The Big-Oh! II -- RPG Thread

[Gummi]

OOC: I should be doing my lingustics homework but...I couldn't resist!

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Emilia was caught in a stupor. Disoriented, frozen in her terror, and unable to commit to reality, she merely clutched the book more tightly to her breast. Her eyes glanced over the corpse of Mr. Vanguard and as soon as she was able to organize her thoughts she allowed the tears to flow. She almost hadn't noticed that before her stood Jason Beck and a tall, slender, blonde. Perhaps it was her shock that did not allow her to fully formulate an answer at the moment Jason had addressed her but soon her anger erupted and did job for her. Although her anger was latent and completely pointless once a sizeable interval of seconds had past between them.

Emilia refused his hand. "I assume that I know why you are here." Emilia stood, her arms still grasping the book. She noticed the binding was in very poor condition. She felt in that moment if she had held it any closer it would have disentrigated in her arms. "You wanted his memories, don't you? You bastard! That's why you're here!"

Emilia had completely disregarded the mention of her hair. She knew that Jason was always partial to blonde women. Perhaps because the closer it was to gold the better, in his estimation. However while she would've gotten a strange tickle of satisfaction to know that Jason had noticed that there was something different about her, his comment only propeled her contempt for him even further. How can you react so casually? Mr. Vanguard is... She didn't dare complete the thought. The reality was far too devastating.

Jason was perhaps the only other person who had truly come to know Mr. Vanguard. He and Emilia were of the same age, had both gone to Paradigm University, had both been afforded one of the best educations that money could buy. Jason, however, felt that schooling was completely inadequate. He was a genius when it came to robotics, lightyears ahead of everyone else. Perhaps he was better than anyone, but the problem was never his genius but his maturity. Emilia knew of this first hand. She had perhaps had gotten closer to him than anyone, had done things that she was sure would've killed her father or more than likely would've caused her father to kill Jason. Whatever enjoyable moments she had spend with him in her earlier days were soured by their bitter parting. Perhaps she would've found a little solace if she knew he really did care for her, but she was uncertain that he actually ever did.

She observed only that with him stood the shapely blonde, eyeing the whole scene. Who is she? Emilia thought in the corner of her mind. She picked up on the resemblance this woman had to others she had seen, more specifically, the resemblance this woman had to her mother and in a way to herself. Emilia thought of a far off memory, she heard her mother call herself a "foriegner". Could this woman be that? Was this woman a "foriegner", like her mother? Emilia tossed the idea away quickly. These people were here because they knew of Mr. Vanguard's memories.

"Well," Emilia sighed heavily, relaxing her guard, "As you've noticed he's gone." Emilia had trouble uttering the words he's gone ,for they were precariously close to the phrasing her father used to explain the death of her mother. She paused and met eyes with Jason, expecting him to explain himself. Partially to explain why he and his companion were there and partially she wanted him to explain when their lives went in such different directions.

[Tifaria]

"That's a shame.  I was hoping he'd still be alive when we got here."  Angel sighed for effect.  

"This is pretty low even for you, Angel."  Beck clenched his fists, trying to maintain a layer of calm over the anger that was rising within him.  "I don't give a damn about the old man's memory, and I never did.  It's got nothing to do with me anyway."  He straightened up suddenly, scowling at Emilia.  "And I certainly never wanted to see you again, believe me.  If she hadn't threatened me, I wouldn't be here at all."  

"How rude, Jason.  You make me sound so.. manipulative."

"Believe me, I'd like to call you a few other things besides that."  

Emilia hadn't said another word yet, but she was still looking at him with an angry, accusing gaze.  He didn't care what she thought of him now.  What happened with them was over and done with, and Beck had no desire to relive that part of his life.  Emilia Townshend had been a distraction, the daughter of a man who was leagues above Beck in social status, which only made her more alluring.  Beck came from very little, and while he had a limited interest in education, he knew that he would get nowhere without it.    Her father had thought of Beck as a lowlife from the moment he met him, someone undeserving of politeness or courtesy, and yet in public, her father was thought of as a generous, altruistic businessman, an upstanding employee of the Paradigm Corporation.  It sickened Beck to know how he really treated people he saw as beneath him when he thought no one was looking.    

And then before he knew it, his disgust with Thomas Townshend had nearly driven him mad and though he started with noble intentions, Beck soon lost sight of that in favor of the rush he got from defying authority.  Emilia defended him for a time, but strong-willed though she was, there eventually came a point where even she was only willing to put up with so much.  He had left, without a word, hoping that their paths would never cross again, his perverted sense of what was right long lost, replaced by greed and an obsession with gadgets, electronics, and robots.  He wreaked havoc where he pleased.. until that stupid Negotiator came along.  That made things difficult.  

