we couldn't tell the difference between SHOOTING STARS and SATELLITES
WELCOME TO THE JAILMOON, CRIMINAL!
city-access bulletin board . . .
2-5-08; BRINGIN' IT BACK
Like it's hot! So we had a bit of a slow period, but let's not let that get us down. I'm going through and weeding out members that haven't logged in for two weeks, and sending out an ACTIVITY CHECKwarning for current members. We'll be going on a badly needed promotional spree, so anyone adept at banner and button making, feel free to post a few up in Graphics. Otherwise, got friends? Shoot 'em a link and bring them over - come on guys, let's get this shit rolling! Also, I could really use any suggestions or opinions about how to improve the site or attract more members - if you've got any input, PM me (PM: admin) or drop it in the Help Box.
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12-31-07; HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Hey guys, I just wanted to wish everyone a Happy New Year! Have fun tonight, write up your new resolutions, and DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE! ;-) I'll see you all in 2008!
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12-27-07; Calling All Criminals!
Alright guys! Everything is set up, ready, and raring to go. All we need now is... you! Damn, how cheesy is that? But it's true, anyway. I'm starting to advertise this place like crazy, so hopefully we can get at least a few members to kick off. EXCITING! :-)
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12-27-07; GRAND OPENING Oh, well hot damn! I'm happy to say EC is just about ready to open its doors and start luring in a member or two. Here's hoping to a good run... Make it dirty! Make it sexy! Make it fun!
The Process of Falling. « Thread Started on Dec 29, 2007, 9:33pm »
Her story, so far as anyone knows it, goes like this.
Part one: undisclosed youth, unverified innocence.
Part two: the discovery of Power. The ability to heal, the strength to destroy. The wings protruding from her back a ghastly deviation from the normal human frame. Though denied flight (as if in mockery of her false shape), she had felt for a time that this was her only limit.
Part three: the discovery of Purpose, that her Power was not delivered without meaning or condition. The discovery that Heaven and Hell were falsehoods, or rather disguises, the illusion of monstrosities that manipulated mortals for their own ends. The further understanding that she was the one who was prophesied to destroy them, the force destined to ensure that such falsehoods never again troubled humanity.
At this point the killing had begun. Her capture and subsequent export to the jail on the moon has not halted her intentions, lessened her powers, or changed her plans. She will find them here as easily as she had upon Second Earth, and they will die just the same. Easy or hard. Quick or slow. One by one.
How many angels will fit upon the head of a pin? How many demons are there in hell? How many of them both can she kill before they take her down? To Savii, the first two questions are rhetorical. The last one isn't.
No one would know it to look at her. Without wings, without weapons, she is just a woman. The blood on her hands is invisible, no more apparent than that on the hands of Lady Macbeth. She is short, lithe, athletic. Ragged jeans do not hide the trim musculature, and her shirt can only highlight the press of her shoulders, the proud line of her straight back. The shirt is stolen, worth more than she could have ever made by any profession here; embroidered brocade that hearkens back to a time before Second Earth itself was anything but a child's dream. Brilliant colors do nothing but give notice to how mundane her own coloration is; elegant birds twist and whirl on the fabric, making a joke out of the wings she hides and the Purpose her feminine form disguises. In this manner she stands in front of the church, and thinks: Oddly, she likes the sound of it. The Ending Church. The last church, possibly, she will ever see .. will her life end here, on this thankless rock? Part four: killing. Part five: death. The only uncertainty is when she'll die, and by whose hand. Why and how are already determined; for what she's done, and painfully. All of this makes perfect sense to her.
She lifts her hand, holding her fingers in that peculiar configuration that young children interpret as a weapon, and aims it at the church. It's no use to kill the men and women inside. Most of them are probably innocent .. just deluded, hypnotized, stupid. She aims at the steeple, as if the gesture is capable of something, and shoots.
"Pow." A smile. The useless gesture pleases her, and she tucks her hand back into her pocket, satisfied with her act of rebellion. Her statement has been made. Now it's time to explore.
