Well, as you can tell, we never really settled who was going to play Crispy in the RP. So
Pants and
Paperclip were arguing so much about it that me and Hobo had to step in and make them settle it civilized-like. Now, write-offs aren't as common as Pistol showdowns, but we figure they're about half as entertaining, and you can do them over the interweb too! Anyways, vote for whoever you think would make a better Schwarzwald. Personally, I think I'm voting for Hobo, I mean, uh I mean Pa-... Erm Stapler. Yeah. Totally voting for Stapler. Even though it's not an option on the poll. Voting will end four days after posting this. So nyah!
Whoever doesn't get Schwartzy gets O'Reilly if they want him. Do don't be a smartalec and call him for yourself. Or else Pants and Paperclip and Stapler might have to refer you to their friend Baseball Bat.
PANTS ENTRY
Truth. It alone is what guides me. Many people have looked upon the megadeuses of Paradigm. Very few have ever touched one. Fewer still, have controlled them. I alone, however, have seen into the eyes of them. I have seen what fraction of the greater Truth they hold, when all others turn a blind eye. No… not all others. The man known as Roger Smith, he is the only other person in this city who might be able to be brought to see the Truth through a megadeus. However, his… unwillingness… to look for it, accompanied by a complete readiness to be the lapdog of Rosewater, well, that has led him to be something of a foe. A door opens on an old, rundown building on the outskirts of Paradigm City. Through it, into the litter-filled street, steps a man garbed in brown shoes, black pants, a brown vest and trench coat, with a green tie. The man is also wearing a neck brace, and is bandaged from head to toe. A glass plate hides his left eye, while the right appears… unnatural. Walking through the dredges of society, the man known as Schwarzwald thinks to himself of what must be done, and what has been done in his name.
Many responded in earnest to the message… thinking truly that the ancient mechanical dragon could defeat the Big O, and topple the domes. Fools. The comedy of Paradigm is not yet meant to end, for you see… Arriving at a seemingly innocent street corner, Schwarzwald works his way up the fire escape of the least-decrepit of the buildings. Any residents disturbed by a strange man climbing next to their windows show no sign of it, glancing only briefly enough to be sure the stranger had no intention of entering their domicile. Arriving upon the rooftop, Schwarzwald stands with one foot on the edge of the roof, leaning upon his leg, bows his head slightly and shuts his eyes. A resounding chorus of explosions fills the air, followed immediately by the sharp shattering and crashing of glass and steel. Schwarzwald looks on, smiling, as the false sky shatters, causing chaos for those oblivious to the Truth, and undoubtedly distress for Paradigm Corporation and the Military Police.
“This is the Truth of our world! You dogs of Paradigm! Hiding away in your domes will not save you! This world will be wrought out of fire and of ice! This world will be forged not by memories, but by Truth!”
PAPERCLIPS ENTRY
The dark is unfathomable. It does not exist, yet it is always present. It lurks in every shadow, hides in every corner, and spreads itself throughout the night sky. Most would describe the dark as a presence, a beast, a monster, something encroaching, something to be feared. This is a lie. One of numerous fictions proliferated in a world of myth and monsters.
The dark is an absence, invisibility in its truest form. It is something beyond the senses five. The light fills the dark, sends it skirting back into the shadows with the smallest of flames. Was there anything beyond the dark, or does what exists beyond the senses fade into the shadows along with the dark? Does the light reveal, or create?
The dark heralds a gift, a slight glimmer of transparency, borne from the shadow, filled by light. It stays there for a moment, hanging onto the shadow, reflecting the light back onto itself, holding back creation. Then it falls from the shadow and joins the light, revealing itself as a droplet of water. It joins the puddle awaiting it, where light and shadow cross, intermixing and creating the world.
From somewhere in-between the light and the dark the creature grins to himself. His tongue rolls around in his oversized jowls as he watches the interplay thoughtfully. He supposes if he were to light the darkness overhead, he would see a pipe or other logical source of water droplets. He does not look, but rather returns to his gaze to the typewriter before him.
There is much to be done, and the page is still blank.
Another droplet falls, and the creature taps a key in unison. The man Seebach is dead, but there is still much plundering that can be done in his name. The creature has plumbed the depths of the darkness already, and the underground has been created before his eyes. It was not an exercise without point, but already he has seen the light outside the city to be more prosperous, and already he is feeling the siren call of the Truth.
But there is much to be done, and there is only one letter one the page.
The manifesto has already been written, the printing finished before he even left for the first time into the wastes. Now there was only the letter left, signed and delivered in Seebachs name, sent by the will of his estate. Another droplet falls, another key is tapped.
There is still the matter of the letter, and what a matter it is. So much needs to be imparted, and the passion that runs through him is so great than he feels as if he could send the typewriter screeching to keep up with hands. The blank page mocks him. Only two characters. Nothing comes out right.
Another droplet falls, and the creature flails in frustration, pushing the ugly blue fold out table and sending it spilling, the typewriter clanging on the ground. He stands, fumbling in his pocket for what he needs. He finds it, pulling the lighter from its hiding and standing to light the subway tracks around him. The source of the droplets was a pipe, but does the light reveal, or…?
The creature sits dejectedly in his chair, the lighter flame dying in his hands. He wants to know everything, he wants to understand everything, and he is so close, and yet so far. That lapdog is already well on his way to understanding. Why need the letter at all? Why not let him find his own way?
But the droplet falls once more, and the creature is no longer certain there’s a water pipe beyond the dark. So he lifts the table, restores the typewriter to it’s proper position, and begins again.
Poll
