounding her, she marched dutifully towards the wall which had been to her right.

To the group's surprise, Shoshana met the wall by cocking back her fist, and punching it. It was to their shock, however, that the same bricks which had resisted their explosives so sternly now crumbled like stale bread beneath her blow. Leaving the entire gang's jaws agape, save for an unperturbed Carmen that is, Shoshana continued her deliberate march towards the 'Zegrots Monuments' which beckoned to her.

< Farsprings >

Lucy twisted her blade, and it cut through Clearwater's sword, the cutting edge narrowly avoiding his neck as he spun back, surprised. He readied what remained of his sword as revolver fire came from nearby pistoleros, which he deflected with swift motions of his blade, before Lucy signaled for them to stop.

"I've got this, scrubs. Get everyone inside."

One of the gunmen lowered his revolver. "Are you sure you can take him, Lucy?"

"No." she replied, grinning. "But I've got a better chance than any of you guys. Now, get out of here!"

The street began to clear, though spectators still watched from rooftops and windows. Lucy and Clearwater circled around each-other, the former readjusting her grip on her katana, anxiously. The blade had a white hilt in a purple cloth wrap, the ends of which trailed after the pommel of the katana, fluttering gently in the wind. The blade itself was as if polished to perfection, with a luster and sheen that made it appear to glow - obviously the result of some supernatural quality or property.

"This sword's called Shiroryu, or White Dragon. But most of the people here know it as the Armor-Piercing Katana. It was given to me by a... very, very close friend of mine before he passed away. It's so sharp that if I dropped it right now, it'd cut all the way down to the planet's core. Do you know what that means, scrub?"

"I'll have to be extra careful."

She grinned. "Too fucking right."

Lucy shot towards him. He dodged her swings calmly, holding his shattered sword in reserve. She became increasingly frustrated as he refused to strike back, her swings becoming angrier and less focused as she forced him backwards against the wall of the tavern. At the last moment, he reached out through her swing, grabbing her by the shoulder and spinning her around him, pushing her against the wall and driving his sword up and underneath her collarbone. She cried out in pain, dropping Shiroryu - which dematerialized - and clutching at the wound. Clearwater stepped backwards, drawing twin karambit from a sheath at the rear of his belt and lunging towards Lucy's neck. She slid downwards against the wall, the blades cutting into the wall above her head as she pulled his longsword from her chest, slashing his forearms. Blood sprayed down onto her as she kicked him away, sending him sliding across the street, though he reached down and retrieved his PSG-1 as he did so. He sighted and aimed it at Lucy, firing. Lucy threw the longsword at Clearwater, deflecting his shot with it. She slid her 93Rs out of her jacket, firing them at Clearwater as she ran for cover inside the tavern; Clearwater ran for cover behind a stone pillar opposite it, blindfiring his rifle as he did. For a few moments, the fighting stopped; only the sounds of them reloading their weapons punctuated the silence that engulfed the town.

"Give up." requested Clearwater, calmly. "I don't want to kill you."

"Too fucking bad, scrub - the feeling isn't mutual."

They exited cover at the same time, Lucy dual-wielding her 93rs, and Clearwater shouldering his PSG-1. He aimed and fired, shooting both of her pistols out of her hands as she closed in; She materialized Shiroryu as he drew his twin karambit. She cut clean through the pillar, forcing him back against the wall; he narrowly avoided her follow up lunge, and continued retreating from her, making swift jabs with his knives which she, too managed to avoid. She threw a wide swing, which Clearwater jumped back from, squatting low and sweeping his leg out, tripping her. He rolled on top of her, driving the tip of one of his karambit to the underside of her neck, pricking it, his other arm forcing her sword arm against the floor. Her free arm shot up, grabbing the arm aimed at her neck and bending it inwards at the elbow; Clearwater gasped in pain, flying off her. She shot to her feet, readying her katana. Clearwater climbed to his feet, throwing his karambit to the ground and assuming a jeet-kune-do posture. Lucy chuckled.

"What the fuck's this, scrub? You're gonna take on a katana with just your bare hands?"

