Evercity : Chapter 1 - Hellooooooooooooooooooo

[Marblehead Johnson]

It was night in the Evercity. There was no moon, naturally, just like there was no sun. The sky, though, brightened and darkened in an eerily irregular rhythm. Sometimes it could be daylight for ten, fifteen, twenty hours... sometimes maybe three. If this world were some sort of echo of the world before, the world of the Living, then it was quite well removed from many of the normal laws of physics.

Shokol crept down the side of one of the taller buildings in the region... his building. Most of his kind staked out territory, and most were fond of height. None of the Humans ever bothered them, since they spent their time on the highest floors, and through millenia of hard-won experience, the Humans never went more than halfway. Indeed, Shokol's building had a dozen signs on the thirtieth floor, made by Humans, warning that further travel was dangerous, and deadly.

Usually it wasn't, but it was a good idea to cultivate.

Shokol was different from many of his bretheren, in that he did not take delight in the hunting, killing, and devouring of the Humans. He preferred to Watch, much as all Watchers did, in the old days... before the Rush. These last few centuries, the rate of Humans crossing over seemed to increase every day. Why, that one year when every few minutes a short, olive-skinned man, woman, or child popped into being still stirred in his memories. Yelling about a man named Mao, sometimes there were enough of them in an area that they could form a village composed entirely of their own kind. He shook his leathery head, the black spikes cresting his ears cutting the air with a whistling sound.

Claws digging into the surface of the Grey walls, he made his way further down, down to the street levels. The tribe who lived at the bottom of his tower were singing tonight... happier songs than normal. He was curious what could bring them happiness in these days of starvation and violence, and curiosity was his greatest weakness... perhaps his only weakness.

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King John tossed back a shotglass of Fume, and howled at the roof of the Hall as the fierce liquid burned it's way down his throat. The rest of the tribe, filling the hall to capacity, howled with him, swigging back small containers of watered-down Fume. Being King had certain privileges, and chief among the ones John liked was the preferential bar service.

"Here's to the Second City!" He roared, his heavy frame looking all the more impressive for his heroic stance. There was more cheering. The Hall was well-lit tonight, with almost a weeks worth of chaff burning away in wall-sconces, filling the room with a warm orange glow. "The Second City, the happiest place on Earth! Well... you know what I mean..."

There was raucous laughter, and Kig John sat down again with a heavy sigh. In his old life, he's been rich, powerful, surrounded by the best friends money could buy, and the best drugs his health could handle. He'd been popular famous... everything he thought he'd ever wanted. Strange, he thought... he had to die at the height of his popularity to find happiness. Even funnier, he had to die of a drug overdose to cure his drug addition.

The Hall was apparently some sort of Viking longhouse, now composed of Grey logs and Grey thatch. The Second City didn't contain a single Viking, since they were never a populous people, and as far as he could tell over the years, even the ones who died in battle considered it a natural death. This place was not for those who died naturally...

Known in his previous life as John Belushi, King John stood again as his people launched into another one of the songs that, somehow, they had taught eachother. This was a Chinese song, with a hard-rock beat, even though it apparently dated from the ninth century. Having heard it a hundred times in his decades in this land, he added his voice to the congregation. The surplus harvest was being blown tonight, he knew it... but his people needed it. With all the news of brigands, loners, soldiers, thieves, and murderers, they needed the best night they could to face the long months, years, decaded, or perhaps eternity ahead.

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The Second City Troop convened at the Dojo, the common name for the small pagoda that marked one of the borders of the Second City. Three dozen men, from a dozen different times, and a dozen different cultures, saluted eachother, drew and sheathed (or holstered) their weapons, and set off on the fourth round of the night. The Second City encompassed several dozen blocks, and it needed to be guarded. The First Second City Troop, a little joke among the enlisted, was currently scattered around, and as the Second Troop dispersed, the First Second Troop began to converge on it's own base. Thus, every night, the security of the city, such as it was, was maintained.

Berton, a musketeer, was walking slowly through the shoulder-width alley between what seemed to be a hotel and a small Roman palace, when Shokol reached ground level just behind him. Berton heard the faintest rustle of gravel, the swish of tough hide rubbing against tough hide, and the clicking of claws coming to rest against claws. It was rumored, even properly argued, that the Watcher in their neighborhood was not a killer. Only twice had unexplained disappearances been blamed on the great demon who lived in the tower, and that was considerably less than the dozens of killings other neighborhoods reported. Often, this Watcher had been seen, and the witness lived to tell about it.

