Roll to Dodge: Not so normal life. READ FIRST POST
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maart3n
Joined: Tue Dec 23, 2008 8:04 pm Posts: 1545
Re: Roll to Dodge: Not so normal life. Let the games begin!
Daemonofcaeks: Linus Robertson Get to work, get those people to stop arguing in a lab that contains world ending viruses. The heavy Hazmat suit muffles the shouting around you a bit but it's still clearly audible. "What the hell is going on in there?" That answer didn't get an answer you liked. Not one bit. As you walk through the doors you witness something rather disturbing. All you colleges are either lined up against the wall or lying in a pool of their own blood. Men clad in black bullet proof vests and their equally intimidating rifles appear to be the reason. They hadn't noticed you if it weren't for John, your newest colleague. Who surprisingly is dead nor lined up against the wall. He appears to be coordinating the search for something. "That's him! Tie him up and let's go!" Without even a second of hesitation your still living colleagues die of sudden lead poisoning. Their heads each penetrated by a single well placed bullet. A hard hit to the back of your head is the last thing you feel.
You wake up on an operating table, in a white room, almost like a sickbay from those old 20th century science-fiction movies. Next to you are two other men on similar tables. But you don't pay that much attention to them, your own body is in the spotlight right now. The two small arms extending from just under your armpits to be precise. Bewildered you get out of the bed and grab the medical card.
Name: Linus Robertson Passive abilities: Steady hands: can not roll ones when manipulating delicate or small objects. Strong immune system: situational resistance Sex: Male Age: 34 Appearance: Linus is a thirty four year old male, just over six foot tall. Pale from much of his working life from working deep within the bowels of a CDC building, he is in shape from years of running to catch the morning bus on the way to work. He has several ring shaped scars on his right arm thanks to the annual CDC vaccination program for it's workers to ensure they are upto date incase of any disease outbreak. At work, he'd typically be wearing a white labcoat with several pens in it's pocket protector before suiting up into a class A hazmat suit, needed to work in the labs below. The suits are fairly heavy, so he has to remain in a modicum of shape to be able to properly move around in one, but years of handling glass vials containing world ending virological samples has left him walking around surefooted and careful - in his line of work it's better to carefully make ten steps than to make fifty steps and slip. Occupation: CDC virologist. Backstory: Linus's parents were both doctors, his mother a nurse and his father a surgeon. Blessed from birth with a strong immune system discovered when the flu went around his school and he not once got ill and in addition to enjoying helping people, like looking after his elder brother after he came down with the very same flu led to him quickly following in the family business of medicine. Graduating at the top of his class (Not getting ill and being pushed hard work wonders when it comes to studying), he quickly earned his scrubs in the medical profession as an intern at the hospital where his parents work before joining with the CDC as a virologist, naturally being suited to field work in areas of southeast Asia and war torn Africa where the spectres of Cholera, TB and Pneumonia still reaped. It was on one of these foreign aid missions where he met his future wife, a young lady named Cassandra Wilkins, who was a foreign aid worker from the United Kingdom. They quickly fell in love and she returned with him to New York, where she took up a job working at a nearby dentist. It was at this time that Linus's years of hard work finally paid off and he was removed from the field duty roster and instead transferred to working at the nearby CDC building with a slight raise. There he would fight his part in the ongoing war against the horrors of disease, horrors that he had witnessed first hand on his field missions. With his parents support, he would communicate with them to get their advice on things at both work and in his day to day life, such as how does Inhibitor Alpha-4 impact adrenal production or what would be a good colour to paint the baby's room? Speaking of babies, Linus and his beloved wife are now trying to start their own family after they moved into a bigger house in the suburbs following Linus's promotion. With everything looking so good for the family, what could go wrong?
Contrary: Jon Winters Politely thank the nice officers. Such polite men are hard to come by nowadays, true knights in shining armour. Although their armour is actually more of a matt black and their arms of the fiery kind rather than the stabby sort. But it's close enough. They escort you outside where a heavily armoured truck is waiting to take you to safety. "Thank you very much officers." The two men share a confused look before one says: "Do we really have to knock him out? Doesn't look like he'll make any trouble." "Just use use the injection when he's in the truck, we don't want him suddenly changing his mind in the van." You don't really pay any attention to what is said and get in the back on one of the longitudinally mounted benches. The two men get in too and you feel a slight sting in your neck, just bellow your ear.
You wake up in a room that is clearly not the police van. First of all, you're no longer sitting on a bench, but rather lying down on a bed. Also, there are several robotic arms with all kinds of surgical equipment floating above you. The room has windows on either side of you and a glass door opposite your bed. You can see similar rooms through the windows, one of which contains a girl no older than 21. Suddenly you notice an aching pain in your shoulders. Reaching to massage the pain away gives you the shock of a lifetime, both your arms have been replaced with metal variants. Frightened you leave the bed and reach for the information tablet to your right.