"You're going to take on me with just a katana?"

She grinned. "Okay. Maybe the feeling's a little mutual." she replied, as she shot towards him. Meanwhile, a silver bullet of a car sped down the main street towards them as they continued their battle, oblivious...

< Farsprings >

With the fight intensifying outside, shaking a bit of dust from his ceiling, the bartender grit his teeth. "Shit's gonna get me closed down," he seethed. "Anyone here able to fight? Just get those lunatics to quit fightin' in front of my bar, and you've got free drinks for life!" A sudden dull clack and a muffled rolling noise made the barkeep flinch, looking over in the corner.

There in the corner, a tall, tan-skinned man was shooting pool. He had slicked-back grayish-blue hair, and silver eyes with the faintest ice blue tinge. His white leather jacket had a black zipper up the front, and a popped collar that revealed a midnight blue interior. His leather pants matched his jacket, held up as they were by a blue belt with baby blue patterns resembling a diamondback rattlesnake, and his shoes matched his belt perfectly.

His last shot had just lined up all of the remaining six balls in a tilted hexagon. After talcing up his midnight blue and shining silver pool cue, the man calmly waited for the next strike outside to pass, before carefully shooting the cue ball. It scattered all six balls into the side and corner pockets, and came to rest neatly at the center of the table. Chuckling with a spin of his personal pool cue, the man commented in a distinctly Colombian accent, "Don't worry about it, man. I can pocket those bashers outside easy, now that I've finished my game." With a distinct swagger in his step, the man known as Alejandro "Magic Man" Alhambra made his way to inspect the situation.

The two were certainly making a mess: not just of the environment, but also of each other. Deciding that his standard cue would do the job, Alejandro rolled his wrist with a flourish. Producing a floating ball of an off-green coloration, he positioned it just right, observing the girl close in on the man with her katana. Then, with his arm bent behind him, he slid the cue back along the space between his first and second knuckles.

Just as Lucy and Clearwater were set to collide, Alejandro swiftly jabbed the ball with a whisper of, "Cross-corner." It rocketed over the space between them, and planted itself in Lucy's gut. Rebounding off of the winded girl, it knocked Clearwater's collarbone, and sent them both sprawling back. As they quickly returned to their feet, they observed the Cheshire grin on this newcomer's face with newfound fury converging on him. Flicking his wrist so the ball disappeared, Alejandro introduced himself with a bow and a question of, "May I join this fight, or is it a tango for this couple only?"

<Farsprings>

The Morgan whined as Rosita shifted down gears into second, rounding the corner onto the dirt-road into the town. The scene that had unfolded in front of the bar approached them with startling speed, quickened as Deep slammed a foot onto the accelerator, straddling the gearbox to reach it, knocking Rosita's legs out of the way. The Morgan leapt forward, growling, and the nose impacted one white clad Alejandro Alhambra. Deep slammed the breaks, and Alejandro's head whipped against the bonnet before he was flung away to land in a heap some way down the street. Deep swung open the door of the car stepping out, adjusting his lapels as he did so. Lucy and Creedence looked on in startled disbelief as the glass figure pulled a thin silver case from his pocket, opening it with a small clack. he walked over to the crumpled form of Alejandro, and flicked a business card down into the sand next to him.

"Terribly sorry dear boy, you were in the way! I've not checked the breaks on the Morgan in some time, and my driver... Well, she's simply awful. Anyway, contact that number and they'll cover the medical bill, alright?" Alejandro groaned a response, but he was already beginning to get up, so Deep strode briskly back to the car, opened the door for Rosita, who stepped out clutching a small purse, and then the pair entered the bar. The interior had all but emptied, but Anderson still stood behind the bar, albeit loading double-ought buckshot into a Mossberg-500. Deep pulled a barstool out for Rosita, who sat; Deep leaned against the bar languidly. ""Gin and tonic for my companion, and I'll have a Gin, dry, straight." Anderson looked up from loading the shotgun, having barely noticed the bizarre couple.