He looked away from Emilia.  "You're right, we came here for the Memory.  But like I said, I don't give a damn about it."  He jerked a thumb toward Angel.  "She's the one that wants it, probably so she can go cause trouble somewhere with it.  Or maybe so she can get Crow Boy to come out and play."  

"My, aren't you observant today?"  

"Shut up, Angel.  If you'd known anything, you would've realized that bringing me here isn't going to make her give you that Memory.  If anything, it's just going to make her more stubborn about not giving it to you."  He smirked at Emilia.  "Right?"  He turned his back to the two women then, lighting a cigar as he exited the library.

[Gummi]

It was mildly amusing how Jason presumed to know Emilia so well. He was right, afterall. Emilia wouldn't budge, she wouldn't just hand Vanguard's legacy to some unknown third party. She glanced over the woman, this Angel. Many inquiries formed within Emilia's mind but foremost she wanted to know who this woman was working for. There was something alien about her. She didn't hold herself like a person from Paradigm. Why would she care about these memories? There was something amiss in her nature, a displacement that Emilia could sense instantly. It made Emilia uncomfortable, although the woman in question didn't seem entirely dissimilar to herself. Perhaps this heightened sense was acquired from her mother, whom Emilia suspected was not born in Paradigm.

Emilia didn't quite know how to explain that she now posessed the memory, but whoever this woman was, she seemed to be on her toes. Emilia knew that Angel was probably quite a few steps ahead of her. She couldn't very well fool her. "He's dead," Emilia said warily, "I'm sure you know that I'm the one who carries his memory."

She gestured to the book in her hands, her once determined,scornful,glance now melted into remorse. "I shouldn't have come here today. Perhaps, his memory would've just died with him and would have been left alone. But I realize that as long as this memory exists there are going to be people willing to hunt it down, for nothing other than money. I refuse to let that happen." She spoke slowly regaining strength in her conviction, "I can't let you have this, I will never allow anyone to touch it! He trusted me.What purpose would his memories serve, other than to bring more destruction to this city than there already is?"

[D]

((For the benefit of mr. finale, I'll do one of my things here, eschewing the carefully crafted post left back eastward on my laptop.))

Dig dig dig, snoop and watch till you drop. That was his job, and he did it well.

Harold Werrington wasn't the type to complain, anyway. He focused all his energies on getting his, didn't want to waste by whining about it unless it actually made things easier. So he kept on at it, looking for that damn code his alter-ego wanted. The watch, if that is what it was, was a military spec Metron brand doohickey, bearing the serial number 2702-USAF. On intuition, he knew it was a military device, but you can't be sure with these things. His digging ended up with a big blizzard of papershuffling, culminating with an antique document hidden beneath a mountain of redtape, a few levels of basement, and a particularly irritable Military Police secretary.

An old government paper detailing the specifications (now mostly illegible) of the Metron Mark V-Timepiece set Harold off on a new trail, off to Electric City. It was in the basement of a secluded little cabin in its woods that he uncovered an array of Metrons atop a table, some in wristwatch form, some in pocket watch (like the kind he had), and finally a sort of blockish version reminiscent of those non-rotary phones you find in the outskirts of the city, among the rest of the odd trash. They were all active to some degree, apparently sending out distress signals.

"One of these Bigs..."

It occurred to Harold that these things were somehow connected to the Megadeuses that randomly decided to visit the Domes like antsy, unwanted relatives. Always messing your shit up, getting in your face, until someone steps up to get rid of them. At this thought of unpleasentness Harold noticed a faint yet foul smell eminating from beneath the table. He bent down to look and saw a skelton, a hole in its skull and a gun not to far from it. Suicide before the Event? Something to look into afterwards, but he didn't care much as he nearly forgot it after he stood up.

There was a box sealed with a strong lock besides the things, but the lock did not hold up very well to a mechanical foot stomping. To Harold's relief, there was an intact book of codes. He took out his Metron, tuned the frequency, and began entering them one by one. After the fifth hour or so, he managed it, but something scrambled the signal.

In a tinge of uncharacteristic anger, Harold smashed the devices, which were alot sturdier than you'd give them credit for at a glance, notwithstanding the hidden gadgets they seemed to be chock full of. A blast of repellant spray hidden in one of the pocketwatches irritated his eyes, causing him to stumble backwards and up the stairs into top floor of the cabin. He took out a cigarette and enjoyed the smoke, and it was pleasant before hearing a cacophonous military bugle in his mind and blacking out.


