Posts made by Zal

((Bump.))

And then it hit him, with all the velocity of a freight train... derailed now, screeching off the tracks. Out of control. Somehow, the pieces fell together.

There had been a reason it was all so familiar... the feeling in his gut. He should've seen it immediately.

Old Stove. Kettle. ColdBear. BigHat. Vermin, everywhere, crawling all over this damn chamber. Bad place to be in the middle of it.

But what of it. An ambush? They'd had a chance to strike already if that's what they wanted.

Be cool.

"Marlowe... send me Shotgun, FireHit," Triggerman whispered in a low growl.

"Done."

He edged back to the door, slow and easy-like, keeping his head on a swivel.

This had a bad taste all over it. The vermin of this net weren't smart, weren't creative. They just were-- they were the stench of the net's rot. Bottom feeding. How could this bunch be any different.... a thinking bunch?

Wasn't worth much to think too hard on it no more.

He pushed open the door behind him, letting the winter bite back into the rotting ice chamber. Enough with the acting.

Without warning, his hand fled to his holster, discharging a spread of lead on the quiet Kettle and his companion. As quickly as the gun had come to action, it was spun back to his side. Five. More to follow later.

Flames wrapped themselves around his fists, protesting the winter bite. The old one two-- a right straight and a left hook. Blazing fists, ethereal, all rage and fury, leaped from his hands, bringing their fury against the boiling Kettle.


Don't think I'll be staying for tea.


=======================================
-) Marksmanship
1) Back up and push open door
2) Shotgun OldStove, spread to Kettle (50, Spread1)
3) FireHit1 Kettle (60 fire, double attack)
4) Double Attack FireHit1 Kettle (60 fire)
5) Prepped Dodge
================[5/6]===================

What is this shithole...

He shut the door behind him gently, sealing the ice tomb from the frozen gale. Somebody wasn't home. He surveyed the furnishings briefly.

Quaint. Too innocent. Something didn't set right...

Memories of crime scenes passed through his head like jagged pieces of broken glass. If there'd been anything he'd learned from his time with those assholes, the NetPolice, it was how to investigate a scene half a damn.

He began to scan and scrutinize...

Why the feeling in his gut?




1) Shut door
2) CSI: Inspect hat
3) CSI: Inspect stove and kettle
4) CSI: Inspect cold bear rug
5) Remain on guard

And there it was. An anomaly in the wasteland-- another stranger amidst the endless plains of white. This net still bred mysteries.

What did the dame have in store...

"Not sure about this one... don't think I like it," Marlowe commented.

"Thanks for the input, chief. I was dying over here wondering what you thought," Triggerman shot back smarmily.

"Check it out then... but keep your shit together."

The old man was right about that much. Something hung low in his gut, telling him of things to come. Maybe the net had grown tired of him and wanted retribution. Maybe it had finally grown a pair.

And yet still, he approached. No time for games.


Patience. Stay alert. No sense rushing into it, Tex.

With a heavy hand, he slowly pushed the door open. The show was about to begin... whatever it was.

Six.



[Activate Noir.GMO]


1) Slowly approach door
2) Gently push door open
3) Enter
4) Prepped dodge
5) Prepped dodge

"May 28th, 20XX

This net fears me... I can feel it in every one and zero of my being. With every step I take, she claws at my presence, hideous, cruel, rejecting me. You should not be here, she says. She tries her best to shut me out, throwing vermin at me, knowing they are to be lain to waste.

It's all a ruse. I have stared into the soul of this god forsaken place, and what I saw was empty. There is nothing there.

The snow streams down thick as ever, hiding the rot that festers in this No Man's Land. They cannot hide from me; neither this snow or this net can shield them. They know I draw near, and still they insist.
The night has begun to grow stale, and yet I know there's more to do. So many more bullets to share.

From the frozen wasteland, something draws near... I know it."


(Use minienergy x2 to heal 100, request battle 5)

(bump...)

Two blows glanced off him. Nothing. Barely worth noting; shake offs.
His attack on the dinosaur had failed. A slip up-- should've known better than strangle the horse's backside. Even death's horse couldn't bear certain burdens.