"Look, there's a war going out there and you want gin? Get outta here!"

Deep tilted his head in confusion. "But you're not fighting are you? We've just had an accident you see, and my companion and I are in nee-"

"I don't give two monkey shits! Get outta my bar! You're gonna get me killed, all you goddamn weirdos!"

Deep looked at Rosita, who was applying a fresh coat of lipstick, and then back at the Barkeep. "Alright old chap. Where's the nearest watering hole eh?"

Anderson shook his head in disbelief, then pumped the slide on the shotgun. Deep held up his hands in a show of innocence, then tapped Rosita on the shoulder and stepped lazily back out into the glaring sun. The three people in the street were looking at him as though he was some sort of alien, so Deep shrugged it of and gave a little wave. Anderson barged out of the cafe-doors of the bar a moment later, sighting the shotgun at Creedence. The blast smashed the fence behind him to pieces, but Creedence was already airborne, his long coat flapping about him, blotting out the sun as he descended to land on the long polished hood of Deep's car. Deep stepped back as Creedence's foot cleaved through the air, the man crouching low on the hood, using the polished surface to spin as though using a pommel-horse. Deep ducked under the second kick, and the third met an uppercut that Deep dragged from the floor. Creedence flipped back, using the momentum of Deeps punch as leverage, and dodging another blast from Anderson's Mossberg - "WATCH MY BLOODY CAR OLD BOY!" He flicked one of his karambit at the barkeep, the blade slicing the barrel of his gun at an angle and embedding in the wooden panelling of the building. The knife would have cleaved clean through his neck had Lucy not shoulder-barged the man back through the swinging doors before bull rushing Deep from the right. Deep rolled left, along the length of the car, Shiroryu's blade narrowly missing the wing-mirror. He dropped onto his back, kicking Lucy in the shins before spinning rapidly, pirroetting into a standing position by spiralling his legs. Lucy dropped back, blocking the kicks with the flat of the blade. By this time Creedence had moved to the back of the Morgan; he grabbed Deep by the collar of his jacket and threw him backwards down the decking. Lucy stepped up , cleaving downwards with her katana. Creedence sidestepped it, reaching out with his left hand and dragging Lucy's head by the hair into his rising knee. Lucy's head snapped back, but she dragged the blade along where Creedence's belly should have been. Instead the katana scratched the door of the Morgan, leaving a shining silver scrape. Lucy cringed and looked up, but caught a bullet that ripped through her cheek. Deep stood at the end of the decking of the bar, a smoking Luger in his right hand. "Don't touch my BLOODY CAR!" He swivelled, blasting at Creedence, who stood atop the vehicle, but he span leapt over the shot, barrelling into Deep.

Deep brought a knee into Creedence's stomach, and the man buckled slightly; Deep helped him up with a resoundingly firm uppercut. Creedence staggered back, ducking under two right hooks from Deep, who had assumed a boxer's stance. Creedence kicked a low right, which Deep avoided by raising his knee. Deep hooked a left about Creedence's jaw; the glass man was quick. Creedence performed a languid flurry of blows, using his palms and elbows to avoid breaking his knuckles on Deep's body. Deep recoiled, stepping back before snapping a kick up at Creedence's chin. The man caught the kick, twisting at Deep's leg, but it refused to budge; instead he locked it under his arm and kicked Deep's other leg from under him. Deep fell, narrowly avoiding Lucy's slash, which forced Creedence to lean back. Still clamping Deep's calf under his arm, he shot a high right kick toward Lucy, who swung the sword back savagely. Creedence stopped the kick mid-air, snapped his lag back, then forward again, avoiding the slash and forcing a sandy boot into Lucy's face. She shot back, colliding with the wall of the bar, blood dribbling anew from her torn cheek. Creedence aimed a low elbow strike at the grounded Deep, who twisted, avoiding the blow. With Creedence on his knees, Deep head-butted the now lower man, his glass head connecting resoundingly. Creedence dropped back, semi-concious; Deep stood, brushing sand from his suit. Lucy stepped up, flicked her katana to her right. "Fuck you, scrub. Who in hell even are you? Wait- don't answer that. I don't fuckin' care."