Name: Jon Winters Passive abilities: Child prodigy: Has the ability to learn new things one turn quicker. Penniless living: Being poor has made Jon good at haggling down prices. Sex: Male Age: 31 Appearance: 5'11 with light skin, tousled brown hair and hazel eyes. His wardrobe is dominated by cheap slacks and poorly ironed dress shirts in muted tones. Occupation: Unemployed. Formerly a data entry clerk for a landfill management firm. Back-story: Beginning life as a child prodigy, my parents and teachers had high hopes for Jon. He instantly picked up concepts his peers would struggle with for years and he revelled in his superiority. But he did little to capitalize on his head start and over the years his classmates caught up to him. Stricken by the realization that he was not special, Jon drifted through the rest of mandatory schooling, doing only enough not to draw attention to himself. He completed his schooling with passable grades and passable social standing but those who knew him noted that seemed distracted, as if waiting for something grand and interesting to finally arrive. Jon drifted into a job doing paperwork for landfills, a profession which did not offend him very much and therefore did not seek to change. Filling his day with work and his nights with Diet Cola and the Home Improvement Network, Jon successfully reached 31 without causing much inconvenience to anyone. This benchmark held no special importance for him, and like most of his birthdays went by entirely unnoticed by Jon. But on the first day of spring, in his first spring of being 31, Jon swivelled his desk chair to peer out his window. Windows were a rare privilege for workers of his level but seniority and luck had gifted him this several years ago. As he gazed down on the company parking lot, something stirred inside of Jon. He turned back to his paper work and with great calm and precision folded every memo and receipt and tax return and invoice into paper planes. He carefully placed those aside and scoured his small office for more paper. Filling his work space with the folded aircrafts he began to draw whispers from neighbouring co-workers, but they did nothing. Driven by something great and unexplainable Jon threw open his office window and let his creations take to the smoggy skies. The winds were strong and every piece of paper work embarked on a great journey across New York City. Jon was fired from his job and was fined heavily by the city and though this put him in a difficult spot financially, he did not seem particularly bothered. After cleaning out his office Jon went home to his apartment and waited.
The Kebbit: Ben Jawson Stand guard, stay paranoid. Do anything the doctor requests. The door was unlocked, as you thought. You really have to pay more attention to these things, leaving doors open is a very dangerous trait in your line of work.' Just to make sure the coast is clear you take a quick look outside. The coast was definitely not clear, the cops are here, and by the looks of it they brought an entire swat unit. "AW ♥♥♥♥ NO, I AIN'T DOING THIS ♥♥♥♥!" You slam the door shut and smash in one of the big windows. Roland's trusty G17C was still in his pocket when he crawled into your apartment. Blindfiring has always been your solution to firefights, no need to risk getting shot when you're to intoxicated to aim anyway. After about five shots you run out of ammo and decide to just take cover and make gunfire sounds with your mouth. Moments later you feel a sharp stinging sensation in your right shoulder. "What the hell?" Both you and your mystery assailant proclaim, before he shoots another dart into your body.
"♥♥♥♥!" You wake with a shock, shooting into a upright position. The man and his gun are gone, replaced by what appears to be either the most luxorious cell or a hospital. The walls are thick steel plates with huge glass windows looking into other rooms just like your own. You back hurts a lot and your reflection in the window betrays the reason. Two big robotic arms are attached to it just bellow the shoulders. There is a tablet on the table next to your bed.
Name: Ben Jawson Passive abilities: Always drugged: Drugging Ben has a twice as high a chance of failing. Russian connections: Speaking Russian can have it's advantages in the underworld. Sex: Male Age: 26 Appearance: A broad-shouldered man of 6' with a shaven skull and sunken, bloodshot grey eyes, teeth visibly grinding to powder from a jaw permanently clenched. Occupation: Small-time Drug Dealer Background: Where there is a market there exists the consummate merchant, embodiment of their field. He does not care about the quality of his product except that it has the grade, качества, quality to satisfy the purchaser. He does not care about the end of his product, only that it is shifted to his gain. Jawson is a human consequence, an accident of birth that went too far, a crumbling shell limping into the future with a Kalashnikov for a crutch. From his cramped safe house flow packets of psychoactives, anesthetics, amphetamines, bricks of freebased cocaine, tranquilizers, crude heroin, ketamine - and for his fine work in redistribution, Jawson exacts some of the supply current for himself, spending days at a time locked outside of our reality. One day a vessel will burst in Jawson's brain and finally stop his misery; but for society, this day is too far ahead. It is noted that he has one ally within his field, a corrupt officer turned fellow drug dealer.
Harzipan: Roland Black Death is bad. "Death..... is... baaaaaaaaaaad..." You really shouldn't speak now. But you don't have to worry about that any more, the doctor puts a very fashionable mask over your face and you fall into a very deep sleep.
You wake up a new man and so did the doctor's surgery, over the course of your operation it became ten times as modern. The good doctor is in a to your left and there's another man you don't know to your right. You do have a splitting headache though. In an attempt to massage the pain away you poke yourself in the eye. An eye that shouldn't have been there! "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?" You climb out of bed and immediately fall on your face, your legs no longer working the way they should. Next to your bed is an old school medical chart and you grab it from your unfortunate position.
