Zer0 Sessi0n

READ HERE FIRST:

zoraroastedCoffee wrote:A young girl stands in her bedroom. It's a blustery day in Middle America, but unlike most such days the thoughts of this dame are not turned beyond her apartments walls, but to the nearby mailbox.

What could this young girls name be?

> Pukeponce leperlass!   

> Holly Pearson!   

Your name is HOLLY. While it is not your birthday you are currently expecting a package in the mail, one you have been waiting for all day with growing impatience. It is an odd inclination as you are also mulling over the sneaking suspicion that something terribly calamitous is suppose to happen today. It is a suspicion that has grown on you over the past several months, and while completely unfounded on anything logical, is nevertheless urgent in its certainty. Its one of the many oddity's that you hardly question in this household anymore, though if you had to come up with a theory you would say that it was probably the ghost of old Andrew Jackson warning you of whatever event is about to transpire.
Your good Bro assures you that he hears from Andrew quite regularly as all members of your family have, and if such is the case you suppose it was only a matter of time before the ornery Old Hickory visited the grace of his  EX-PRESIDENTIAL APERATION on you as well.

The package contains a popular video game that you wish to play with your friends, and while you are uncertain how the calamity and the game are related, it is also something you have grown suspiciously certain of. Whatever the two have to do with one another you are at least certain of one thing.

Today is the day you leave home at last.

You have waited for this day all your life and not even the grim humorless face of MARTEN VAN BUREN whose poster looms large on your wall can sap your enthusiasm. You have been thinking about taking that one down actually...

On impulse you CAPTCHALOGUE the poster in your GEOGRAPHY MODUS. So much better! With Van Buren's gloomy mug out of the way the handsome rugged visage of NATHANIEL HAWKEYE dominates your entire wall <3!
Daniel Day-Lewis is everything you dream of in a man, and while Bro might insist that he was best as Lincoln you know better. To be raised by natives in the wild, to run and climb and see new interesting frontier every day! To guide helpless limp wristed ungrateful British people through the woods at the peril of your own life! Such is a paradise you can only imagine! The thought simply takes your BREATH away. Even the mythical SLYPHS of legend could not hope to live so carefree.

>Well, that about squares her up.

>BE THE OTHER GUY.

zoraroastedCoffee wrote:> Be the goon.

A portly black carapace waddles his way through the desert, sweat dripping down his face and neck. What is a creature like this, so obviously unaccustomed to long treks through the wilderness doing out here in the middle of nowhere?
You are the Bloodthirsty Exterminator and you strive to remember. Life has always been a grade A pain in your rear, but you've trudged along till now. What did you do to deserve this though eh? Ain't nothin fair bout it. Aint nothing clean and proper at all, like fate itself took one look at your lousy mug and decided "nah, this chump ain't going nowherese while I'm around." Fuckin unfair is what it is, as you would gladly tell the rest of your goodfellas if they was around. But they ain't. Nones of em is.

Squinting into the desert sun you dredge up the vilest slurs you can imagine and send them hurtling skyward but it don't do no good to ya. You walk for a long time, wheezing all the way till at last you see some sort of structure in the distance. You blink at it before adjusting your shuffling path. If there a spot out here free of the sun you want a part of it and if it turns out some local palooka thereabouts don't find your visit agreeable then so much the worst for them. Ain't no one ever been goofy for you, ain't no reason you gota be goofy for them, specially not in the middle of this fuckin desert.
You permit yourself a brief swig from your Hoochflask before trundling on.

zoraroastedCoffee wrote:> Holly: Message your friends before disaster strikes!

Well... not a bad idea actually. You turn away from the posters on your wall to gaze at your computer. The clunky desktop has been your constant friend and companion since childhood. A portal almost to the world outside of your dumb hometown, and a gateway which has allowed you sporadic association with several friends way more facilitating than the crowd around here, even if your experience with them is limited to lines of multicolored text scrolling down your screen. You open your Typheus web browser, glance at your most current desktop background (Theodore Roosevelt riding a moose lol, your brother would be so proud.) and peruse Pesterchum for a moment. Most of your friends are offline at the moment except for... Bleh? The memo is empty...   
Anyway whatever that means dexterousSurvivalist looks to be online at least, and up to more of her moody antics.

-- gallivantingMountaineer [color=#0033ff][GM][/color] began pestering dexterousSurvivalist [color=#ff66ff][DS][/color]--:

Loki wrote:> Become another person

You are now another person.

>Ha ha. What's your name, smart ass?

Smart Ass.

>Cut it out

Fine. Your name is Loki Heskin. And today. Is not your birthday. But it is your brother's birthday. and you have the perfect present for him; a perfect replica of Cloud's Buster sword, forged from steel. Yes, it took quite some time for you track it down(and a promise to DM during the session organized down at the Dragon's Horde), but you finally have it. Strangely, the package it arrived in also contained two game discs, though you didn't order them. Oh well, you're not complaining.

>Examine your surroundings

Looking around your room, you immediately note how untidy it is. Scattered around are various CHARACTER SHEETS and MINIATURES for your favorite game; DUNGEON AND DRAGONS. Covering the walls are drawings of many of your characters, many of which bare the markings of a Rogue; leather armor, small weapons, and even a set of picks on the belt. Along with the drawings are a few SWORDS mounted on the walls, both WOODEN and STEEL, with your favorite pair, two short swords, mounted above your bed. On your desk is a black laptop, currently open to Pesterchum, though you have yet to log on.