Deep tutted. "What foul language for a young wom-" He ducked Lucy's swipe at his head, punching her legs ten times each with astounding speed. Lucy's mouth opened and she gasped as Deep shot a fist into her belly, rising with the punch. He leapt off the floor, carrying Lucy upwards, before pushing her away and roundhouse kicking her into a water tower above and over the bar. She shot clean through like a bullet, clearing the opposite side drenched, and flopped to the sand ten metres below. Deep landed heavily, falling to his knees before standing and looking at Alejandro, who stood by the bar next to Rosita.

<Middle of the Desert>

Trevor Kane drove faster, hoping to approach the Farsprings. Kristoffer started to feel the toll of being dragged across the sands as his back burned in pain. He raised his leg and started using the rowel of his spurs to cut at the rope. He set himself free, and crashed onto the desert floor. The injuries made Lake fall unconscious.

--

<Farsprings>

Trevor continued driving his motorcycle, unaware that his hostage had recently freed himself. He drove into the Farsprings, and looked back to see a tattered rope attached to his motorbike.

"Hmm, I guess he's gone for good."

He smiled, and approached the bar. The fight occurred before him, and he shook his head.

"Damn drunks."

OOC: HERE I AM, MY DARLINGS!

<Near Farsprings>

Some way away from the bar fight, sitting on a dune. Tommy Twain yawned. He'd set up camp in the area a few days prior, hoping to catch a "friend" as she passed through the nearby village. She'd been supposed to reach Farsprings yesterday, so Twain was beginning to worry that she had noticed that her map was missing and changed her route to avoid him.

He sat there, pondering the possibility that he had royally fucked up, when suddenly, he thought he noticed a vehicle approaching. He immediately reached for his binoculars, and sighed sadly when he realised that it was somebody's motorbike, not his "friend"'s car. He remained engrossed in his thoughts, not noticing the young woman sneaking up behind him, brandishing her shotgun like a club, until it was too late.

---

When he awoke an hour later, Tommy discovered to his extreme surprise that both his hands and feet were bound, and a dirty piece of cloth had been jammed in his mouth. In front of him, the woman was squatting down, warming her limbs by the fire he had lit for himself. Somehow, for him, that was just as offensive as everything else she had done.

As if on cue, the woman suddenly turned her head, looked down at him, and laughed. "Oh, look who it i! Tommy Twain. Good job! Did you think I hadn't noticed the pickpocket you paid off?" Twain tried to reply, but the cloth muffled his words, suddenly driving home just how powerless he now was. He began to sweat slightly, worrying about what she would do to him now.

"Look, Tommy, this is the second time you've tried to kill me, so clearly, we have a problem." she said, reaching for her shotgun. Tommy tried to cry out for mercy, but she simply laughed and got up. "Oh, relax! I'm not going to shoot you. I still like you a bit, god knows why, and I'm not going to waste rounds on you while I'm still in the middle of nowhere. But I am going to leave you here."

She opened her backpack, now full of supplies and ammunition previously belonging to Twain, and took out a fluorescent marker. She then scribbled the words "KILLER, THIEF, FUCKING LIAR" on Twain's T-shirt. "Someone might come out here and find you. Maybe if they see that, they won't get any ideas about freeing you."

She got up, and smiled down at Twain. "Goodbye, Twain. We had fun. But if you survive, I never want to see you again, do you understand?" She got into her old, rusty car (which she'd bought for a pittance from a local), and drove off towards Farsprings, leaving a very frightened Twain alone in the desert at night.

Emily Lloyd did not mess about.

-----

OOC: If anyone wants to find him, they're welcome to.

Lucy lay on the ground, frowning. She raised a hand to her cheek, a faint red light shining out from under her fingers as she healed it, wincing in pain. As Deep and co continued to fight, she rolled her head to the side, looking down the alleyway running next to the bar. A sleek, black weapon was resting against the wall - a SPAS-12 in a blood-red and black color scheme, with the words "RULES OF NATURE" scratched into the stock. She grinned.