Name: Roland Black Passive abilities: Crooked cop: When encountering there is a 50% change that the criminal recognizes you as a former accomplice. Or a 10% chance to have been put in jail thanks to you. Walking bullet hole: Getting shot only hurts you half as much. Sex: Probably a guy but you never know these days Age: 47 Appearance: An aged, balding individual, whom the years have treated with a mild dose of respect. Coated with a partial head of black hair and a mild goatee, Roland has the appearance of a well meaning uncle. His years with the NYPD have kept him in the habit of personal fitness, which is evident on his toned, bullet-scarred body. Occupation: Former Cop/Drug Producer Backstory: Roland is a bad person. Or so he would like to think. Years of rejection and hatred from both his fellow officers, and his friends and family had led him to become a hateful being, especially towards higher authority. Why few ever loved or liked him, he never figured out. Was it his dampening, realist views? His lack of humor? Who knows. All that can be said for sure, is that the only ones who ever seemed to understand him were those that he arrested. The scum of the street. The dealers and the killers. Those that stalked and defiled. The beasts of the city. He could connect with them. He understood the hatred that was directed towards them. He started working the system. Those that truly appealed to him, he let free, or as free as one could be once caught and tagged. Assistance was given to those that understood him, and in return, he learned what it was like to be them. In return for his humanity (Or lack thereof,) Roland was taught how to properly produce the chemicals and drugs that were so highly regarded in the underbelly of the city which he called home. He learned from the tainted minds that ran the crooked, beautiful world of the night. Trust was earned between groups, and from that, he gained friends. They might not have been the best that humanity had to offer, but they were what he craved the most. While one world shunned him, another accepted him. And this made him happy. For the last three years, thanks to his new found skills, Roland has managed to acquire a modest sum of wealth. Enough to comfortably retire some distant day. But one day, on the eve of his 47th birthday, Roland let his guard down. And then his world came crashing down. A superior officer found out what he did in his spare time, and from that, Roland's web of lies began to unravel. His apartment was searched, ransacked, and put under watch. In it, police found both his stash of dirty money, and his extensive list of contacts, deals made, and those falsely let out of custody. From that, they were able to find and arrest many of Roland's former friends and business partners. He was now alone. While evading the police, Roland was fired upon by two former workplace associates. Although he was hit multiple times, Roland managed to return fire and escape. He went to the only place he knew he would be safe, at least for the time being. Ben Jawson. Riddled with bullet holes, and heavily bleeding, Roland reached his only remaining ally's home, and promptly passed out.
Cricket: Claire Sharp Inspect the forklift, figure out what's wrong with it before I try anything. Jacob usually moved boxes around the magazine and hey may have been cool with carrying each and every individual box by hand, you're not. So, fixing the forklift is the first thing on your agenda for today. The battery seems charged, the rear wheels turn even without the power steering and most importantly the engine looks complete. So it must be something else. Then the big 80 litre gastank catches your eye, or actually the hoses leading to it. One, which you assume to be the gas line, is stuck in a hinge and clamped shut. How do you stand working with these idiots? You free the hose and it immediately begins spewing out a sharp smelling gas. Two seconds later you lose control of your body and hit the floor in a deep sleep.
Ouch, that leaking gas surrely didn't do you any good. The manager must have taken you to the hospital as you find yourself no longer in the supermarket but rather on a comfortabel hospital bed. Suddenly realizing you can't feel your arms you throw the blanket off you and find that both of them have been replaced by mechanical units. "Cool" Is somehow the first thing that comes to mind. You grab the tablet on the table next to you in hopes of obtaining any info as to what has happened.
Name: Claire Sharp Passive abilities: Computer geek: You have a 50% higher chance when attempting any action involving a computer. Inconspicuous: Unless they're looking for you people won't notice you. Unless you're doing something obviously out of the ordinary. Sex: Female Age: 20 Appearance: Pale skin, grey eyes, and long black hair that reaches halfway down her back. 5 feet 3 inches (160 cm). Her hair is usually a mess, purple bags under blood-shot eyes, and smile lines that make her look older than she actually is. Most of her time spent at a computer desk, in a classroom, and at a cash register has left her with a less-than-adequate diet and a lack of exercise, resulting in a thin body not suited for physical labor. For school she wears a wrinkled button down shirt and khakis, and for work, a blue polo shirt with khakis. Not a very diverse wardrobe. Occupation: College student/supermarket cashier Backstory: Raised by her father for as long as she can remember, Claire was an okay child. She went to school, got good grades, and stayed up til the crack of dawn messing around with the computer. Being the single child of a working parent, she never suffered from the whole "parents ruining my life" thing that the rest of her classmates seem to have to deal with, and her knack for programming and inability to get a good rest has granted her the ability to instantly fall asleep anywhere, and then wake up at a whisper of her name. Math and science were always easy, and it never took more than a minute to learn a new concept even when half asleep, though her ability to write coherent English papers wasn't exactly up to par, even at full capacity. Claire had maybe one or two people that considered her a "friend," but unless if they were asking a question concerning her areas of expertise, her response would be a simple stare with partially closed eyes. To everyone else, she was "that sleeping girl" that wasn't even worth throwing a crumpled piece of paper at, let alone socializing with. After finishing high school, her father gave her two options: She pays for her college and he pays for her living expenses, or she pays for the living expenses and he pays for college. She went with the cheaper option, and moved into a cheap one-person apartment and worked at the nearby supermarket for money. For transportation, she uses a robust 7-gear mountain bike with DIY-looking electric motor setup and rechargeable battery, good enough to get her from home to school to work and then back home with power to spare. If the battery for some reason goes out like that one time when she forgot to recharge it, her legs can pedal with enough strength to go a little faster than a jog. For keeping things in, a mailbag. Her father used to work for the post office and gave her a bag as a present for one of her birthdays. Holds all of her things, and it's one of the few things that she double-checks to make sure she has with her and ready to go. The other being the bike's battery recharging, because ♥♥♥♥ peddling. And finally, her keys, which includes the key to her apartment, the key to her father's house, a swiss army knife, an LED flashlight keychain, a USB flash drive, a pepper spray keychain because, well, you never know, and finally a carabiner clip to attach to her belt. The last of the things that she makes sure to double-check, because getting into your apartment is important.