Berton, ever the brave son of a nobleman, turned slowly, his stomach flipping mightily at the sight of the tremendous shadow filling the alley, head and shoulders above his own five-foot-seven height. Chest, head, and shoulders higher.

"Bon nuit," Berton said hoarsely, and with all the testicular fortitude he could muster, turned on his heel and continued on his rounds. He fully expected to feel talons enter his flesh, teeth at his neck, crushing hands at his side... but he emerged from the alley unscathed. He turned his head, and observed the deserted alleyway.

"Mon dieu," he breathed, but he forced himself to resume breathing, stop peeing, and finish his patrol. And when the sky brightened, he'd have a story that might be laughed at, but he'd know in his heart that it was true.

[Mr.McSpiff]

Will awoke in a plain living room, in a plain house, "I'm alive?" He muttered suprised. He felt his forehead, ans sure enough there was no blood, not even a scar, nothing at all to suggest he had knifed himself. "If I'd've known I wouldn't be dead when I stabbed myself, heh, well I never would've left my troops sergeant-less. Maybe I can find my family in this place.It's a longshot but maaybe." Will picked up his rifle, a battered standard issue M1 Garand, with made of a dark brown wood and now dull metal, both of which were materials he'd never bothered to find out the names of, and sheathed his combat knife, 5 inch serated stainless steal blade with a steel grip wrapped tightly in average quality dark brown cow leather. After that, he shook off the remains of the unexpected suprise he'd gotten, and went into an average looking bedroom. Oh the bed were normal civilian clothes, a gray button-down shirt and darker gray slacks. Will took his helmet off, and after brushing his hand through his dark brown hair, tossed the helmet onto the gray mattress, and changed into the clothes on the bed. He then put his rifle in the closet, of which the interior was gray. after putting his rifle in tere, he stopped, looked around, and said, "Wierd, this place must worship gray like a god or something." Will then placed the belt containing his combat knife into the closet, hanging on his rifle. "If I'm going to figure out how to find my family," Will's voice became more saddened at mention of his wife and daughter, remembering the letter, and what cowardly action he took. Right in front of his own troops too, who trusted him with their lives! "I'm going to have to figure out what his place is, and how to get out of it, if I can at all." With that being though out and said, Will walked out the door, searching for his wife and daughter, the ones he'd hoped to see once all the bloodshed was over.

[adcon00]

Jason Ormez was never a religious man, despite the fact he studied it every day. History was his passion, his vice, his love. Jason had always said that if one wanted to know the future, one would only have to look to the past. That, of course, was parroted from an old professor of his; the man was a genius in his field, but couldn’t find his car keys to save his life.

Images began to play back in his head, like an old record that skipped whole sections of a song. He could see himself in his Infiniti, shouting at his assistant about a budget cut to his main project. He was so enthralled in the conversation that he missed a red light he should’ve seen. The semi didn’t have time to brake, the intersection was too small. But when the truck finally crashed into his car, the vision cut off, replaced this the all-too clichéd darkness.

Eventually, after what felt like years, but may have been only seconds, he could hear a loud sound; it’s piercing vibrations painful to his ears. Soon, his vision returned, although he couldn’t see much. A man was staring down at him, his face blurred beyond recognition. He was apparently speaking to Jason, a useless effort, since the ambulance siren drowned out anything the man had to say. Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion came over him, and his eyelids became very heavy. Jason knew he was on the edge of death. He had never feared his inevitable passing, but he felt disappointed that he would never complete his research. But…he took the plunge.

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Which is why it was so surprising when he woke up on the ground in a back alley, drenched in a cold sweat, as if he had escaped a horrible nightmare. His short brown hair was a mess, and he was still wearing his white shirt-khaki pants and blue windbreaker combo. He checked his pockets, but all he could find was his wallet, his credit cards, driver’s license, and twelve dollars in cash and change still firmly in their place.

For a minute, Jason considered that all he could see was the color gray; it’s oppressive nature surrounding him. Until he heard voices. It was a mix of all known languages: Spanish, Chinese, Portuguese, English, Jason heard them all. Following the trail of spoken words, he came to a large bazaar, the likes of which he had never seen before. All races and nationalities were represented on this well-worn road, paralyzing Jason in a flabbergasted pose of awe and curiosity.

[Monoxx]

Carlos woke up, tired. "Estoy en un hospital?" he asked, before looking around him. All he could remember was getting shot in the chest, then closing his eyes.. one second later, he was there. He moved his hand to his chest, but didnt feel anything. There was no blood, no hole, no pain. And he was still wearing his uniform, and carrying the stick he was using to fight. No hospital clothes, no bandages. He still had his gun. "Que mierda pasa aqui?" he asked. Everything was dark, gray... sad. Ugly. "Ohh... por la rechucha" he cursed, and he kept checking his chest.