"Oh, I was wondering where I'd left you." she said, reaching out and grabbing it. Still laying on the floor, she racked the pump (ejecting a perfectly usable unspent round, not that she cared because it felt like such a cool thing to do) and aimed it at Deep, firing. Dragon's breath rounds emerged from the barrel, shredding through Deep's clothing and throwing him clear off the ground. He landed on the hood of his car, his clothes aflame, though the fire did little to damage his person. Lucy stood up, racking the pump again, a smoking cartridge shooting out of the ejection port.

"Clever girl." remarked Deep, brushing the flames from his suit. Lucy aimed again, but Clearwater emerged from the bar to her side, wielding his karambit. Lucy turned to fire but he closed too quickly, and her shot went wide, peppering the bar, which quickly went up in flames. She caught one of the blades against the body of her SPAS-12, but the second swung underneath, aimed towards her stomach; she brought her knee up, deflecting it up between her arms, aimed towards her neck. She violently pulled the SPAS-12 towards her, crushing Clearwater's hand between it and her chest. His fingers spasmed, throwing the Karambit up into the air; Lucy caught it in her mouth, grinning, before releasing Clearwater's hand, kicking off from him. Flying backwards through the air, she aimed and fired at him, shooting him backwards into the burning tavern, the roof collapsing as he impacted the rear wall. Anderson stood alone, the ruins of the building surrounding him.

"LUCY! YOU BITCH!"

She winked, sticking her tongue out as she landed on her back, sliding across the sand. By now, Deep had collected himself, and stood with his Luger pointed at her. Still on her back, she panicked, kicking herself across the ground clumsily, into cover behind a stone pillar, as his shots sped past her. She sighed in relief as she sat up behind the pillar.

Clearwater emerged from the tavern, embers trailing from his longcoat as he shouldered his PSG-1. Alejandro emerged simeltaneously, from the other side, Rosita's hand in his. He gestured for her to take cover behind the Morgan before drawing out four pool balls (held between his fingers), and tossing them gently in the air above him. He drew his cue, resting it over his shoulders, behind his neck, and fired all four balls at Clearwater - aiming them with his outstretched arm. Clearwater fired back, shooting the balls out of the air in quick succession. Lucy peeked out from cover, noticing the shape of Clearwater's briefcase under his coat - he had secured it to his belt via the handle. Suddenly, it opened, and two belt-fed FMG-9s emerged on small, robotic arms, slotting closely around his his waist and unleashing a blistering hail of fire at Alejandro from this position. Alejandro took cover behind one of the remaining brick walls of the tavern, as Clearwater turned to Deep, forcing him into cover behind his Morgan, his shots deflecting off the body of it. The guns quickly ran dry, the entire briefcase weapon falling to the ground, as Clearwater took cover behind a half-wall surrounding the patio of a store next to the tavern.

Once more, only the sound of weapons being reloaded permeated the silence. Lucy's breathing was heavy as she ran her hand under her shirt, healing the wound where Clearwater had stabbed her under the collarbone. Having done this, she readied her SPAS-12 once more, racking the pump.

"Lucy," called out Clearwater, calmly. "You don't need to keep doing that. You're just wasting ammunition."

"I do what I want, scrub."

"What the bloody hell does that even mean?" inquired Deep, confused.

"I don't see what there is to be confused about, scrub. It's a very simply life ideology." replied Lucy, kicking the ejected shotgun shell away from her, into the air and the center of the street. She ran out of cover, drawing one of her 93rs and firing it at the shell, which exploded, engulfing Deep's entire area in flame. He spun out of the inferno, exchanging fire with Lucy as she ran to Clearwater's position, materializing Shiroryu in her free hand after throwing her SPAS-12 behind her on its sling. Clearwater raised his PSG-1 to block the attack; Shiroryu cut clean through it, narrowly missing him as he backstepped the attack before driving the cut ends of both halfs of his rifle into Lucy's stomach. Blood sprayed out from both her stomach and her mouth as he pulled the rifle halves out, throwing them to either side as he brought his knee up into her jaw, lifting her into the air, before driving his foot into her face - one, two, three, four - five times, each blow coming from a different direction, before spinning and roundhouse kicking her across the street. She impacted the stone pillar she had previously taken cover behind, collapsing to the floor infront of it, out cold.