// take me to a careless place // where I'll be lost in sheer disgrace // where brutality will replace // this gentle touch upon my face //
§pîke Security Guard "THE MACHINE MAN" member is offline
[sup]so give me somethin to B E L I E V E, cuz I am living just to BREATHE[/sup]
Joined: Dec 2007 Posts: 4 Karma: 0
Re: The Process of Falling. « Reply #1 on Jan 4, 2008, 4:43am »
ooc: I'M AFRAID OF WHAT YOU'LL DO TO MY POOR MACHINE MAN, be nice or I'll steal Jaques!! (Kidding! )
This is not his usual post. Granted, as a security guard Spike has been stationed in every district at least once - and technically the entire city is his jurisdiction; but he is more often found in Capital and Ularia than patrolling the streets of Holy - or god forbid, Visla. Considering his origins and general existence, this entire district was nothing but gibberish to him; the writing on the building walls, the crosses and verses, the whole religious... thing did little more than give him a headache, behind the glowing blue lights that were his eyes.
Normally, the machine man was utterly devoted to his job, no matter the circumstance - but here, he found it hard to concentrate. Holy was the quietest district in the entire city, full of worthless criminals who pray and pretend to have redeemed themselves. What good was he supposed to do here? He had been assigned to babysit religious, slobbering, reformed convicts. He really hated it here, and it only worsened his headache to know there were still hours left on his shift.
Rounding the church on his lap about the district, he hesitated only in thought as he moved past the front steps. All those god-fearing criminals crammed into the Ending Church pews until it was so packed they could hardly breathe; and then they would stick to the front steps like flies to shit, singing their prayers and gobbling like idiots. But there was something strange about the congregation today - all the bible thumpers left outside were packed to one side, leaving the other end scarce - except for one.
She stood alone outside the church, with all those 'innocents' keeping away from her as if they smelled something bad coming off of her. Something evil, they might say. Not that Spike -- who had finally stopped in his patrol to stand a few yards away and stare at her -- knew what the fuck evil smelled like.
It was just strange, and worth investigating - if only to distract himself from his shift for a while.
He approached from her left, gloved hands shoved into the pockets of the heavy jacket he wore, hood up and shadowing his metal face. Glancing very briefly to the cross-stippled roof, the soft glow of his eyes would eventually return to her face. His security badge was pinned to the vest, half-hidden under his jacket -- and surely he was armed while on duty, but he seemed passive enough, compared to the infinitely more gung-ho guards on the force.
Re: The Process of Falling. « Reply #2 on Jan 12, 2008, 1:43pm »
She smells of good soap and fine fabric, feminine, young, alive. Could that be evil? A paused youth? At first she does not look at Spike, who is a meaningless thing to her. He seems so cold and restless to her, unfinished, incomplete, little pieces of a man--in the glow of his blue eyes, she is unafraid and smiling. She has nothing to fear from him, no more than from any mortal man, and from her he also has nothing to fear. It is not so much that she can smell the evil of a demon or an angel, but that she can feel it, and if one such as they had come to stand beside her she'd have known it already. The fine, slender form, so unornamented, so obviously unarmed, would suddenly have bristled with sharp weaponry of a natural source, and what a show she would have given those foolish holy folk!
"Perhaps it was, but I'm in no hurry to execute it." Her voice is pleasant, and quite polite; she could be offering commentary on the weather or the color of the sky. What does it mean to her? The careless choice of words--the utterly natural way in which she abuses them--suggests that she truly would think nothing of destroying the choice, and if it were a good day she might yet remember to chase all of the people out of the inside, first. Ending Church is falling down, falling down, falling down. Ending Church is falling down, my fair lady ..
Her hand once more fallen, she spreads both hands before herself as she turns to look at him finally, and only the look in her eyes belies her utterly mundane presence. There's death there; not the lust for violence, the need for blood, that so many killers possess. True death, the death of someone already gone, who has lost something so great, so profound, as to forget that any lust exists. Something like a laugh, still in that precise, polite tone, bubbles up between her lips. "I've only pity for such as they--don't you think so, too? As if pleading an empty sky could bring freedom, or praying could bring mercy."
He might think her just an atheist, somehow annoyed with the presence of the church, disgusted by the crowded congregation. Her conversation would certainly suit such a one, but is that all there is to her? Her faded eyes, her lackluster smile .. she looks to him with a curious gaze, intrigued by his unusal appearance. "Tinman. How nice to meet you. I've meet your sort before; you bleed very prettily."
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