Rommelflammenwerfer, thats what it was branded. The name is familiar. Irwin, where did that name come from. It's appropriate enough for someone who wields fire and lacks a name. So Irwin he is.

Irwin, in gasmask and trenchcoat, ran through the domes like a spectre, moving with enough speed and care your average domedweller dismissed it as some trick of the eyes, something unimportant. Legs, legs dangling. No one here dangles like this. The flamethrower was ready, ready to make its mark with marvelous fire. In and up he went.

"Foriegner.."

[Tifaria]

Angel scowled, but did not try to stop Beck from leaving.  He was right, she should have known better than to bring him.  Emilia was even less likely to talk to Angel than Beck.  She was still clutching the old, worn book as though her life depended on it.  

"First of all, I'm not in this for money," Angel said cooly.  "And I'm certainly not in it to destroy the city, either.  I could care less what happens to this miserable place."  This wasn't entirely true, although it wasn't an outright lie, either, as usual.  True, she didn't do this for the money, unlike most of the amateur memory hunters scouring the city.

As far as Paradigm City, however.. Angel's lack of communication with her countrymen meant that she wasn't sure what their leader was up to at the moment.  For all she knew, they'd all gone home and left her to rot in Paradigm for the rest of her life, or maybe they were already destroying the city.  There was no telling when it came to their impatient leader.  Perhaps that was why Angel had been less than enthusiastic regarding her mission lately.  It seemed like she was more effective on her own, without having to report in and be instructed further by a maniac who couldn't even stick to her own plans.  She found herself suddenly helping Roger Smith as of late, when she should have been using him to her advantage as she had when they first met.  Not that he cared.  He had made it quite clear on several occasions that he would never trust her based on her previous actions.  

Emilia didn't need to know all that, however.  Angel doubted that telling her the truth would really change her mind, judging from the suspicion in Emilia's eyes.  The girl already believed the worst of her, and Angel had no choice but to avoid talking about herself and try to persuade the younger woman.  

"Since our dear Mr. Vanguard is, unfortunately, no longer living, you must know that there will be other people coming after that Memory.  Honestly, I'm probably the least dangerous of them."  She paused, hoping Emilia might say something, but the young woman stubbornly kept quiet.  Angel sighed in defeat.  "You don't even know what it means, do you?  You ask me what purpose his memories would serve, but if you can't decipher it, it's useless.  How does it help anyone to continue keeping it a secret?"  She stood with her hands on her hips, staring Emilia down as confidently as she could.

"Oh.. and also," Angel said slyly, an idea suddenly forming, "What will your dear father do if he finds out you have that memory?  I suspect he'll be forced to take it away.  After all... he works for Paradigm, and they want those memories worse than I do."

[Xel]

Alan felt... aware. Surely it wasn't due merely to his presence here, in the library's old halls, amid bound relics as dusty as their crypt of marble and fine wood. This mass grave. Alan perceived death in everything these days. Clearly he needed to lighten up a bit--or would, if he didn't already find the world suddenly so much more delightful to experience.

Any lowly secretary could come here to carry out the pretense for his presence: oh, yes, Mr. Rosewater, the Union is very interested in what meager records Paradigm has managed to cobble together. Let us just see, in the spirit of diplomacy, what knowledge there is to be gleaned.

In the spirit of diplomacy! But no, Alan had little to no care for any of these flaky corpses. The fact of the matter was, well, that there happened to be a very important man here.

Diplomacy, diplomacy. Official business, nothing to see here, nothing of interest, nothing to hide. Alan's heels clopped against the stone floor with gusto as he approached the main wing, breezing past a sullen and smoking Jason Beck leaned against the wall without so much as a glance.

[Tifaria]

I should just kill her.  No one will miss her.  I wonder if Emilia will call the police if I strangle Angel in front of her...

The tobacco calmed him down a little.  Jason stared at the floor as he smoked, watching his distorted, blurry reflection glare back at him.  He wasn't sure which woman he was more angry at, Angel or Emilia.  They each made him mad for different reasons.  Angel was infuriating the way she treated everything like it didn't matter, when Beck knew that she cared about things much more than she let on.  Everything was a game to her.  Beck certainly got his own delight in his life of crime, but Angel was different.  She was too reckless about everything, and it would only backfire on her in the end.  There was no plan, no style to anything she did.

Emilia.. she was more complicated.  He wasn't sure whether it was her, her father, or himself that he loathed in that situation.  

