<span class="mu-s">Monday</span> <span class="mu-s">Grid Sector 11873, Defensive Position "Razorback"</span>
The Bradley 1A5 kept firing with it's auto-cannon at the incoming target. One of it's tracks, the left one, was damaged. The rack of guided missiles had been emptied days ago and there hadn't been the chance to refill them.
Quartermaster "Godmother" was inside the basement of a ruined house, missing it's second floor and portions of the first. The structure of plywood would provide minimal protection or cover, which was why he was underground.
Beside him was Jack Price, the Engineer from MARS Incorporated, now a Lieutenant in what remained of the Armed Forces.
Finally, if he was still alive, was Capt. Harry Grand from the Air Force. - - In the basement was a Javelin guided missile, loaded, but with no available reloads. There was also MARS MPAR, a laser guided upgrade of the FGM-172A SRAW project. That system and a single reload were bundled together. Both would require firing from outside or the precarious top floor.
The other explosive options were the drum fed, six shot 40mm Milkor MGL.... OR three disposable AT-4ERs.
There was closed crates that may or may not have additional supplies, but the three of them didn't know how to operate that many weapons outside the rocket launchers and a basic M16A4.
There was the blowtorch and Quik Patch case, if Jack wanted to try repairing the Bradley.
Faces unfamiliar to you pass by, speaking in a tongue of gibberish that is only partially comprehensible. Half of them wear tribal attire of losers larping as tribal warriors, but their cosmetic scars and muscles were way too refined to be just costumes. The sky rolls in a color you've never seen before.
Jail Quest: a text adventure occasionally illustrated.
A night of drinking and a failed attempt to cheat on cards had landed you the strangest job slash community service sentence you've ever had: ensuring Gongalla Gaol survives the reality storm called Singularity.
Now you travel around with your employer and a handpicked crew to survey the four Reality Anchors. Hey, beats being tarred and feathered, right?
You suddenly jolt wide awake in an unfamiliar room, with no recollection of the past few hours. It even took you a few seconds to remember you are Rosa Montagni, and another few seconds to realize the other person in the room is your crewmate, Valencio. Slowly, hazy recollections piece together a loose narrative of previous events: you've reached Viridis, the first leg of your journey to the East's Reality Anchor, when you receive news that your go-to destination slash transport, the walking city Freeport, had problems with its engine. Then you were sidetracked into a casino, where you played cards and unwittingly aided a truant Hexbourne student against a haughty twin Hexbourne students sent to retrieve him. Then you got entangled in a complex emotional... something with the casino owner, Don Bosco. Something about your mentor, Sierra (no relation to Sierra, the deity of the South anchor) and copious amounts of drinking? That must be why your memory's so hazy.
You laid on the cold floor, eyes heavy and limbs numb. On your left, the sun had begun to set… Probably the last one you’ll witness. Second by second, life slowly drained from your body. You weren’t a hero or a savior, but you’d like to think you gave more good to the world than evil. With that final thought, you closed your eyes one last time.
“O brave soul…”
Or not.
You stood on a clear floor that reflected you, in an empty space that stretched as far as you could see. The clouds were no longer grey, but fluffy and white in a sea of blue sky. A woman stood, no, an angel…
“I beseech you to save my people. I am Lumina, the goddess of my people. What should have been your eternal rest, I have taken your soul in order to save my world.”
Her wings fluttered as the golden light around her head glowed. Everything passed by so fast it was difficult to catch up. You didn’ t think of yourself as a hero either. You were a survivor.
[Choose character]
>Character 1
The world ended.
It all happened so fast… In a matter of months, the dead rose from the graves like a terrible b-movie, except the infection led to mutations that turned them into monsters. First, you and your family tried to escape. But one by one they all died. Since then, you lived a life of a wanderer, helping the helpless and killing the cruel.
>Character 2
The world ended.
World War III on the other hand? Yeah… That happened. The world went full on FUBAR. The war led to destruction, but shit went worse after a series of natural catastrophes, as if mother nature waited for the worst moment to shit out a punishment. In a matter of a few years, the world you knew disappeared, shredded to a concrete wasteland.
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-i">"It was a simple game, downloaded by children with unrestricted internet access in an era long passed. Trends came and went, websites lived and died, and eventually Tricky Treats Online faded from the eyes of the next generation. The children who roamed the instanced streets of Tricky Treats were now adults, and this game -- frozen in time -- were the remnants of their childhood."</span></span></span> <span class="mu-i">-From the analysis video "The Real Game that Really Killed"</span>
You are Margot Merriweather, a woman of order who - despite being a child at the time - opted to play as a "Grown Up Ghoul" embracing the decoration and design of the in-game "Haunted Houses". After a decade of being away from the game, you decided to make a new character, just to peak in and relive those years for a few moments.
Nostalgia was the only thing that seemed to pause your now busy life, so occasionally after getting suitably tipsy you dip into the past. Perhaps in reliving, you gain a further appreciation for the present moment, thus making the seconds more palpable; Or maybe it's pure delusion, and the reality is you're spending your weekend alone again, desperately trying to be a kid. As judgemental as you might feel towards your own desires, you allow yourself to be under this spell, log in to your old account, and add a new profile.
<span class="mu-b">Halloween is that one time of year where all the children conquer any social misgivings for the sake of mountains of sweets. This year - however - is different, because among the candy being given, there are sure to be some <span class="mu-s">Tricky Treats!</span>
Tricky Inc. threw its hat into the candy business, and their product - Tricky Treats - exploded in popularity. Kids can't get enough, Adults can't get enough, and even the monster under your bed wants that Tricky taste!
So what are you waiting for, get out there and do what it takes to snag a bag full!</span>
Choose your Class! :
>Sugar Gobbler (Ring the doorbell, get the candy, ring the doorbell, get the candy... Wanna trade?)
>Trickster (Cough up the candy, or some toilet paper might go flying..!)
>Grown Up Ghoul (I HATE these Tricky Treaters!!!)
>Rent-a-Cop (Protect and Serve! ... After eating some confiscated confectioneries!)
>Minimum Wager (Working on Halloween? This sucks dude!)
<span class="mu-i">Howdy bros, I'm back. I wanted to continue RimQuest, but the combination of an artist shafting me, Rimworld 1.6 breaking all of my saves, life events, and depression have fucked that into the dirt. So instead here's something new.</span>
<span class="mu-s">These are the dark years of the occupation.</span> Gordon Freeman is still just a story passed between cells, squads, strangers, and couples. In this moment in time there's only you, a lone human working to resist the Combine occupation however you see fit and remain able. There will be an <span class="mu-s">Uprising</span> someday, this you're sure of, but the path there lies on the other side of lakes of blood and considerable effort on the part of unsung warriors like you.
It had felt like days since you last saw the sun back outside the outskirts of <span class="mu-s">City 11.</span> The awful stench of the sewers and cisterns which meandered under the streets of what used to be <span class="mu-s">Berlin</span> forced you to find something to plug your nose with almost immediately upon beginning your infiltration. Deep regret at leaving the accommodations, spartan as they were, of the Resistance base north of the city had massaged your mind, but failed to slow your occasionally-soggy step through the barely-lit darkness. All this had a purpose, you reminded yourself. In the newspeak of the Combine you are an Anticitizen, a <span class="mu-s">Malignant</span>, the malformed cell that starts the cancer, the one that sets the spark which will light the torch of humanity's liberation. Or, in more plain terms, the crazy fucker that volunteers to go back into the Cities in order to bring contraband in, people out, and start up new resistance cells along the way. If there were some omniscient statistician in the sky, he could have given you odds of survival that would have seen you sit your ass back down in Finow when they called for somebody to replace Parks's sector after his presumed loss, but all the same, it needed to get done. The whole goddamned species was at stake, with a biological time limit that edged closer to expiration every year and a planet slowly being strangled of its life. If this generation didn't stop them, there would be no other. Never in human history had there been as existential and desperate a struggle as the one you now trudged through obscure German shit-tunnels to wage.
It had only been half a day since you entered the sewer system when you reached your target. A junction in the tunnels marked by a chalk marker and a lone, white coffee mug. The route into this part of the city was prepared beforehand by a two-man reconnaissance team, people with equipment and experience too valuable for you to know or to be risked with the next, most dangerous part of City infiltration. You were briefed that they left you a red bag full of necessaries to help you along on your mission from here, hidden in a storeroom near the marker.
Lytek was, like most work days, sitting behind his desk. The God of Exalted stroked his white beard after penning a recommendation for a Lunar Exaltation, reviewing his work. Satisfied, the grandfatherly god smiled, and put the letter in his filing cabinet, where a copy would be instantly made and transmitted to Luna.
A knock came on his door, and Lytek looked up. “Come in,” he called, raising his hand to both open the door and ready the chair, all without standing. He moved his piles of papers to the sides of his desk, ready to meet this visitor.
But it was not a visitor, but his assistant and daughter, Lysidore. “Father!” She said, rushing into the room. “We have an emergency! A whole circle of Sidereals were killed!”
Lytek's eyes bulged. He stopped himself from asking details - he could learn them after his work was done. On cue, he heard five thumps in his locked cabinet. The Exaltations had arrived. “Here,” he said to Lysidore, reaching under his desk and offering his cleaning implements to her. “Help me prepare them.”
The graveness of the situation pulled down her excitement. Father had never asked her to help him in his duties. Not like this. She grabbed the tools and pulled a few files from the top of his short stack, labeled “Sidereal Exaltation Candidates.” Lytek unlocked his cabinet and five small will-o'-the-wisps floated above his hand. Amber, cerulean, crimson, emerald, ans violet - one for each of the Castes. Pure Essence, empowered by the Five Maidens of Destiny.
“Quickly,” he said, “there should be some Dragon-Blooded ready to be lifted to the stars.”
In a frenzy, Lysidore spread out and looked down at the files she pulled. All were dynasts of the Scarlet Empire. “The Bronze Faction will have something to say-”
“Not when it's this many at once,” Lytek grinned, his white beard moving with his cheeks. Grudges from the Solar Purge still persisted among the gods, especially he who was held back from his duties. The blades of Sidereals held Lytek in check as the Solars extracted and imprisoned his charges. It was a gamble for Lytek, but potentially denying one Dragon-Blooded for the Bronze Faction to steer was worth it. Even better if this Sidereal-to-be did not join the Bronze. Besides, four more Sidereals would join. It will be noted one was a dynast, but it will not be an outrage.
Lysidore strained to recall the last Sidereal pulled from the Dynasty. It was quite a few centuries ago now… She shook her head. Time to review. She took one of the Exaltations in her hands and began to inspect it, scrubbing away abnormalities that came from beyond Creation. She read the candidate profiles…