Dumb, dumb mistake. Don't let it happen it again.

He felt he was moving-- a pull, from behind. It was that hairy motherfucker, reeling him in. No. He wasn't going to roll over for an obese doormat.

"I'm in a spot.... hit me, Marlowe," Triggerman grunted. "I need Thunder, IronShield, Vulcan, and MarkCannons."

"Looks like you have this all figured out..." Marlowe quipped, slotting the tools of the trade in.

Azrael's hooves struggled against the doormat's pull, but if the tug of war went on for too long, the advantage would start to be for the rug. He was holding, but he didn't want to play no more.

I don't have time for this shit.

Hammer fell, sights lined up. Had to act decisively; enemies on both sides. Move quick or be at disadvantage. The barrel cried electric; an orb of thunder erupted, ever predatory, seeking, hunting. Five.

Not done. Doormat hung on like a stubborn son of a bitch, kept on whistling that same tune.

From the corner of his eye he kept that dinosaur, the asshole with the cheapshit shield, in sight. As a matter of fact, he had one of those too. A steel plate formed on his left arm, worse for the wear, rusted and imperfect. It wouldn't hold long, but it wouldn't need to-- just enough to glance the blows... and end pair who refused to fall into the ground.

The unfriendly gale persisted.... doormat persisted on huffing that Sharo air. Enough with tug of war. He whipped the reigns; Azrael neighed, ferocious, and kicked up snow. It was a deathly beauty, caught in the midst of a windy struggle that enraged it. Triggerman thumbed the hammer down.

For God's sake...

The barrel repeated anger five times.

Shut that damn trap of yours...

Enough attention for the overgrown loofah. Four. The shield dinosaur hadn't grown out of his habit of living. Too bad... it was just them two now.

Azrael knew the score; the white mount glided across the terrain, leaving no hoof marks. Had to get around that metal bastard's front door. Luckily he brought his own to the ball. He held the ironshield in front of himself, eying the target for the sentence he was prepared to issue.

With a charge, the pale warsteed leapt once more to the skies...

...at a moment, they hovered in the air, over the ugly's rear. No protection from here.

Kiss your sorry ass goodbye.

Sight picture.
Hammer fall-- trigger noise. Three.
Hammer fall-- trigger noise. Two.

That was the problem with the shields... they only worked when your opponent like to play fair. Triggerman didn't.

======================================
-) Marksmanship
1) Thunder Snowblow (80, homing, stun)
2) IronShield1 (2 hit shield)
3) Vulcan2 Snowblow (10x5, Spread1)
-) Passive Movement: sprint and jump to rear of IronShield
4) Snipe: MarkCannon1 IronShield (lock on, seeking)
5) MarkCannon1 IronShield (lock on)
=========================[2/6]==========

It's stupid because it sounds like a feminine hygiene product...

Five approached.

The eternal night Triggerman existed in seemed darker than ever... the shadows stretched themselves across the frosted wasteland, painting it a black sea, darks and feeble whites, without redemption...

...deprived of hope...

...a bleak stage for the puppet show they put on, in waiting for The Day...

Why could no one else see it like he saw it?

The odds were starting to stack against his favor. Five of them; they didn't look like they were selling girl scout cookies either. The dame never gave him a break... and he had been doing so well, too.

He was outnumbered.
He was cornered.

They were in trouble.

He recognized all the vermin from the time he had spent paying his dues. A nightmare virus... the cannons wouldn't do much good; wouldn't scratch him. Had to play it close and personal-- licking distance. Shanking distance.

"Well would you look at that... you've got yourself a regular ol' fan club, partner," Marlowe mocked.

"You and I both know I don't have time for your shit right now. Are you going to help me or sit there and get wasted?" Triggerman barked coldly.

"Alright princess... didn't know you were on the rag. What do you need?"

"Don't play dumb; even I don't think that lowly of you. Going to need to get personal for this one-- lead ain't gonna cut it with that one eyed bastard." The slinger's patience wore thin.

"I'm sending you an areagrab and bamboosword... that sound 'bout right, chief?"

"Not bad. Nice to know you're not completely useless." So they were on the same page.