At the moment it was himself.  He was supposed to be a criminal mastermind.  Criminal masterminds did not dwell on their pasts.  They went on with their lives as if nothing mattered.  The unexpected sight of Emilia stirred something in him, and he didn't like it one bit.  He had no business thinking about her.  That morning he had just finished building a giant robot, fully prepared to go around tearing up the city, and now he found himself thinking about things that he thought he'd let go of.  He was quite disgusted with himself at the moment, and that made him disgusted that he was disgusted, and the cycle of self-loathing continued.  He shouldn't even be here anymore.  He should have continued walking out, but something stopped him.  

He was still puffing away on the cigar when the sound of clicking heels drew him out of his thoughts.  He didn't bother looking up completely, and only saw an oddly thin pair of pinstriped legs pass by him quickly.  Beck looked up as the person passed to see that the pinstripes covered the entirety of the man's suit, the ensemble completed with a sharp tophat.  He looked .. scarecrow-like, unnaturally easy, almost sterile in the perfection of each movement he made as he walked.  

It took Beck a moment to realize that he was headed toward the main wing, where Angel and Emilia were.  

He followed the man, making no effort to hide the fact that he was there.  "Yo," he said loudly, flicking ashes from his cigar onto the gleaming marble floor.

[The Big Finale]

"Foreigner."

A voice. Someone was here? Her humming came to a halt and she looked over her shoulder just enough to gauge the intruder. It was an... interesting ensemble of patchwork to wear, that was certain. He looked the type to let actions be his speaking, and the way his hands wrapped around the flamethrower only reinforced the perception. Very interesting. Vera planted her hands into the edge and swung herself back onto the roof, blonde curls swinging with the motion. Her hands slid into her pockets and she took a relaxed, observing stance, committing more of the man's appearance to memory.

"Now, what reason do you have to call me a foreigner?" The accent was heavy, the sarcasm likewise. "By my looks alone? I could say the same."

[D]

¨Your voice carries a heavy accent.¨

Dastardly cunning foriegner, ready to cause harm. Must not be allowed to do so. Cinders only safe way to maintain such beings. Building, however, not best kept as a cinders. Collateral damage is currently counterproductive, especially without the Megadeus. Devious foriegner might cause bodily harm to self, but much more importantly to Metron device. Furthermore, how foriegner is here without arousing suspicion might be signs of a Rosewater company whore. If case is as such, it would be best to make self scarce. Cinderization seems appealing, still.

"If I may enquire as to where you are from or why you are here as opposed to not somewhere else doing something less suspicious, I may be less inclined toward igniting you and your gaudy hair."

Irwin raised the flamethrower, took aim, and created a long line of unignited napalm between him and Vera, which if lit would make Vera crossing it very difficult and dangerous.

"Now, answers."

[The Big Finale]

The heavy smell of that liquid hit her nose as it splattered across the ground. She snorted. He was trying to wall her in, force her into talking or burn. She looked back at his face, covered in the gas mask. It was nearly impossible to read the mind behind it, with his expressions concealed. Vera's hands came out of the pockets. This person was clearly a madman, but she was an agent of the Union. Threats were not something to be tolerated. They wouldn't be tolerated.

"Sitting on a roof and humming to myself are suspicious? I think not. And I have no answers for a dog like you." Vera shook her head, her shoes scratching against the ground as she readjusted her position into a more guarded and ready one. Fingers reached surreptitiously under the loosely hanging purple jacket, seeking out a certain lengthy, rope-like weapon.

[Xel]

Beck's movement behind him hummed across his skin. He grinned. It had been days into his recovery and the healing incisions overlaying his spinal column still ached, but how marvelous did he feel otherwise. Had Beck known him--and most people didn't--he might've decided that Alan's stride and posture were a fraction stiffer today. Beck didn't know Alan, but he would still be able to catch sight of the crosshatched relief of stitches underneath a strip of bandage hidden just slightly beneath his shirtcollar.

But he, as it happened upon turning around to face his addresser, did know Beck. Alan's eyes often saw more than faces.

"You're Paradigm detention's repeat-escapee," he remarked cordially, smile mild, noncommital. It somehow failed to comfort with half his face obscured. "Jason Beck."

[Tifaria]

He could hardly be surprised at the recognition.  As far as Beck knew, he was the only yellow-clad escaped convict wandering Paradigm City.  He was slightly more startled at the use of his first name, however, and couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.  

"Yeah, it seems I am."  He eyed the man quickly, observing the stitches under his collar.  He wasn't sure what sort of operation would be necessary on that part of the body.  The way the man smiled was slightly creepy, as was the fact that his eyes were hidden.  Beck had the sudden feeling that he couldn't let the man into the other room.  "You work here?  I'm looking for a particular book.  Didn't see it in there."  