[Marblehead Johnson]

EDIT EDIT EDIT: Ok, I'm going to wait until everyone has their initial posts done, and then I'll major-post again and start getting everything straightened out.

[Inbred Chocobo]

Gerard felt like a new man. The crew he was with had just jumped aboard an enemy vessle, with full intent on looting everything. He had taken out two of the soldier already there, but then another stood in his path. He pulled out his cutlass and attacked, and the clanging and clashing of blades insued. Gerard wasn't lucky this time around, as the soldier found an opening and thrusted his blade through the torso of Gerard.

Gerard wasn't going to take that, and cut of the man's hand right at the wrist. He grabbed the blade with his free hand, and grunted as he pulled it free. He took the blade that had set him on a dying course, and slashed through it's old owner's neck. As the soldier's head rolled off deck, Gerard fell to his knees and cursed his luck, wanting to die as a captain, not as a simply pirate.

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After he let what was to be happen, he awoke. Quite in a scare too, for he though for sure he would have a hole in him. He padded the area, and felt no hole. He got to his feet in a hurry, and realized that the entire world around him was completly grey. The building he was in was quite scary, for it was made of the metal, similiar to the blades he carried were. He had no idea what the hell was going on, but he decided that sticking around in this building would be a bad idea, and went out the front door.

[CallmePrismatic]

"Mark, how far in do I have to go before I feel anything?" Artemis looked around, noticing that his surroundings were completely gray and unlike the room he had been in, or was still in assuming the effects of this whole ordeal were starting as planned. "Mark, where'd you bloody sod off to, I'm feeling it man, fucking A I'm feeling it!"

Artemis felt the weight of the portable electric screwdriver in his hands, then put his hands on the wall he was near, feeling it and reconfirming that he was bound somehow to something physical. He attributed the sign stating that this was Floor 29 to the imeasurable high he was enduring, as Mike's apartment was on the 9th floor of an 11 floor building.

"Mike, where are you, fucking fucker?" Artemis wasn't exactly sure where his friend had gone, but he knew that he needed to hand over the screwdriver as it was Mike's turn. Maybe he had gone to the roof, where they usualy went to carefreely enjoy the illicit nuances of life, and hadn't told him. Well in that case Artemis would just have to go to the roof, he didn't want to hog the drill.

He found the stairs, although they weren't exactly where they should have been, and began walking, paying attention neither to the signs that stated he was on the 30th nor the ones that bade him to stop for the sake of his health. He was determined and remarkably clear headed, just in an illusory state, and he wanted to pass on the fun.

(OOC: Artemis isn't high, he just believes he his because what he was doing at his death was supposed to make him high and the surroundings don't currently do anything to negate the fact.)

[Revenant]

39 years after his birth, Roland Darius was starting to wish it had never happened.

It was his common practice to walk home from work, but he had to stay in late to address an emergency had come up. By the time that everything had been sorted out, it was midnight. As soon as Roland had stepped into a side street, a gang of punks stopped him. All so confident. "Hey, guy, give us your wallet or else..."

This had never been an issue before, so Roland started to panic. "I'm sorry, I'm using it." With this not-so-clever line, Roland tried to run straight through the group. Although most jumped out of the way, one of the thinner ones had a knife. Roland barely felt the blade that stopped his heart.

.............

Roland continued running, straight into a Spanish man selling gray potatoes. After apologising, he picked himself up and surveyed his new surroundings. "What... where am I?"

[Marblehead Johnson]

OOC: Uhm.. .I hadn't approved your character. 6'7, indestructible, eyes that see in the dark, and a high-powered energy rifle... I'm gonna have to go with "not approved" at the moment. Please move your character to the signup thread, so we can talk about it.

[adcon00]

Taking in the sights and sounds of the bazaar Jason wandered down, he began to address his current situation.

From what he could remember from his memories (or was it a dream), he surmised that he had indeed passed on. Deceased. Kicked the proverbial bucket. The knowledge did little to explain how he had come to arrive in such a strange place.

He saw different vendors selling different items, most of them displaying colors other than the ever-present grey, from books, to LP records, to pottery dating back at least a three thousand years, all from a glance. It truly was an archeologist’s best wish. Jason could indeed spend years studying and observing the artifacts and people in this one location alone.

The crashing of panicked man into what appeared to be a grey potato vendor’s kiosk knocked Jason out of his intellectual stupor. He merely observed the man, not even thinking to help him. Not that Jason was uncaring, the thought just never occurred to him.