Moggles: Ryker Whirlow Get someone to hand me a goddamn scalpel, if none show up, get it myself. Is he even on anesthetics? Am I wearing all my surgical clothing? Has he been disinfected? "LINDA IF YOU CAN HEAR THIS, YOU'RE FIRED!" The situation frustrates you, you're stressed out and there's nobody to hand you the equipment. But that's no reason to operate on a patient without knocking anaesthetizing him first! The gas based anaesthetic kicks in after just ten seconds and Roland is sleeping peacefully. Time to pull out those bullets, there appear to be eight in total and since Ben isn't helping it takes you a few minutes to take them all out and disinfect the wounds. Just when you're done stitching him up you hear that lazy drug dealer walking into the room. Along with another man. "Hey who the hell is tha...." You turn around while saying the words and fall short halfway into the sentence. Ben isn't there, instead two heavily armed men in black armour stand in the door opening. "How about the one on the table?" One asks. "Take him with us, if he survived such injury the bosses will surely want him too." With that notion the other pulls the trigger and a whizzing sends a dart into your arm. Moments later you collapse.
The next thing you know you're lying in a white medical room that is not your own, on a bed that is also not your own. Instinctively you reach for the medical chart that should be somewhere at the foot of your bed. only absent-mindedly noticing the strange tone of your skin.
Name: Ryker Whirlow Passive abilities: Classy: Wherever he goes, Ryker somehow always has an air of class around him. People will notice this. Street doctor: Being a doctor in New York is no easy feat. As such Ryker is able to attempt to heal any kind of wound, with a decent chance of success. Sex: Guy Age: 43 Appearance: A tall Caucasian man, standing at 6'5". He has a medium build - wide, with slumped shoulders. He's fairly muscular, but not in a bodybuilder sense, more in a working man sense. His haircut consists of well-trimmed hair that extends into a chinstrap beard which does not go over his mouth. He has a scar on his right temple, dark green eyes, a straight nose, and a very defined facial structure with a squarish (not absurdly square) jaw. He stands up straight 90% of the time. His outfit usually consists of dark brown slacks with a belt, a work shirt, and a brown leather bomber jacket handed down to him by his father. He often wears expensive sunglasses when he goes outside. Occupation: General Physician Backstory: Ryker was born to John Mc'Hale Whirlow and Linda Anne Mayel, his father being a mortician and bartender, his mother a manager at a fancy clothing store. Growing up, Ryker was fairly alone by choice, choosing to keep to himself rather than make many friends. He's not at all antisocial or anxious about social situations, he simply chose to avoid making friends with others. He gets along well with people, such as his coworkers and patients, though he can be abrasive and rude. Ryker never got along well with his father. John was an angry, sometimes abusive alcoholic to his wife, but never his son, who he tried to hide he and his wife's issues from. Because of this, Ryker grew to resent his father, despite [his father's] attempts to regain approval from his son. Linda was a very loving mother, and even in the face of an abusive husband, she did her best to make her son happy. While his father worked in the business of dead people, Ryker wanted to save lives instead, almost in an act of defiance. He started college at the age of 20. His parents funded his undergraduate work and 4 years of medschool, but it put them in a lot of debt. In an attempt to pay off his debts, John got involved in some Bad Things and went missing, presumed dead. His mother is still alive, and lives by herself in a small apartment. At 29, Ryker began an internship at a local hospital, and did 6 years of understudy from senior doctors. At 35, he finally finished all his studies and became a General Physician. He has worked at [name of new york hospital] for 13 years. Despite being a doctor, Ryker smokes and drinks, likely from influence from his father. He started smoking at 26 and drinking at 19. He tries to do both in moderation, in acknowledgement of the health risks, but he has some issues with that. He typically prefers to smoke cigars. He now lives in a comfortable apartment in a large highrise, by himself. He likes to hunt and travels to Canada to hunt bear, elk, and various birds annually. His preferred method of transport is an inexpensive red truck, which he's had for 8 years. It isn't doing well. He wears driving gloves when he drives, because he's an ♥♥♥hole like that. Ryker is beginning to suffer the effects of age and his addictions, and is generally more and more fatigued as the years go on.
Okay guys, the moment I've been living up to, the actual start of: Not so normal life. Now if you haven't read the first post yet, go do it right now so you'll understand what the ♥♥♥♥ is going on right now.(and why this roll took me so long.)
Fri Jan 31, 2014 1:32 am
CaveCricket48
Joined: Tue Jun 12, 2007 11:52 pm Posts: 13143 Location: Here
Re: Roll to Dodge: Not so normal life. READ FIRST POST
> Inspect room an arms in detail. How robot do they look? What kind of ammunition does this gun use? I'm a pro on guns, I've read all the wikipedia pages.
Re: Roll to Dodge: Not so normal life. READ FIRST POST
>Wave to the lady.
Fri Jan 31, 2014 2:48 am
caekdaemon
Data Realms Elite
Joined: Sun Nov 01, 2009 3:00 pm Posts: 4144 Location: Hell.
Re: Roll to Dodge: Not so normal life. READ FIRST POST
"What the ♥♥♥♥? Actually, what the ♥♥♥♥ in ♥♥♥♥? This can't be happening."