Triggerman could tell he wasn't going to end the entire bunch in one swoop; had to play it smart. He'd start with the nightmare and his two polar groupies... didn't like the way the bastard had looked at him. Put his light out first. Hit and run. That's how he had to play it. Get behind them-- slash the shit out of the trio, and get the fuck out.

The one eyed bastard seemed to think himself a messenger of death-- he had the roles confused.

Nightmare... what a joke. I'll be your nightmare.

He gritted his teeth for the dirty work that was about to come. Never again, he reminded himself. He was out for blood. They could throw their fanciest snowballs at him, their sharpest blades, or whatever the hell it was the vermin here threw. He would not be stopped.

"Hyagh!" He grabbed a tight hold of the reigns; his pale horse was a deathly beacon of white in the monochrome darkness that he alone saw.

They charged; he rode like a wanted man, as if the law were hot on his heels. Death, the devil, couldn't catch him; Azrael sprinted.

A fake out. He pulled out the areagrab. Rider and steed reappeared behind the vermin who thought himself a contender, that one eyed bastard. The slinger's bamboosword was primed, cold steel glowing green with battlelust-- it was a friend that was not unfamiliar.

Two slashes to put them down. Vermin. Animals. Animals got put down.

Get out.

He whipped the reigns hard to command Azrael's attention once more; his steed bolted, they leapt into the air.

Triggerman wasn't done with the swordplay yet. That blade was still sharp enough... and that fucking shield dinosaur was looking real lonely. That lunk of metal that he'd erected in front himself wasn't going to save him.

Dinosaurs were extinct for a reason.

He held out the blade below him... gravity reclaimed its hold on steed and slinger together. Death from above. He was the vulture.

The slinger landed, viciously thrusting the green sword towards his prey's back in the process. Azrael relinquished a neigh that would shiver spines, rearing itself as if to declare itself victor. Its eyes were empty... all it knew was death.


He was alive... he felt alive. Battle was an elixir.

=================================================
-) Marksmanship
1) Unforgiven (Stonebody, strengthen 40)
2) Areagrab behind Nightmare (dodge and accuracy up)
3-4) Bamboosword: Double slash to Nightmare, pengi A and B, from behind (80x2)
-) Passive movement: Azrael leap high into the air towards Ironshield
5) Strengthen 40: From above, aerial BambooSword IronShield (120)
======================[6/6]=======================

How do you straight up just change the spoiler tag to different colours?

The deed was done. The stone cold bastards were all gone; the smiles done with. The Sinners took their leave just as quickly, they'd had their time. The sandbeast dissipated hot on their heels, doubtlessly soon to be called again.

Gone.

"Those fuckers got me good," Triggerman grunted to his operator. He gritted his teeth, but only for a moment. No time to dwell on it. Old man death would have to wait, but he was anxious with the scissors.


You ain't cuttin' my strings just yet, old boy.


He was still holding on... still clinging. The slinger reloaded without a thought, replacing 6 rounds for a battle that was just over the horizon. It wasn't done yet.

"You doin' okay Tex?" came that whiskey-stained voice.

"Never better. Shouldn't you be huffing cancer sticks?"

"Turning over a new leaf. And fuck you."


Enough with the small talk. He was here for a reason.


What else does this shithole have...


(requesting battle 4)

He'd almost forgotten how fierce they rode.

The form of the first rider emerged, the skeletal, twisted remains of a figure, a wraith. He was bathed in hellfire from his time in purgatory, and his six condemned companions followed suite, all fire and brimstone. Their chained horses threatened to shatter the fragile porcelain their hooves fell upon.

The sandstorm they bore swept in swift, a chained monster, casting aside the gentle snowfall like a trivial afterthought. The Seven at once fled from it and bore it. It was their charge, to hold from now until forever.

Their sandbeast was an alien presence-- the last introduction the fallers would ever know. It was cacophony and dissonance; it was the sweetest melody Triggerman knew. This net wasn't big enough for the Seven of them-- it threatened to tear at the seams.

They didn't belong here.

Triggerman rode fast, ready to make do on the promise he extended to every Faller in waiting. He lead the battle charge; the sinners followed behind him, and together they were a wild bunch.

"Alright, Marlowe, let's make this happen... time to finish this shit," Triggerman directed, hoarse.

"I like the way you think, Tex," Marlowe said. "I was getting bored as hell from all the waiting around-- you know us old timers. It's just about time for my nap..."

He didn't have time for the old man's jokes. He had to give the finger to the new face of the net, cling to every last moment of existence he could squeeze out of her. He wasn't out of here yet.

Here in the eye of the sandstorm, he was more alive than ever.

He had the chips. Three friends left. He had the bastards exactly where he wanted them. Aim careful. Line up the sight real easy like. The devil's eye didn't have shit on him.

Stone cold bastards-- and another one of those smiling-ass mugs. The chaos around him disappeared and all he saw was three stooges who had been standing for way too long, and his six chambered friend with the remedy.

Azrael galloped still, the sinning Seven close behind, but time was slower than the still-beating pulse of a put-down dog. A lazy hourglass.

It was too late for them now.

Triggerman fanned the hammer like he was made to, the savage reaper who wouldn't be reasoned with. Vulcan recoil retorted against his arm, but he was practiced, it was nothing. He stayed steady. Lead ricocheted every which way, but especially in the ways he wanted them to.

He wasn't finished. The hammer fell one more time-- just a little insurance. Nothing could be left. They all had to fall, every last son of a bitch.

He looked down the sights, colder than the snow he rode on.


==============================================
-) Marksmanship
-) Passive Movement- Azrael sprint to enhance dodge
-) High Noon (Take Aim x2)
1) Take Aim: Vulcan2 Ashuraid A, Ashuraid B (10x5, Spread1)
2) Take Aim: Vulcan2 Ashuraid A, Cloudy B (10x5, Spread1)
3) Dodge
4) Dodge
5) MarkCannon1 whatever's left (70, lock on)
======================[0/6]=====================

What now.


There was a rotten feeling in the pit of his stomach. Lady Luck whispered smoldering promises into his ear-- of love, of easy conquest.

Old man intuition told him otherwise. That whore wasn't fooling nobody. Shit was about to get rough. No good relying on her.

"...the hell are those?" Marlowe grunted.

"Your guess is as good as mine, gramps," Triggerman spat. He'd been roaming this shithole of a net for longer then he gave a damn, and he'd never seen a pair like the stone cold assholes he was seeing now. It reminded him that he was a relic... A stranger in a strange land.

He was something of the past, and they were monuments to the new net he had no place in.


Fuck that. It wasn't time to sit down for a pair of museum pieces.


"All I know is... if it stands... it can fall."

Stone cold bastards. Six arms.
Six was a good number.

The tide of battle felt ready to rise. The frosted winds seemed to crescendo in mourning of a faller yet. Who it would be was anybody's guess. And then the Slinger felt Their calling.

They wanted to ride, again.


Release us, They said. You cannot deny us, They said.

You have never denied us.


They were dead things-- damned things. And They were right. Too long absent from this net... she'd almost forgetten their flaming stain every time they scourged her virgin walks.
Soon, he assured Them. He needed Them. Soon.

"You gonna bark all day, little doggy, or you gonna bite?" Marlowe said.

"Shut up. Time to get this done."

The tide had come in; there was no more room for any thought, only bullets to fill in the spaces... and when they were done, the Fallers would be too dead to pick up the pieces.

"Hyagh!" He spurred Azrael into a sprint. Its dead hooves galloped across the Sharo terrain, barely gracing the ground, yet making thundersound with each footfall. "Give me something good, Dick Tracy," Triggerman growled, savage.
"I've sent you a Thunder and PhoenixShot. The rest is in your hands now, Tex...".

Flames heated his massive cannon, without so much as a hand on it. At an instant, he whipped out the six shooter, shooting a crackling wing of flame at the group to thin the ranks. Five. He held onto every sliver of a moment for what it was worth.
No delay. Autopilot. He hit hammer hard again, and put one of the cloudy bastards down the sight of his barrel-- shoot him sky high, back where he belonged. Cloudy viruses had always pissed him off-- something about their smiling-ass mugs. He wanted to wipe it off. The barrel cried electric-- a predatory orb of thunder erupted from it, closing in on the smiley bastard. Four.


Triggerman put the first musueum piece into his sights. There'd be time enough for him-- he watched it like a hawk. Time slowed, as it always did, with his vapid fixation on the target. A lazy hourglass.


And then the slinger felt the pull again. You cannot deny us, said Them. Yes, it was time. He reared Azrael; the warsteed stood upon its backlegs to let out a deathly battle cry. The hammer hit hard. He pointed his iron beauty skywards. Trigger pull. It let loose an agonizing cry, an ethereal moan, for it had a duty. A duty to search for them, to call Them.
They heard it.

The net began to shake and bellow, signalling the dawn of cruel things. A storm was coming. The net rejected them-- they were like Triggerman. They had no place here. They should not be here.

They refused to listen. It was Their time to ride...




...here comes the pain.


================================================
-) Marksmanship
-) Passive Movement- Azrael in full sprint, to enhance dodging
1) Snipe: PhoenixShot Ashuraid A,B Cloudy B (70, seeking)
2) Thunder Cloudy A (80, Stun, Homing)
3) Prepped Dodge
4) High Noon on Ashuraid B (Next turn, Take Aim x2, Slow2)
5) Summon The Magnificent Seven upon Ashuraid A (Next turn, Illusion, Blind, Slow, NC Lock)
==================[3/6]===========================

((http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lB721MToRkU Prescribed listening))


It was done. Another bunch of fallers sent off so he could pay off his debt to the sowing one.

He watched for a moment as their data began to dissolve into the frost, cast into the Sharo wind.

Then gone.

It was nothing to linger on. Vermin. The night was young, more than young. She was a nubile whore who had her legs open waiting for real shit to hit the fan.
And when that happened, she wouldn't be such a pretty little thing no more.

"Not half bad, Tex," came the gravelly baritone in his ear.

He said nothing back. He didn't need approval. He wasn't a fucking pet. But he put up with the old bastard anyway.
He snapped the reigns, riding forward on his white harbinger of ending.


The night was young.

((Request battle 3.))

And so it began like it always did. It never changed-- not the bullets, the bastards, or the Bitch.

No, this time would be no different, and there'd be hell to pay if the Damn Dame had something to say about it.

Even these metal bastards could appreciate the taste of lead-- didn't matter if they had no appetite. Make it quick-- brutal. Stamp out the fallers quick, pay the debt he owed to the guy who sowed.


"I got a fever, old man..." Triggerman said hoarsely. "And the only cure is to scratch my itchin' trigger finger. Give me the good medicine."

"Much obliged, Tex." Marlowe slotted in the tools of the trade. There were bullets a plenty, and they were in the mood to share.


Showtime.


The Sharo winds collected, snow cast around in disarray as the slinger's white shadow of a horse appeared in barely a moment. He cast himself astride the pale mirage, surveying the three stooges.

A big feller with a cheap-shit made-in-china lunk of metal.

Two garden decorations in piss poor taste.

He'd have to get behind the big motherfucker to cut his strings. Couldn't sit still-- had to move. And quick.
The hunt was on. With one hand on the pale reigns, Triggerman eyed the trio dead center.


Aim careful. Don't fuck this up.

His hand snapped to his side, where his monstrous beauty lay in its lair.
The hammer clinched. Music to the ears.
Another splinter of a second. The fallen angel he rode on strode furiously towards the rear.

It was autopilot now. The Iron Maiden snapped out in front, flames heating up the barrel on account of the phoenix it bore. Aim careful. Trigger pull. Music to the ears.

Sparks and dragon's breath flew towards the trio. No time to admire. He rode still. Five friends left.


He had reached the back-- the big bastard's back. That giant lunk of shit wasn't protecting him now.

The slinger reared the horse, as Azrael let out a soul-shattering neigh. It was time to lie down. Marlowe had slotted him another trio of chips. He planned to make the would-be giant feel all of them.

At an instant, Triggerman discharged a barrage of lead. He fanned the hammer furiously vulcans thrashing madly out for some kind of retribution. Lead and noise bled everywhere.

One more helper to ease him along. He aimed along the sights, real careful like.

Trigger noise and roar. Get gone.




Silence now. It was quiet. A smoking barrel.

Music to the ears.

=============================================

(-) Passive Movement: Ride towards the rear while attacking
(1) Snipe: PhoenixShot Dharma A, B, IronShield(70, seeking)
(2) Dodge
(3) Vulcan2 IronShield, Dharma A (5x10, Splash)
(4) Vulcan2 IronShield, Dharma B (5x10, Splash)
(5) MarkCannon1 Ironshield (70, lock on)

==================[2/6]========================

I'm gone for a week, after tomorrow, volunteering in honduras. See you on the other side.

Quote (Asator)

Oh! I just had an idea.
Film Noir style pokemon. MAKE IT SO!

Noir pokemon would be amazing, except it'd need like a M rating.

The fallers had done their duty, sitting down and letting the old scytheman take them away.

Triggerman's icey white steed dissolved into the wind, becoming part of the sharo snow and frost, as the dance of battle concluded. It had been a short lived number.

The slinger put himself into the motion of replacing the bullet he had expended.


Six.


He returned the cannon to his side, as he began to resurvey the bleak snowfield around him once more. The mosaic of greys was as dark as ever.

"You planning to stand there all night, Tex?" Marlowe asked. "Let's move."


A nod. There was still more to be done-- this wasn't hardly the start of it.


(Battle 2 request)

Vermin. Sewer rats. The net was full of them-- they always found a way of getting in the way.



Steady, now. Done this thousands of times...



But the cold wasn't making him feel any younger. He was a stranger in a strange land; the net had no room for a relic like him.

They'd make room. He wasn't out of this place yet...

"Alright old man, time to prove you're worth a damn," he growled at Marlowe. "Send me Bambooblade, PhoenixShot."

"Only because you asked so nicely... sweetheart."

He threw his poncho back, setting into motion that death dance he did every time.

The terrain was thick and heavy, but it would not stop him; at an instant, the sounds of hooves echoed beside, gently muffled by the snow. His pale horse, Azrael appeared from nothing but wind, and he put himself astride running. Against the silent white of the snow, still untouched, the warsteed was a ghost; the Sharo cold seemed to emanate from the deathly mount.

In another instant, they leapt into the sky, and Triggerman unholstered his 6-round friend. The time slowed-- the splinters of a moment were hours.



Breath easy... aim. Aim.

Five.


He squeezed off a shot of hellfire meant to put the trio to rest. But before the horse hit the snow-clad terra once more, the rider was gone, reappearing behind the trio of raingear. In his left hand, he bore a Bamboosword, and in a single sweep, he sought to finish the poor bastards clinging to the threads.



Get gone....

==============

*Passive Movement: Mount Azrael, leap high into the air
1) From above, Snipe: PhoenixShot (100, Raingear A, B, C)
2) Areagrab to begind Raingear A, B, C
3) Bamboosword (80, Raingear A, B, C)
4) Dodge
5) Dodge

====[5/6]======

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8uLPPd7qsdA&feature=fvw Background music, listen to it while reading, seriously.)



This place was a cesspool.

A festering shithole rotten with the disease of corruption.

Was there anything worth saving here?

Ever corner he turned, Triggerman became less and less convinced. Was he the only one that saw this net's true face?

All of them... a bunch of two faced smile-to-your-face backstabbers out for themselves... A pack of hyenas fighting over some poor carcasses that didn't know until it was too late.

And so here he was, looking for those bastards-- looking for some unfortunate son-of-a-gun to try it, anyone feeling lucky enough to face him in the wrong dark alley.

The net presented a mosaic of black and greys that surrounded him; a bleak world befitting a bleak world.

The sharo cold bit at Triggerman's fingertips like a witty retort. It was nothing new-- he'd passed through here more times then he'd care to remember. Funny that each time he did, the buildings seemed a little shittier, the criminals a little bolder.

A chill breeze passed by, shaking him from his thoughts.

"Look sharp, Tex," he heard a gruff voice say. "You know why we're here..."

"I don't need to be reminded, Dick Tracy..."

When he was through tonight, he'd have good practice counting...



Six.




(Requesting first virus battle in 3 years! Battle number 1!)