[Hobo]

Is this all that is left of me?  To have my words spread, and, for a time, believed, then to fade into naught?  To leave this world before the Truth has been spread over all of Paradigm?  Before all those who oppose the Truth are brought lower than they thought possible, before the false skies are shattered?

“No…”

He was indoors, the cold, damp brick he lay against told him that much.  Opening his eyes, the man once known as Michael Seebach looked upon his surroundings.  A single bulb hung above him, suspended from an unseen ceiling.  The light confirmed that it was stone he lay upon, spread-eagle, with the light fading into the darkness just beyond himself.  Sitting up, he inspected himself, and realized he had only his bandaging to clothe him, and most of it was worn and ripped.

This will not do.

Rising to stand, he finds himself dizzy.  Without a wall to lean upon, he simply pushes through, passing from the small patch of light, into the enveloping darkness.

Of course, there is little to do now but go on.  Only a blind fool would sit idly in a pool of light, hoping for rescue.  To stop in the darkness, however…

He stopped as soon as the thought reached him.  Raising his head, he uttered but one word.

“Duo…”

A resounding smash filled the air, the ground shook with terrible force, dropping him to his knees.  Dust and tiny chunks of rock rain down from the still unseen ceiling.  However, now, instead of pure darkness, there is a faint glow above him.  Enough to see the stone floor he stands on.  Enough to see that there is a ladder, standing not two yards from him.

[Gummi]

Emilia was not surprised that this woman knew the type of people that ran Paradigm, everyone knew. Even she knew that her father was as crooked as any of them but for a stranger to suggest even what Emilia herself knew to be true, hurt. She failed to deflect the last statement, and merely averted her gaze down unto Mr. Vanguard, the fact of his demise almost entirely obscured by her possession of his memories. With dizzying quickness the grief over the death of this poor man had dissipated into a heated contest of wills. Emilia finally acknowledged Angel, not for this woman’s sake but for Mr. Vanguard’s. She placed the book down adjacent to were he lied, in his peaceful eternal sleep. This way Emilia reasoned she could more clearly illustrate her position, and in her way this gave her much more control over these memories than she ever had clutching them to her, physically.

“It is obvious that you have been trying to get a hold of these memories for quite some time. You have your reasons for wanting them and perhaps I can pretend to believe you when you say that you aren’t in this business for money.”

 Emilia found herself in a state of eerie calm, for the first time in a long while. She took up a gentle nonthreatening tone that suggested her willingness to negotiate.

“I know very well what my father is capable of, Miss Angel, you did not need to remind me. I know very well that he would have pried those memories from me, with violent speed. He does not care about what they mean to me personally, all he ever cared about was Paradigm Corporation and the money that goes with it. You know who I am, I’m sure, because you were working for Alex Rosewater, weren’t you? I’ve seen you before, if I remember correctly, you’re name was not Angel.”

As memories often are lost and then suddenly resurface, Emilia recalled that Alex Rosewater had a secretary, named Patricia Lovejoy. Emilia never interacted with her, only on one occasion were they were introduced at a Heaven’s Day party. Angel bore a striking resemblance to her, if she was not her. But Emilia was not ignorant.

“So there are the memories. Honestly, I do not know what to do with them. All I know is that I lost a man who was very dear to me. That is all I am concerned about. I don’t know what I would’ve done with them. So if you are convinced that you want them so badly, please, tell me what you know. Tell me the truth. That’s all.”

[D]

"Halt. Hands up."

This woman with terrible hair was moving for something, probably a firearm. Well aimed shot could incapacitate, possibly kill. Misfire could ignite napalm before information could be processed, or potentially detonate napalm. Irwin increased the ante by increasing the amount of the stuff on the floor, the thick gelatinous mixture slowly inching forward. Fingers slipped toward the ignition switch, and Irwin began to withdraw backwards towards the way he came up, basically making the entire roof one giant barbecue waiting to happen.

"I am no dog, and especially not here. Now, give me answers or I'll have no choice but to send you to hell in a broad pyre."

A click came from his back, the sign that an entire tank had been drained. He still had two others loaded, with a spare in the event he would need to reload. He was almost certain he wouldn't, though he was feeling a bit hazy and mistakes sometime occur. A ticking noise began to fill the air, soon after followed by a screech of static. The Metron. While still maintaining his aim at the badly accented woman (?) he fished the pocket watch out and opened it. Something had radically gone wrong with the frequency it had previously locked onto, and it was now trying to attempt to find another one. Irwin cursed softly, so the sound did not escape the mask. He pulled the igniter and his hand twitched to prevent itself from pulling the trigger.

"Answer..."