Avoid panicking, check the other guys and make sure they are alive. Try and break their restraints.
I am so jealous of the guys with robot parts.
Fri Jan 31, 2014 2:50 am
TheKebbit
Joined: Sat Jul 04, 2009 10:24 pm Posts: 3939 Location: NORTH
Re: Roll to Dodge: Not so normal life. READ FIRST POST
"Mother of God..." "WHAT IS THIS ♥♥♥♥?" "I'm in too deep, aren't I? If I take a hit here, maybe I'll wake up..."
>Ingest a randomized cocktail of drugs and ♥♥♥♥ robo-smash/deploy tools to break my way into Roland Black's cell through the windows. >>Actually end up breaking into the cell of the young man with the slacks and the outrageously wrinkly shirt.
Last edited by TheKebbit on Fri Jan 31, 2014 8:49 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Fri Jan 31, 2014 4:23 am
Miggles
Data Realms Elite
Joined: Mon Jul 12, 2010 5:39 am Posts: 4557
Re: Roll to Dodge: Not so normal life. READ FIRST POST
Re: Roll to Dodge: Not so normal life. READ FIRST POST
hello
Fri Feb 21, 2014 10:50 am
maart3n
Joined: Tue Dec 23, 2008 8:04 pm Posts: 1545
Re: Roll to Dodge: Not so normal life. READ FIRST POST
Sorry guys, kind of forgot to roll. Will roll today-ish.
Fri Feb 21, 2014 3:12 pm
maart3n
Joined: Tue Dec 23, 2008 8:04 pm Posts: 1545
Re: Roll to Dodge: Not so normal life. Let the games begin!
Daemonofcaeks: Linus Robertson Avoid panicking, check the other guys and make sure they are alive. Try and break their restraints. - 7 "What the ♥♥♥♥? Actually, what the ♥♥♥♥ in ♥♥♥♥? This can't be happening." No way that this is real, no way in hell. The other two men appear to be both awake and unrestrained. As far as you can see they appear to know each other. The one closest to you seems to have calmed down since falling of his bed and is remarkably calm considering that his legs have been replaced with those of a giant goat. While he blames the other for his current situation you look for a way out of the room. The door has no handle, but the green "OPEN" button next to it is pretty self explanatory. The rooms near you look empty, but you can see a few men in lab coats walking further down the hall. A sign on a nearby wall indicates that the labs are to the left, the main building straight ahead and the emergency exit to your right.
Name: Linus Robertson Passive abilities: Steady hands: can not roll ones when manipulating delicate or small objects. Strong immune system: situational resistance Mutations: Extra set of arms, small Antennae, electromagnetic Ear shattering shrieking Body heat control, to extreme levels Sex: Male Age: 34 Appearance: Linus is a thirty four year old male, just over six foot tall. Pale from much of his working life from working deep within the bowels of a CDC building, he is in shape from years of running to catch the morning bus on the way to work. He has several ring shaped scars on his right arm thanks to the annual CDC vaccination program for it's workers to ensure they are upto date incase of any disease outbreak. At work, he'd typically be wearing a white labcoat with several pens in it's pocket protector before suiting up into a class A hazmat suit, needed to work in the labs below. The suits are fairly heavy, so he has to remain in a modicum of shape to be able to properly move around in one, but years of handling glass vials containing world ending virological samples has left him walking around surefooted and careful - in his line of work it's better to carefully make ten steps than to make fifty steps and slip. Occupation: CDC virologist. Backstory: Linus's parents were both doctors, his mother a nurse and his father a surgeon. Blessed from birth with a strong immune system discovered when the flu went around his school and he not once got ill and in addition to enjoying helping people, like looking after his elder brother after he came down with the very same flu led to him quickly following in the family business of medicine. Graduating at the top of his class (Not getting ill and being pushed hard work wonders when it comes to studying), he quickly earned his scrubs in the medical profession as an intern at the hospital where his parents work before joining with the CDC as a virologist, naturally being suited to field work in areas of southeast Asia and war torn Africa where the spectres of Cholera, TB and Pneumonia still reaped. It was on one of these foreign aid missions where he met his future wife, a young lady named Cassandra Wilkins, who was a foreign aid worker from the United Kingdom. They quickly fell in love and she returned with him to New York, where she took up a job working at a nearby dentist. It was at this time that Linus's years of hard work finally paid off and he was removed from the field duty roster and instead transferred to working at the nearby CDC building with a slight raise. There he would fight his part in the ongoing war against the horrors of disease, horrors that he had witnessed first hand on his field missions. With his parents support, he would communicate with them to get their advice on things at both work and in his day to day life, such as how does Inhibitor Alpha-4 impact adrenal production or what would be a good colour to paint the baby's room? Speaking of babies, Linus and his beloved wife are now trying to start their own family after they moved into a bigger house in the suburbs following Linus's promotion. With everything looking so good for the family, what could go wrong?
Contrary: Jon Winters Wave to the lady. - 5 You get out of bed and wave to the lady in the room next to yours, she appears to have robotic arms just like you, you're gonna be great friends! However she seems rather interested in her own left arm.(or was it right?) You wave with more enthusiasm. Still no response. Frantically waving should do the trick! Your wild movements however somehow trigger the flame-thrower embedded in your right palm. Moving your fingers changes the mixture of air and fuel and thus the kind of flame you get. You play around with this for some time.