>Log on

You cross over to your laptop and sit on your chair, quickly logging on and noting that two of your friends are currently online, though you leave them be for the moment.

zoraroastedCoffee wrote:> Be Holly again.

You push yourself away from your computer exited, but slightly mystified. Jill has such a weird family, not like your perfectly normal presidentialy haunted one. Robots? Your... still not quite sure if she is pulling your leg with that one or not... In any case! None of that matters now anyway. You have a game to play. Perhaps the last one ever... its a weird thought.

Skiping out of your room you make your way down the small hall of your apartment, past the many posters of Theodore Roosevelt striking various heroic poses while vanquishing a variety of mythical or prehistoric beasts with heavy caliber machine guns.
Sorry Sasquatch. While impressive your Mangrit is simply no match for the iron constitution of the 26th president of the United States, a man whom DEATH HIMSELF had to jump in his sleep for fear of reprisal, as your good Bro so often reminds you.
A few more steps and you are out the door.

...

The Streets are empty. Wind skims the hollows of a thousand nonexistent mountain peaks you may never climb. A familiar keening is produced, the frustrated ambitions of a small yappy dog who is forever chained to his Masters tree, inhibited by the measures of his own safety from ever sniffing the butts of his neighbors, or finding a new place to urinate.

It is your 15th birthday, and as with all before it something feels missing from your life. The game still out of your reach is but the latest in a series of threads spun about your feet, a phantom chain determined to root you down. Your invisible captor's schemes seem less in the interests of your safety and rather in the interests of pure spite. It is the most insidious deception of all.
You would blame an unknown riddler but you know its probably just the bitter envious ghost of James Buchanan trying to keep you down, the bastard.

"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." - Theodore Roethke.

You are quite sure that's a quote by Theodore Roethke. Absolutely positive.

You have a feeling that somewhere there is a long journey ahead of you.

You continue your trip to the mailbox having put the earlier moment of strange introspection out of your mind when suddenly you are accosted by a familiar shadow! Before you is your Bro. He is the Bro, its him. With a few gestures he inquires as to where you could be going, and when you inform him that you are journeying forth to retrieve a video game he is of the opinion that that's not very RESPONSIBLE of you. Luckily you brought your trusty walking stick along...

The following strife is as deadly as it is 100% SERIOUS BUSINESS. Your good Bro bars your way and in response you unleash your walking stick from its twitchy hand holster. Your walking stick...  6 feet long and cut from strong supple birch your baby is 6 feet of pure wooden whoop ass which you do not hesitate even for an instant to unleash in a veritable STORM upon your hapless Bro.
Confronted by this withering assault he... blocks every blow easily and sends you flying 8 feet with a casual finger flick. Oh the humiliation!
Round two and three go much the same. Welp. If you cant go through em go around em. You activate the quickest Lass Scamper you can muster and in less than a second you are around your Bro and bounding for the mailbox. The Game is IN.

A short lass scamper back to your room and you are sliding into your chair, peeling the paper off the package and slipping the game disk into your computer. The loading screen is.. impressive, though a bit seizure inducing if you have to be honest. Waiting for the game to finish installing you note that another one of your friends is on.

-- gallivantingMountaineer [GM] began pestering wildfireSwordsman [WS] --]:

zoraroastedCoffee wrote:> Holly: examine game equipment

You examine the game equipment with curiosity. What even is this stuff? Looks like a something you would find in a factory, or woodshop. Looks cool enough though. You spend several minuets fiddling randomly with the impressive array of dials and knobs that have suddenly become available. You simply must know, do those knobs turn? They sure dooo!
It seems in the process of turning the Cruxtruder knob you have expelled about a dozen more of these weird blue cylinders. Its like, these things are quite large, and the Cruxtruder is big but not that big, but somehow they keep coming out??? You guess its not really any more mysterious than the fact that the whole thing just came out of thin air to begin with. Or that your brother keeps his Chevy in his TOOL HOLSTER MODUS.

Stooping low you pick up one of the cylonders and stick it into what looks like the appropriate place in the lathe looking thing. You try twisting the knobs to manually manipulate the cutting arm on the thing, but it wont budge. Your missing something... it looks like you need to stick a card into the appropriate slot as well to do anything here. Speaking of which you glance over at the Alchemiter. The card that was dropped sits on the platform.
Around you the wind blows stronger.
Its a simple red and white looking thing with punched holes along the top. Look it over for a second before shrugging and sticking it into the card slot along with one of the cylinders.

With a whirring of machinery the lathe comes alive and cuts into the cylinder with deep strokes and a sound of vibrating metal. You take a step back in alarm but its over before you know it. The cylinder has been cut into a strange configuration. If its suppose to be something you have no idea what it is.  Retrieving it you scratch your head and look to the last machine. The Alchemiter seems to have a smaller platform near the mechanical arm, one that would fit the dowel in your hand perfectly. You begin to walk towards it but the wind picks up again blowing your braid into your face. When you clear it away you find yourself looking again at the strange pulsing blue matrix thingy. You look between it, the Alchemiter and the Cruxtruder. The countdown which began at 5:26 now has only around three minuets left. You wonder what that's about anyway? Maybe you are suppose to wait for it to count down before proceeding?
Biting the inside of your lip you head downstairs to hit Loki up for further instruction.

-- gallivantingMountaineer [GM: