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Willkommen, Booziken! Muchas gracias. Hope you like this one.
REPLENISHING THE RANKS
Original Characters by Booziken; Story by The Atomic Punk
“We heard that you’re looking for some new guys to join your ‘Liberation Army’? Look no further. My name’s ‘Crack’ and this is ‘Ace,’ my boyo-in-the-box. Say ‘hello’ to his lordship, Ace. Oh, that’s right. He don’t talk to strangers. He usually just kills them. Ya know, ‘S.B.D.’.
“Ease up, boss. Kidding, kidding! We came for some potatoes. Bullets and plasma batteries don’t buy themselves. Curricula vitae? Ace, can you translate that, mate?
“Oh, what have we done? Well, there was that job off the Horn of Africa. Blew that place up! Made it look like a pipeline explosion. Wiped out an entire village.
“You heard of that caper? Our reputation proceeds us, Ace. We’re famous! Right… sorry ‘precedes’ us. You know I never finished my O-Levels.
“What did you think of our handiwork, your generalship? Quite impressive, wot? Took out the fuel supply. Destroyed a dozen trucks and some scooters. Munitions depot went ‘BOOM!’ and sent about 30 or 40 villagers up in the sky.
“I’m sorry, sir. What’d you say? That wasn’t a village? That was one of your rebel training camps? Then I must apologize, m’lord.
“You see, we didn’t get all the terrorists the first time. That’s why we came looking for you – to finish the job.â€
Here’s a new one for you, Atomic. Like Crying Man, this was done from the ground up just for this thread. As I always say, do with it what you will. BTW, feel free to add to One Armed Bandit as you like. I’ve taken your story for him as canon, as well as Amy Atom, but I would prefer you leave her until I complete my origin/family background for her. I called this pic “backyard” just for the purpose of saving it. Whether or not you incorporate that into the story is up to you.
THE GATHERING PLACE
Original Design by WMDBASSPLAYER; Story by The Atomic Punk
Who’s that? Oh, hey, doggy. Nice doggy. No, stop trying to sniff me. Don’t try to lick me, either. I’ve never been around dogs before. The property manager doesn’t allow them. Ugh, because you smell!
What’s that noise? Oh, some cat chasing a bird. Even the cats have a funny accent out here. Well, at least it’s not tipping over trash cans in the alley. Get that bird, he makes too much noise. I can barely concentrate. If it’s not the birds during the day, it’s the crickets chirping all night. Grandmother Lucille has too many dumb animals.
Where am I? Oh, no! I feel like I’ve been walking for hours. How do people not just walk out here, get lost, and die. You know, a sign or an arrow would be helpful! How about a sidewalk? I don’t want to get grass stains on my designer sneakers.
When are we going home? With shopping and baristas and theaters and public transportation! Hello?!? Oh, great… cows. No, stay back. You’re not helping at all! The only time I want to see you is at DiMasi’s on 5th Avenue – medium rare next to my scalloped potatoes.
Why did we come here? There’s nothing for miles. You can’t see even see your hand in front of you at night. There are no roads, no streetlights, and nowhere to get a cinnamon latté. Cousin Beauregard’s wedding… I don’t even know that side of the family. Country bumpkins ruining my summer vacation.
How am I going to convince mom that we need to go home now? I don’t like this farm. There’s nothing to do. I don’t know anyone. Nor do I want to be around any of them. Just empty space – except these stupid cows that are chasing me! There’s the wall. I sure hope that cows can’t climb!
STORM CELL
Original Character by prswirve; Story by The Atomic Punk
The thirteenth day of the thirteenth month of the thirteenth year. The wind swirls aimlessly. The sky transforms without notice above untrained eyes. The pressure from the incoming front shifts events on the streets below. The blue ceiling is breaking apart to reveal a new night.
I feel the breeze. I breathe in the refreshed air. The change to come is within my reach. It is within my hands. These hands… these hands that act without feeling. That I control without sensation.
These hands which do not burn with righteous anger. These hands which leave me cold and unsatisfied. My hands, they took them. After all that I did to shelter them from the storm. That I sent our enemies tumbling from high altitude. That I pushed them from our clouds. My reward for standing in the hurricane’s path.
Whispers trend of the Lee that stands against the gale forces. There is no retreating from the Djinn. They have my hands. This I know. I have seen their trophy hall. They take pride in their precision and pleasure in others’ pain.
There, above the skyscrapers that mock the pedestrian. Wrapped in sweet ozone. Protected from the industrial vapors that choke the factory-city. Untouched by the acid rain. Past the gates and towers, inside the mausoleum, there await my precious hands.
They shall be mine. Made whole again, I shall be the tempest, the cleansing storm. My fingers will feel my enemies. The texture of skin, the crack of bone, and the warmth of blood as I choke them. As I inhale their dying breath.
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