"Ouch." remarked Deep. Clearwater looked to him, readying his sole remaining karambit, and charging.

<An arena, bathed in white lights and packed with people of various races>

There must have been tens of thousands of spectators gathered around the arena, so many that they had forgone any hopes of fitting into the meager allowance of provided seating and instead stood as a throbbing mass, cheering and howling for blood. Competitors began to enter the stage from one of five entrances, forty of them lined along the edge of the arena.

“Heeeellloo there fighting fans, I hope you’re all ready to see something incredible because we’ve gathered the best fighters from around the system, and we’re going to pay them a ridiculous amount of money to kick the crap out of each for your amusement! Will our first competitors step into the center of the arena?”

The voice of the announcer echoed around the stadium as all but two of the competitors stepped back from the arena. The two that were left stepped into the center. Cass eyed up her opponent, seemingly just another thug, standing at roughly six foot and bulging with muscle. He wasn't carrying a weapon so it seemed likely he’d be relying on brute strength to win this fight, a mistake many people had made before fighting Cass.

“My name is Lancaster. Chastity Lancaster. You can call me Cass.”

“Chastity? Are you serious?” the fighter grinned, sporting the same level a confidence a small rodent might have while still unaware of the oncoming truck.

“My parents were optimists”

She stepped back onto a small circle on the floor, brushing strands of short, white hair out of her eyes. Compared to the high-tech combat armour of her opponent she seemed more than a little underdressed in her MMA-style grey tank top and shorts, and although she was muscular she was still dwarfed by the other fighter, who stepped back as well, the floor shimmering blue once both of them were in position.

“Are you not going to ask my name, Chastity?”

In the distance she could hear the announcer counting down but the sound was being blocked by the energy fields which had flickered into place around the arena, shielding spectators from the inevitable crossfire.

“I would, but in about three minutes it’s not going to be of much use to anybody.”

The arena flashed green signalling the fight had begun. The fighter stepped forward grinning and clapped his hand three times, each time electricity crackling off of them. Cass darted forwards and then to the left, an arc of electricity flying past her ear and crackling against the arena’s shield. She moved around the fighter in a spiral, homing in on him just ahead of the rain of lightning bolts that crackled behind her. Finally close enough to land a hit she thrust her palm into his stomach, sending him rocketing back across the arena and crashing to the floor. Cass smirked, but her expression changed as the fighter’s skin began to crackle. Thousands of volts seemed to be passing through him underneath his skin, causing a pulsing blue glow.

“Oh, I promise you that you are going to pay for that.”

<Desert>

Kristoffer Lake woke up, and coughed up some blood. The regeneration process had Asved him from organ damage, but he still felt the pain. It was a blessing and a curse: he could survive most mortal wounds, and his body would be healed of them almost instantly, but it would be filled with agony.

Lake began to walk around the desert. His parched lips smacked against one another as he traversed through the sand. He saw a man with fluorescent markings on his shirt bound and gagged on one of the nearby dunes.

Kristoffer Lake then approached Tommy Twain, and silently raised his hand, signalling that he was friendly. He knelt down, and attempted to untie Twain's restraints.


--

<Farsprings>

Trevor Kane rolled his eyes, and pulled out two revolvers that were holstered at the sides of his boots. He blindly fired at Deep, Clearwater, and Lucy.

"Shut up, and take it easy! Hotheads!"

<Farsprings, Bar>

Kane's shots were interrupted, as from the entrance to the bar shot three gleaming metal projectiles, too fast for the eye to follow, knocking the bullets out of the air. Those bullets impacted a foot or so away from their intended target, gouging holes in the wall. The poor, hapless bartender peeked out from the bar he'd ducked behind, to see the newcomer. "F-father!" he exclaimed.