Name: Jon Winters Passive abilities: Child prodigy: Has the ability to learn new things one turn quicker. Penniless living: Being poor has made Jon good at haggling down prices. Augmentations: Shoulder launchers, smoke Laser defence system Bionic arms, Flamethrower. Sex: Male Age: 31 Appearance: 5'11 with light skin, tousled brown hair and hazel eyes. His wardrobe is dominated by cheap slacks and poorly ironed dress shirts in muted tones. Occupation: Unemployed. Formerly a data entry clerk for a landfill management firm. Back-story: Beginning life as a child prodigy, my parents and teachers had high hopes for Jon. He instantly picked up concepts his peers would struggle with for years and he revelled in his superiority. But he did little to capitalize on his head start and over the years his classmates caught up to him. Stricken by the realization that he was not special, Jon drifted through the rest of mandatory schooling, doing only enough not to draw attention to himself. He completed his schooling with passable grades and passable social standing but those who knew him noted that seemed distracted, as if waiting for something grand and interesting to finally arrive. Jon drifted into a job doing paperwork for landfills, a profession which did not offend him very much and therefore did not seek to change. Filling his day with work and his nights with Diet Cola and the Home Improvement Network, Jon successfully reached 31 without causing much inconvenience to anyone. This benchmark held no special importance for him, and like most of his birthdays went by entirely unnoticed by Jon. But on the first day of spring, in his first spring of being 31, Jon swivelled his desk chair to peer out his window. Windows were a rare privilege for workers of his level but seniority and luck had gifted him this several years ago. As he gazed down on the company parking lot, something stirred inside of Jon. He turned back to his paper work and with great calm and precision folded every memo and receipt and tax return and invoice into paper planes. He carefully placed those aside and scoured his small office for more paper. Filling his work space with the folded aircrafts he began to draw whispers from neighbouring co-workers, but they did nothing. Driven by something great and unexplainable Jon threw open his office window and let his creations take to the smoggy skies. The winds were strong and every piece of paper work embarked on a great journey across New York City. Jon was fired from his job and was fined heavily by the city and though this put him in a difficult spot financially, he did not seem particularly bothered. After cleaning out his office Jon went home to his apartment and waited.
The Kebbit: Ben Jawson Ingest a randomized cocktail of drugs and ♥♥♥♥ robo-smash/deploy tools to break my way into Roland Black's cell through the windows. Actually end up breaking into the cell of the young man with the slacks and the outrageously wrinkly shirt. - 6 "Mother of God..." This can't be real, ♥♥♥♥ robot arms? "WHAT IS THIS ♥♥♥♥?" Strange holes in your shoulders? Hell no "I'm in too deep, aren't I? If I take a hit here, maybe I'll wake up..." The tablet said something about a chemical mixer in your throat, might as well see if you can use it recreationally. Thinking about it causes some sort of strange display to appear in front of your eyes. On top is a blank screen, under it a periodic table. "Alkaloids an hydrochloric acids always work wonders and some oxygen and nitrogen can't hurt either." Like clockwork a few of the possible combinations appear on the screen above. You settle on one that looks aesthetically pleasing.
The chemical plant comes to life and after a few strange sounds a green chevron on the HUD indicates your first successful inter body drug is done. A screen pops up asking you which of the following you'd like to do:
Code:
1 - Spread as airborne gas. 2- Inject into bloodstream. 3- Spit/swallow fluid. 4- Load into grenade.
You pick the second option and the effects of the drug are instantly felt. You feel rage brewing inside and unleash it upon the wall to your right. "ROOOOLAAAND! I'M COMING FOR YOU BROTHA!" The glass, armoured or not, is no match for your chemically enhanced strength and robotic arms. Roland isn't on the other side though, in his suspected place you find a young man with what appear to be pyrokinetic powers. He is somehow oblivious to your less than subtle entrance.
Name: Ben Jawson Passive abilities: Always drugged: Drugging Ben has a twice as high a chance of failing. Russian connections: Speaking Russian can have it's advantages in the underworld. Augmentations Arms from back, Tools Oral chemical mixer Shoulder launcher, Gas Sex: Male Age: 26 Appearance: A broad-shouldered man of 6' with a shaven skull and sunken, bloodshot grey eyes, teeth visibly grinding to powder from a jaw permanently clenched. Occupation: Small-time Drug Dealer Background: Where there is a market there exists the consummate merchant, embodiment of their field. He does not care about the quality of his product except that it has the grade, качества, quality to satisfy the purchaser. He does not care about the end of his product, only that it is shifted to his gain. Jawson is a human consequence, an accident of birth that went too far, a crumbling shell limping into the future with a Kalashnikov for a crutch. From his cramped safe house flow packets of psychoactives, anesthetics, amphetamines, bricks of freebased cocaine, tranquilizers, crude heroin, ketamine - and for his fine work in redistribution, Jawson exacts some of the supply current for himself, spending days at a time locked outside of our reality. One day a vessel will burst in Jawson's brain and finally stop his misery; but for society, this day is too far ahead. It is noted that he has one ally within his field, a corrupt officer turned fellow drug dealer.
Harzipan: Roland Black Stay calm while checking out what exactly is different about me. - 2 "Fantastic. This is just fantastic. Hey Doc, safe to assume that you're not behind this?" The doctor seems to be preoccupied with his own body.
Better find out what the hell is going on. First things first, getting up. You try to move every part of your legs and quickly find out that your foot is now a whole lot longer than before, resulting in muscular double jointed legs. Those years creeping up on people on your toes pay of as you find that this is the easiest way to walk now. You feel taller than before. Testing your new legs by walking around the bed you figure you might as well try to jump. You crouch down a bit, brace for lift-off and launch yourself straight into the ceiling. Way to enhance that headache.
Name: Roland Black Passive abilities: Crooked cop: When encountering one there is a 50% change that the criminal recognizes you as a former accomplice. Or a 10% chance to have been put in jail thanks to you. Walking bullet hole: Getting shot only hurts you half as much. Mutations: Extra set of eyes Acidic blood Goat like legs Fire breath Sex: Probably a guy but you never know these days Age: 47 Appearance: An aged, balding individual, whom the years have treated with a mild dose of respect. Coated with a partial head of black hair and a mild goatee, Roland has the appearance of a well meaning uncle. His years with the NYPD have kept him in the habit of personal fitness, which is evident on his toned, bullet-scarred body. Occupation: Former Cop/Drug Producer Backstory: Roland is a bad person. Or so he would like to think. Years of rejection and hatred from both his fellow officers, and his friends and family had led him to become a hateful being, especially towards higher authority. Why few ever loved or liked him, he never figured out. Was it his dampening, realist views? His lack of humor? Who knows. All that can be said for sure, is that the only ones who ever seemed to understand him were those that he arrested. The scum of the street. The dealers and the killers. Those that stalked and defiled. The beasts of the city. He could connect with them. He understood the hatred that was directed towards them. He started working the system. Those that truly appealed to him, he let free, or as free as one could be once caught and tagged. Assistance was given to those that understood him, and in return, he learned what it was like to be them. In return for his humanity (Or lack thereof,) Roland was taught how to properly produce the chemicals and drugs that were so highly regarded in the underbelly of the city which he called home. He learned from the tainted minds that ran the crooked, beautiful world of the night. Trust was earned between groups, and from that, he gained friends. They might not have been the best that humanity had to offer, but they were what he craved the most. While one world shunned him, another accepted him. And this made him happy. For the last three years, thanks to his new found skills, Roland has managed to acquire a modest sum of wealth. Enough to comfortably retire some distant day. But one day, on the eve of his 47th birthday, Roland let his guard down. And then his world came crashing down. A superior officer found out what he did in his spare time, and from that, Roland's web of lies began to unravel. His apartment was searched, ransacked, and put under watch. In it, police found both his stash of dirty money, and his extensive list of contacts, deals made, and those falsely let out of custody. From that, they were able to find and arrest many of Roland's former friends and business partners. He was now alone. While evading the police, Roland was fired upon by two former workplace associates. Although he was hit multiple times, Roland managed to return fire and escape. He went to the only place he knew he would be safe, at least for the time being. Ben Jawson. Riddled with bullet holes, and heavily bleeding, Roland reached his only remaining ally's home, and promptly passed out.
Cricket: Claire Sharp Inspect room an arms in detail. How robot do they look? What kind of ammunition does this gun use? I'm a pro on guns, I've read all the wikipedia pages. - 7 Time to put those nightly hours spent on wikipedia to good use! On your right arm is a small sliding button, which upon moving it ejects the still loaded magazine. It bears similarities to the one from a P90, with bullets perpendicular to the barrel and a rotator at the end. There are ten holes to indicated the amount of ammo left. You take out one bullet and examine it. The rim reads: 10mm Auto. Wikipedia has thought you that this well known high power cartridge was meant for semi automatic recoil operated pistols. You put the magazine back into your arm where it fits flush. The barrel runs along the length of your lower arm and must be a good 9 to 10 inches. In your palm is diaphragm that opens to reveal the barrel when you angle your hand back. On the side of your arm is a folding charging handle. You decided to leave the weapon in a safe state for now and soon figure out a way to trigger the gun.
Name: Claire Sharp Passive abilities: Computer geek: You have a 50% higher chance when attempting any action involving a computer. Inconspicuous: Unless they're looking for you people won't notice you. Unless you're doing something obviously out of the ordinary. Augmentations: Adrenaline Injectors Bionic arm, Pistol 10/11-0 (right) Bionic arm, Heavy duty (left) Sex: Female Age: 20 Appearance: Pale skin, grey eyes, and long black hair that reaches halfway down her back. 5 feet 3 inches (160 cm). Her hair is usually a mess, purple bags under blood-shot eyes, and smile lines that make her look older than she actually is. Most of her time spent at a computer desk, in a classroom, and at a cash register has left her with a less-than-adequate diet and a lack of exercise, resulting in a thin body not suited for physical labor. For school she wears a wrinkled button down shirt and khakis, and for work, a blue polo shirt with khakis. Not a very diverse wardrobe. Occupation: College student/supermarket cashier Backstory: Raised by her father for as long as she can remember, Claire was an okay child. She went to school, got good grades, and stayed up til the crack of dawn messing around with the computer. Being the single child of a working parent, she never suffered from the whole "parents ruining my life" thing that the rest of her classmates seem to have to deal with, and her knack for programming and inability to get a good rest has granted her the ability to instantly fall asleep anywhere, and then wake up at a whisper of her name. Math and science were always easy, and it never took more than a minute to learn a new concept even when half asleep, though her ability to write coherent English papers wasn't exactly up to par, even at full capacity. Claire had maybe one or two people that considered her a "friend," but unless if they were asking a question concerning her areas of expertise, her response would be a simple stare with partially closed eyes. To everyone else, she was "that sleeping girl" that wasn't even worth throwing a crumpled piece of paper at, let alone socializing with. After finishing high school, her father gave her two options: She pays for her college and he pays for her living expenses, or she pays for the living expenses and he pays for college. She went with the cheaper option, and moved into a cheap one-person apartment and worked at the nearby supermarket for money. For transportation, she uses a robust 7-gear mountain bike with DIY-looking electric motor setup and rechargeable battery, good enough to get her from home to school to work and then back home with power to spare. If the battery for some reason goes out like that one time when she forgot to recharge it, her legs can pedal with enough strength to go a little faster than a jog. For keeping things in, a mailbag. Her father used to work for the post office and gave her a bag as a present for one of her birthdays. Holds all of her things, and it's one of the few things that she double-checks to make sure she has with her and ready to go. The other being the bike's battery recharging, because ♥♥♥♥ peddling. And finally, her keys, which includes the key to her apartment, the key to her father's house, a swiss army knife, an LED flashlight keychain, a USB flash drive, a pepper spray keychain because, well, you never know, and finally a carabiner clip to attach to her belt. The last of the things that she makes sure to double-check, because getting into your apartment is important.
Moggles: Ryker Whirlow "What." Attempt to change skin color at will. - 6 "Chameleonic skin eh? Let's see how that works." You hold your now completely natural looking had up and think really hard about changing it's colour. Nothing happens. "So that's not how." Your next attempt involves putting your hand back on the sheets and blending in. Within two seconds your skin has turned to a stark white and is nicely camouflaged against the bed. Content with this result you try to blend in with some of the metal in the room. The results are slightly less convincing. Your skin does match the colour perfectly but does not replicate texture very accurately. Maybe with practice you can remedy this.
Name: Ryker Whirlow Passive abilities: Classy: Wherever he goes, Ryker somehow always has an air of class around him. People will notice this. Street doctor: Being a doctor in New York is no easy feat. As such Ryker is able to attempt to heal any kind of wound, with a decent chance of success. Mutations: Projectile bones, palms Poison fangs Chameleonic skin Sex: Guy Age: 43 Appearance: A tall Caucasian man, standing at 6'5". He has a medium build - wide, with slumped shoulders. He's fairly muscular, but not in a bodybuilder sense, more in a working man sense. His haircut consists of well-trimmed hair that extends into a chinstrap beard which does not go over his mouth. He has a scar on his right temple, dark green eyes, a straight nose, and a very defined facial structure with a squarish (not absurdly square) jaw. He stands up straight 90% of the time. His outfit usually consists of dark brown slacks with a belt, a work shirt, and a brown leather bomber jacket handed down to him by his father. He often wears expensive sunglasses when he goes outside. Occupation: General Physician Backstory: Ryker was born to John Mc'Hale Whirlow and Linda Anne Mayel, his father being a mortician and bartender, his mother a manager at a fancy clothing store. Growing up, Ryker was fairly alone by choice, choosing to keep to himself rather than make many friends. He's not at all antisocial or anxious about social situations, he simply chose to avoid making friends with others. He gets along well with people, such as his coworkers and patients, though he can be abrasive and rude. Ryker never got along well with his father. John was an angry, sometimes abusive alcoholic to his wife, but never his son, who he tried to hide he and his wife's issues from. Because of this, Ryker grew to resent his father, despite [his father's] attempts to regain approval from his son. Linda was a very loving mother, and even in the face of an abusive husband, she did her best to make her son happy. While his father worked in the business of dead people, Ryker wanted to save lives instead, almost in an act of defiance. He started college at the age of 20. His parents funded his undergraduate work and 4 years of medschool, but it put them in a lot of debt. In an attempt to pay off his debts, John got involved in some Bad Things and went missing, presumed dead. His mother is still alive, and lives by herself in a small apartment. At 29, Ryker began an internship at a local hospital, and did 6 years of understudy from senior doctors. At 35, he finally finished all his studies and became a General Physician. He has worked at [name of new york hospital] for 13 years. Despite being a doctor, Ryker smokes and drinks, likely from influence from his father. He started smoking at 26 and drinking at 19. He tries to do both in moderation, in acknowledgement of the health risks, but he has some issues with that. He typically prefers to smoke cigars. He now lives in a comfortable apartment in a large highrise, by himself. He likes to hunt and travels to Canada to hunt bear, elk, and various birds annually. His preferred method of transport is an inexpensive red truck, which he's had for 8 years. It isn't doing well. He wears driving gloves when he drives, because he's an ♥♥♥hole like that. Ryker is beginning to suffer the effects of age and his addictions, and is generally more and more fatigued as the years go on.
NEW MECHANIC: Guns use the following indication for ammo: Rounds loaded/maximum rounds loaded(includes the one in the chamber) - extra ammo carried.
Sat Feb 22, 2014 9:40 pm
caekdaemon
Data Realms Elite
Joined: Sun Nov 01, 2009 3:00 pm Posts: 4144 Location: Hell.
Re: Roll to Dodge: Not so normal life. READ FIRST POST
Sneak around the building, try to find out where the hell I am. Also try to find a way to get rid of the extra arms.
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Re: Roll to Dodge: Not so normal life. Let the games begin!
