Post by Axel on Sept 20, 2004 3:57:43 GMT -5
Ok this is actually a play by post game I'm running with some of my friends from back in VA, so this is far from done. Also, this has nothing to do with Twokinds, but, hey, it is original writing. One of these days, I plan on turning this into a web comic, actually. Each of the main characters is run by a real person, and their actions are based on how they played them. Presented here is an expanded version of the beggining of what happened over the summer in "Chapter 1" of the game. Let me know what you think; comments appreciated!
In the Virginia summers, the nights are warm and mildly close from the humidity of the afternoon. June 2nd was no exception. The still air hung heavy over the Pocky Station, a small comic and anime store in Gloucester Point. Near a main highway, and situated on the end of a strip mall near a coffee shop and tattoo parlor, it enjoyed a moderate amount of business even in the relatively widespread community of Gloucester. The indoor flourescents cast a pale light onto the black asphault outside, past the brick face and into the empty parking lot. Inside, were two individuals, the owner and a customer.
The owner, a man of average build with messy brown hair, stood behind the counter, running the days recepits. He hardly looked like a shop owner, barely in his twenties, and dressed in a shirt and pants that looked like they were slept in most of the week. He wore thick glasses over his blue eyes, which slid down his nose occasionally, causing him to adjust them constantly. He sighed and glanced at the customer with an annoyed look on his face.
"Mark, if you're going to keep coming in here half an hour before I close, you could at least buy something to make it worthwhile to stay after hours."
The customer, Mark, stood over by the magazine rack near the front windows, was flipping through a video game magazine, and looked up at the owner.
"Oh, c'mon Phil, you stay open late all the time. Besides, this new RTS coming out looks awesome, I can't put this down!"
Phil shook his head and sighed again, turning back to closing out the drawer. Mark was his friend and one of his most regular customers, but he still got on his nerves from time to time. Mark stood a little taller than Phil, but had a very commanding prescence. His brown hair was cut close to his scalp and his American Eagle t-shirt fit close over his fit physique. His light grey eyes scanned the magazine he held, occasionally glancing over to the clock on the wall, noticing the time at 10:30. In his mid twenties, Mark worked as a Drill Sergeant for the Army at a nearby military base, but always had time to drop by the store after work. Not much of a comic fan, American or Japanese, Mark was mostly into the latest military sims or strategy games coming out from over seas. After finding Phil's store, Mark talked him into stocking them and became friends after a while.
The Pocky Station had row upon row of comics, magazines, manga, figures, posters, wall scrolls, even import snacks like the pocky the store was named after. The walls were painted a plain, off white and the floor tiled a neutral blue. Overhead, the bright flourescents began to flicker and finally died abruptly. Phil, startled, looked over at Mark accusingly.
"What?" Mark asked as he put the magazine he was reading back on the rack. "I didn't do anything."
Outside, the sound of squeeling tires breaks the silence as a pair of headlights stab twin shafts of light into the shop. Mark and Phil both squint in the brilliance and shield their eyes with thier arms ans they try to see outside. The offending car is apparently stopped in the grass median separating the two flows of traffic on the highway. The vehicle begins to drive across the lanes into parking lot in front of the strip mall the Pocky Station is situated in. After turning parallel to the stores, the reason for the car's maneuver becomes apparant: Across both sides of the highway, blocking any flow of traffic to or from the south is a massive line of cars, trucks, and minivans.
From the car parked in the lot, a man steps out, circling his vehicle in a worried motion. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out a cell phone and begins dialling.
Phil reached under the counter and produced a flashlight, switching it on, and looked at Mark. "Looks like some kind of car accident outside, I'm going to go see if anyone needs help. Can you call 911?"
Mark nodded and reached for the phone on the counter. "Sure thing." He picked up the receiver and frowned, pushing the cradle button a few times. "Odd, the phone's dead. No dial tone."
He reached into his pocket and fished out a cell phone. "Better try this instead."
Phil walked around the counter and stepped outside, passing the flashlight over the group of cars. "HEY!! IS EVERYONE OK!?! DO I NEED TO CALL AN AMBULANCE?!"
The man by the car puts away his phone disgustedly and starts walking towards Phil.
"Hello? Hi, I'm Henry. Looks like there's been some kind of trouble. The power's out for at least 5 miles that way." He said, point to his left. "Did you see a powerline go down or something?"
Phill glanced over the newcomer, a dark skinned man with dark brown hair and dressed in a stylish shirt with dark dress slacks. He had a charismatic air about him, and all around likeable. "No i didnt see anything - this stuff doesn't usually happen around here with the exception of during a really big storm... and otherwise it is usually back on in a matter of minutes..." Phil passed the flashlight in the direction of the block on the road. As he did, several moving shapes passed in front of the beam among the vehicles.
Now barely visible in the moonlight, a large mob of people were moving among the various cars, trucks and minivans composing the pile up. All of them were smashing windows, wrendhing open doors, slashing tires, and generally vandalizing the vehicles.
Phil turned back to Henry. "If you want you can stay in my shop till the cops get down here... not like I have much else to do back at home anyways..."
After several fruitless tries at getting a signal, Mark stepped outside and put his phone away in his pocket. "No good. I can't get through to 911 or Fort Eustis. " Looking over to the car pile up, he pointed casuallly. "One of them probably already called for help anyway."
Phil got an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach and looked over at Mark. "I don't think so. Something weird is going on."
Just then, a beat up Civic pulled into the parking lot near the store, a short Latino looking kid hopping out and walked over to the group in front of the Pocky Station. Dressed in baggy jeans and a basket ball jersey, with a Yankees cap on his head, he nodded to the onlookers. "Yo. Name's Tyrone. Hey, you got a workin' phone? Some crazy riot or sumthin' goin' on. Got the road all jacked up." Flashing a smile shining from a mouth of gold teeth, obvious even in the low light, he greeted the group.
Henry turned to the stranger and held out his hand. "Hi, I'm Henry. No, sorry, my phone's out."
Tyrone turned and dapped Henry with his fist. "Hey, 'sup man? Some crazy sh*t or what, eh?"
Mark, just noticing the mob was looting the cars and not in need of help, faced Tyrone. "Sh*t son! I bet your head is worth at least a thousand dollars. Let's hope those ****ers out there don't wanna loot that shine. By the way I'm Mark, nice to you meet you."
As Tyrone shakes his hand, Phil waves to the others. "Hey...hey, guys? Something's up..."
All four look at the crowd by the pile up, noticing that they have ceased smashing into the cars and trucks, and have formed a line along the edge of the highway, facing into the shopping center. Obvious now to the observers, is the radical difference in each of the persons on the road: Men, women, children, young and old, from all over the community. All of them clutch in their hands some sort of makeshift club, either it be a crowbar or a broken car part.
The air is still and an unusual silence hangs overhead. No insects chirping, no dogs barking, no sound at all. Only the sound of their own breathing fills the ears of the small group in front of the store. For what seems like forever the crowd of roughly 40 vandals just stands and stares at them. Unmoving and strangely menacing, they line the road. Although too dark to see, their eyes seem to bore into the group, standing the hairs on the backs of their necks on end.
After what seems like an eternity, one man of the group steps forward. He is dressed much like the others, in common blue jeans, a worn flannel shirt open with a plain t-shirt underneath. He lifts his right arm up, his index finger outstretched and pointing to the four in the parking lot. His voice, scratchy and harsh, echoes across the empty stores as he bellows into the empty night.
"ALLUVAI!"
*And thats where I cut this off. This took WAY too much to write out, so if I get enough response to this, I'll post the rest of it later.*
In the Virginia summers, the nights are warm and mildly close from the humidity of the afternoon. June 2nd was no exception. The still air hung heavy over the Pocky Station, a small comic and anime store in Gloucester Point. Near a main highway, and situated on the end of a strip mall near a coffee shop and tattoo parlor, it enjoyed a moderate amount of business even in the relatively widespread community of Gloucester. The indoor flourescents cast a pale light onto the black asphault outside, past the brick face and into the empty parking lot. Inside, were two individuals, the owner and a customer.
The owner, a man of average build with messy brown hair, stood behind the counter, running the days recepits. He hardly looked like a shop owner, barely in his twenties, and dressed in a shirt and pants that looked like they were slept in most of the week. He wore thick glasses over his blue eyes, which slid down his nose occasionally, causing him to adjust them constantly. He sighed and glanced at the customer with an annoyed look on his face.
"Mark, if you're going to keep coming in here half an hour before I close, you could at least buy something to make it worthwhile to stay after hours."
The customer, Mark, stood over by the magazine rack near the front windows, was flipping through a video game magazine, and looked up at the owner.
"Oh, c'mon Phil, you stay open late all the time. Besides, this new RTS coming out looks awesome, I can't put this down!"
Phil shook his head and sighed again, turning back to closing out the drawer. Mark was his friend and one of his most regular customers, but he still got on his nerves from time to time. Mark stood a little taller than Phil, but had a very commanding prescence. His brown hair was cut close to his scalp and his American Eagle t-shirt fit close over his fit physique. His light grey eyes scanned the magazine he held, occasionally glancing over to the clock on the wall, noticing the time at 10:30. In his mid twenties, Mark worked as a Drill Sergeant for the Army at a nearby military base, but always had time to drop by the store after work. Not much of a comic fan, American or Japanese, Mark was mostly into the latest military sims or strategy games coming out from over seas. After finding Phil's store, Mark talked him into stocking them and became friends after a while.
The Pocky Station had row upon row of comics, magazines, manga, figures, posters, wall scrolls, even import snacks like the pocky the store was named after. The walls were painted a plain, off white and the floor tiled a neutral blue. Overhead, the bright flourescents began to flicker and finally died abruptly. Phil, startled, looked over at Mark accusingly.
"What?" Mark asked as he put the magazine he was reading back on the rack. "I didn't do anything."
Outside, the sound of squeeling tires breaks the silence as a pair of headlights stab twin shafts of light into the shop. Mark and Phil both squint in the brilliance and shield their eyes with thier arms ans they try to see outside. The offending car is apparently stopped in the grass median separating the two flows of traffic on the highway. The vehicle begins to drive across the lanes into parking lot in front of the strip mall the Pocky Station is situated in. After turning parallel to the stores, the reason for the car's maneuver becomes apparant: Across both sides of the highway, blocking any flow of traffic to or from the south is a massive line of cars, trucks, and minivans.
From the car parked in the lot, a man steps out, circling his vehicle in a worried motion. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out a cell phone and begins dialling.
Phil reached under the counter and produced a flashlight, switching it on, and looked at Mark. "Looks like some kind of car accident outside, I'm going to go see if anyone needs help. Can you call 911?"
Mark nodded and reached for the phone on the counter. "Sure thing." He picked up the receiver and frowned, pushing the cradle button a few times. "Odd, the phone's dead. No dial tone."
He reached into his pocket and fished out a cell phone. "Better try this instead."
Phil walked around the counter and stepped outside, passing the flashlight over the group of cars. "HEY!! IS EVERYONE OK!?! DO I NEED TO CALL AN AMBULANCE?!"
The man by the car puts away his phone disgustedly and starts walking towards Phil.
"Hello? Hi, I'm Henry. Looks like there's been some kind of trouble. The power's out for at least 5 miles that way." He said, point to his left. "Did you see a powerline go down or something?"
Phill glanced over the newcomer, a dark skinned man with dark brown hair and dressed in a stylish shirt with dark dress slacks. He had a charismatic air about him, and all around likeable. "No i didnt see anything - this stuff doesn't usually happen around here with the exception of during a really big storm... and otherwise it is usually back on in a matter of minutes..." Phil passed the flashlight in the direction of the block on the road. As he did, several moving shapes passed in front of the beam among the vehicles.
Now barely visible in the moonlight, a large mob of people were moving among the various cars, trucks and minivans composing the pile up. All of them were smashing windows, wrendhing open doors, slashing tires, and generally vandalizing the vehicles.
Phil turned back to Henry. "If you want you can stay in my shop till the cops get down here... not like I have much else to do back at home anyways..."
After several fruitless tries at getting a signal, Mark stepped outside and put his phone away in his pocket. "No good. I can't get through to 911 or Fort Eustis. " Looking over to the car pile up, he pointed casuallly. "One of them probably already called for help anyway."
Phil got an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach and looked over at Mark. "I don't think so. Something weird is going on."
Just then, a beat up Civic pulled into the parking lot near the store, a short Latino looking kid hopping out and walked over to the group in front of the Pocky Station. Dressed in baggy jeans and a basket ball jersey, with a Yankees cap on his head, he nodded to the onlookers. "Yo. Name's Tyrone. Hey, you got a workin' phone? Some crazy riot or sumthin' goin' on. Got the road all jacked up." Flashing a smile shining from a mouth of gold teeth, obvious even in the low light, he greeted the group.
Henry turned to the stranger and held out his hand. "Hi, I'm Henry. No, sorry, my phone's out."
Tyrone turned and dapped Henry with his fist. "Hey, 'sup man? Some crazy sh*t or what, eh?"
Mark, just noticing the mob was looting the cars and not in need of help, faced Tyrone. "Sh*t son! I bet your head is worth at least a thousand dollars. Let's hope those ****ers out there don't wanna loot that shine. By the way I'm Mark, nice to you meet you."
As Tyrone shakes his hand, Phil waves to the others. "Hey...hey, guys? Something's up..."
All four look at the crowd by the pile up, noticing that they have ceased smashing into the cars and trucks, and have formed a line along the edge of the highway, facing into the shopping center. Obvious now to the observers, is the radical difference in each of the persons on the road: Men, women, children, young and old, from all over the community. All of them clutch in their hands some sort of makeshift club, either it be a crowbar or a broken car part.
The air is still and an unusual silence hangs overhead. No insects chirping, no dogs barking, no sound at all. Only the sound of their own breathing fills the ears of the small group in front of the store. For what seems like forever the crowd of roughly 40 vandals just stands and stares at them. Unmoving and strangely menacing, they line the road. Although too dark to see, their eyes seem to bore into the group, standing the hairs on the backs of their necks on end.
After what seems like an eternity, one man of the group steps forward. He is dressed much like the others, in common blue jeans, a worn flannel shirt open with a plain t-shirt underneath. He lifts his right arm up, his index finger outstretched and pointing to the four in the parking lot. His voice, scratchy and harsh, echoes across the empty stores as he bellows into the empty night.
"ALLUVAI!"
*And thats where I cut this off. This took WAY too much to write out, so if I get enough response to this, I'll post the rest of it later.*