The man who entered the room was tall, wearing a long, black robe and golden rosary marking him as an ordained priest. He was a handsome man, with smooth, dark skin and deep brown eyes. He had short black hair, matching his neatly trimmed beard. He nodded to the bartender. "I had heard there was a commotion in here. Outsiders are making trouble here, it seems." The priest bowed. "My name is Joseph Martin, and anyone who makes trouble for my flock..." A shape began to form in his hands, "...makes trouble for me." And where once there was nothing, a long, beautiful sword lay in his hands, as he moved his legs apart in a combat stance. German writing was etched into the sword, with only one word truly recognizable - the word "Curtana."

< Farsprings >

Rosita hooked her arms around Lucy's chest, dragging her into safety inside the shop opposite the (destroyed, burn to a crisp, nonexistent and completely non-enterable) bar. Forcing open the door with a barge of her shoulder, she threw Lucy on to the floor, pulling open her shirt and inspecting the wound on her stomach. Though there was a lot of blood, the wound itself had almost completely healed - even though she had been unconscious. Rosita assumed a confused expression. Lucy's eyes slowly opened, and she frowned, sitting up.

"Look... Scrub... I'm all for the forceful removal of clothing. But there's a time and a place."

Rosita chuckled. Lucy sighed, reaching into her jacket and retrieving a box of toothpicks. She took one, clenching it between her teeth, before offering the box to Rosita.

"Want a toothpick?"

"I'll pass."

Lucy shrugged. "It's better for you than smoking, at the least. I mean, I can regenerate practically anything thanks to having a souldrive, so I guess lung cancer isn't an issue, but there's still the smell. Thanks for attempting to save me, by the way."

"Don't mention it."

Lucy adjusted her scarf, surveying the room, when something caught her eye out of the open doorway. She grinned.

"Speaking of forceful removal of clothing..."

Martin practically toppled forwards as Lucy impacted him, her back against his. Shiroryu was in her hands as she mirrored his pose, trying to look as dramatic as possible (this didn't work very well) , sizing up the enemies surrounding them. She grinned.

"Hey, cutie. I'm Lucy Farr." she said, before remembering she was talking to a literal priest. "...Had. Lucy Farhad. Not Lucifer. Hey."

"Her name's Lucy Farr, and she's a literal demon." announced Anderson, the barkeeper, before finally giving up and walking home, his shotgun over his shoulder. "Have fun, asshole!" he shouted, from the end of the road.

"Oh screw you, cockblocking scrubfucker!" she roared, before collecting herself, trying to behave as conventionally as possible (this, also, didn't work very well).

At that, a lightning bolt impacted the other end of the road, momentarily blinding and deafening everyone present. When their senses returned, all that could be heard was the sound of hooves on the stone paving, as a new combatant approached on a massive, white stallion, its hooves sparking with lightning. The steed was completely silent, save for the sound of its steps, as its rider approached. He was a handsome, dark-skinned man, dressed in a cream suit, with a matching waistcoat, a blood-red crevatte, and a white longcoat, matching the color of his horse. His hands were not on the reins - the horse had none - but instead rested either side of his legs, each one holding a revolver rifle - the leftmost hued with a silver finish, and the rightmost given a dark, gunmetal finish. An archetypical cowboy's hat rested upon his head. What was evident about him immediately was his extravagance and wealth; the cut of his clothing, the fine threadwork and detailing, the polish of his weapons, and even the complete perfection with which he controlled his horse suggested a man of absolute personal mastery.

'Bronze' Silvio Goldman came to a stop before the fight. The combatants eyed him up for a few seconds before he spoke in a clear, calm tone.

"Greetings. My name is Silvio Goldman, Sheriff of this fine town. As I'm sure you can imagine, this fight has become something of a disturbance of the peace."

He raised his rifles, spinning them around his fingers and performing elaborate tricks. Suddenly, they shot forth from the display of his prowess, aimed at the combatants. One or two of them flinched. Slowly, they returned to the flurry of spins and throws, before returning to his sides as before.

"I'm not here to break up the fight. Instead, I'd simply like you to take it someplace else. The town is surrounded by open desert on all four sides, and there's an extensive underground cave system to the north. Now, please, if you're not going to fight, you're more than welcome to stay. But if you do still intend on fighting here, then I guess..."

He disappeared in a flash of lightning which engulfed his person and horse. The skies above darkened, rumbling, and a bolt of light emerged from a vortex in the gathering clouds, striking the roof of the church tower which overlooked the main street. Silvio and his horse emerged from the overwhelming glow; his horse stood on its hind legs, rearing, its mane blowing in the violent gust of wind that seemed to be originating from underneath it. Silvio sat on the horse, leaning forwards and assuming a heroic posture; his blazer and coat blew ferociously in the wind, and his left hand was pressed to the top of his hat, holding it firmly to his head. A stern expression was on his face as he overlooked the combatants far below, his arm outstretched towards them, rifle in hand.

"...No-one lives forever."

<Farsprings>

Emily drove into the town, looking for a place to stay. She drove slowly, not able to see much because her car's headlights were dying. Spotting a dishevelled local walking in the opposite direction, she wound down her window and stopped next to him. "Hey, you! Is there an inn or anything nearby?"

"Um, well," the man stuttered. "There are some rooms you could rent above the bar over there, but you might not want to go there."

Emily looked at him strangely. "Why is that?"

"Some maniacs are using it as a gosh damn arena at the moment. I was just there, I'm surprised it's still standing!"

"Cool." Emily yawned. She'd been on the road for around eight hours and badly needed some sleep, but now she was curious. "Thanks, bye." She drove off in the direction of the bar, just to see what all the fuss was about.

-----

<Desert>

With his hands free, Tommy immediately pulled the gag out of his mouth, and started trying to untie the rope around his legs. "Oh, thank you so much!" he almost yelled at Kristoffer. "Who are you, man?"

<Farsprings>

Trevor shook his head and grit his teeth after Goldman spoke.

"Look, I don't give a damn about any of your fights! I just want a beer. Can I have that, bartender? A nice, cold, beer."

---

<Desert>

"Lake. Kristoffer Lake. What happened to you?"

<Farsprings>

Silvio's showing off was suddenly interrupted by the sound of an old car horn. Emily pulled up in front of Lucy, and awkwardly got out of the car.

"Um, this is the bar, right?" she said, her hands in the air. "I can see why that guy ran away."

-----

<Desert>

"What? Oh. Twain, Tommy Twain. My ex-girlfriend tied me up and robbed me. How about you? What are you doing in this hellhole?"

<Desert>

Kristoffer Lake laughed.

"Similar situation, 'cept it wasn't my ex-girlfriend that tied me up. It was a criminal. I've been chasing his gang for weeks, and they tried to get rid of me."

Lake continued to aid Twain in his attempt to remove himself from his restraints.

"Let's get moving. Farsprings isn't too far from here."

< Farsprings >

"This was the bar." replied Lucy. "Until some scrub burnt it down."

"That was you, you bloody wanker!" cried out Deep.

"Oh yeah." she looked up to Silvio, and called out to him. "Silvio! You can cut this sheriff crap out. There's like, one of you, and six of us, and one of them's me!" she turned back to Emily. "Hey, help me out here! I'll make it worth your time. Maybe. Probably."

<Farsprings>

"If you're so tough, why do you need my help?" Emily snarked, perhaps ill-advisedly. "So, who really burned down the bar?" she added, brushing a stray red hair out of her eye.

-----

<Desert>

Now free of his restraints, Twain slowly got up, and followed Lake. "They captured you even though you were chasing them? I'd love to hear the story behind that."

"But not now." He yawned. "Maybe later, in a bar. After I get my stuff back from Emily."

<Farsprings>

Trevor walked up to Emily.

"Buncha damn crazies burned it down. Name's Kane. Trevor Kane. You?"

---

<Desert>

"Right," Lake nodded, "Let's go to Farsprings."

He began to walk in direction of the city.