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[Ultimate RADlands] Bad Moon Rising [Babblepunk] Mutton Sliders
DE?AD
Registered User regular
Registered User regular
The city is packed. Above the throbbing lines of traffic, the sky is swirls with dark grey clouds. No rain, just... clouds. It’s been like this for nearly two days, now. The weatherman calls it “strange” and “unseasonable”. Most people just call it bullshit.
There was a scare, a few days ago - an earthquake in Euclid knocked out power for a good five hours. Then there was that tornado in LA, which didn’t do any damage itself, but did cue nearly a full day of looting. Add that to all the shit that happened in Japan, and suddenly it seems like there’s more than just the usual crazies screaming about the end of days.
It’s sweltering, the cloud-cover having turned the spring warmth into a choking humidity. The honks and muffled complaints bounce off the taller buildings, the heat and noise, the smell of sweat and hot metal, the dull gray sunlight filtering down through the haze all fading to a dull, annoying gray. It’s sort of miserable.
Leaning back in the cabin of his semi, Arthur Colmsby undoes the a few more buttons on his plaid flannel shirt, readjusts his bulk, and twists the stereo knob. “You’re listening to WHLK, The Lake - playing all the biggest hits from yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Up next-”
2:37. Henry Steadman is late. The whir of his sedan’s air conditioning protects him from the heat, but it can’t save him from the traffic. It’s impossible to tell what’s even causing it, the radio’s not mentioning any accidents. He was supposed to be at the museum by half-past. So much for that now. The U-Haul ahead of him lurches to a halt, its trailer swaying back and forth for a moment before settling. 2:38.
From above, the cloud-cover is a plane of swirling gray, a storm as wide as the city, on a perfectly clear day. The Cessna whirrs and sputters, circling over the gray mass, flying smoothly in the strangely still air. Chet glances back as his passenger leans out the door, his harness going taught.
James snaps several shots of the sky-scrapers rising up through the haze. In one image, a man is visible on the top floor, pointing at something in the cloud.
Dan’s jeep rattles to a stop beside the wrought iron gate of the University, the long-suffering engine hissing and popping as it cools down. It was the sort of reliable that small towns are built on - never breaking down, but never quite working properly either. A scrawny girl with a mohawk raises a pierced eyebrow at him as he steps out of the vehicle. It might’ve been the Sheriff’s uniform, it might’ve been the hat.
It was probably the hat.
On campus, the heat may have scared away the hackey-sackers, but Ultimate Frisbee continues on undaunted, albeit with fewer shirts. They dart and weave through the shade of the grounds’ trees, satyrs in khaki shorts and puka-shell necklaces. Jayce is dominating. He kicks off a tree and snatches the disk from the air, pausing to grin at the two girls on the bench beside the path.
Michelle and Ashley shoot each other looks.
Across the way, Gary "Cobalt" Steele stares curiously at the screen of his laptop as its list of wireless networks dwindles to nothing.
Chuck and Jimmy should not be here. They tip-toe around the corner, slipping by a security guard and ducking below the red velvet ropes. The heat and humidity could not pierce the rigidly controlled environment of the museum, but the eerie silence and sluggish movement of the adults proves that the weather’s effects are still felt. Past stone boobies and pictures of lions eating dudes, the two boys slink into the secondary exhibition hall - they have no time for distractions. They are on a mission.
In the east wing, Oscar’s hands grip the handle of his mop, white knuckled under his plastic gloves. Field trip, and one of the children was so scared at the sight of the wax cavemen that he lost control of his bodily functions. The mop slides across the floor, metal bracing scraping against tile. The music piping through his ear-buds crackles. In his pocket, the mp3 player’s screen flickers.
High, high above, Dustin untethers himself from his seat and drifts to the window. It hangs there, shimmering blue and green, bigger than anything. His eyes catch movement along the curve of it, gray swirls, faint, barely visible. On the console behind him, a red light clicks on, and the sirens begin.
Marcus watches the waters over the rim of his coffee mug. The sky was grey, and the lake was dead. Water flat as glass and just as reflective, the mirrored clouds strangely silver on the surface. No boats were out. No one would be in this weather. His first mate glances out at the water, then back to him. “Eerie, isn’t it?” he says with a dumb grin and an elbow to the side.
A small plane circles overhead, and Marcus takes another sip.
Richard Anderson was not strictly required here. No one was injured, exactly, just dead. The little garage was burned nearly to the ground before the firemen could even get there. The place was soaked in kerosene, every last inch. Hell, they were keeping them around because they were worried it might still go up - something about gas in the air. A big fire-fighter by the name of Crabbe had explained it, but Richard hadn’t really been listening - it was already too damn hot in this city, and standing in a burned-out house wasn’t helping.
A man in a suit and sunglasses was examining the body, or what was left of it. A human being reduced to a burnt little spindle of bone and flesh, strung up on a steel bar. Fifth in the last month, Kane knew, but it was being kept quite. Tension in the city was already up. He glanced down at the piles of ash below the corpse. Wood, likely. It was absurd. Something this awful happening...
...and in Mayfield of all places.
Manhattan is freezing. It should be snowing, but, instead, rain trails down the thick, tracing strange lines through the frost on the wide, east-facing dining room windows of the penthouse. Below, water slides across the ice that clings to the gutters and sidewalks below. There’s still people on the streets - this is New York - but they move slowly, and keep their distance from one another in the haze.
“Dreadful isn’t it? Just miserable.” Elize stares down at the city over the edge of her martini glass. Ice rattles against delicate glass - hers and a dozen others. People mill about the living room, looking with intense interest at each of the pieces put up on display there. Massaging their chins, nodding, and whispering small things to one another. Everyone wears black or white, formal attire, very respectable. Elize wears lime, and her eyeshadow matches. “Do not be so down! Ze weather may be bullshit, but zis is your big moment, Ma-Ka-Li!” She nods to the crowd. “All zese people here to bask in your glory.” She cocks an eyebrow and grins. The frost cracks and pops against the window.
“Thank you for coming to collect her, Officer McGee,” the dean says curtly. He glares at Sydney for a moment before turning back to her father. “...good luck.” He adds, closing the door just slowly enough so as not to qualify as a slam. A young man with a black eye and a beige polo shirt glares at the red-headed teen as Dan escorts her from the office.
Henry’s cell phone dies in his hand. He could’ve sworn he just charged it. Five blocks away and hours to go. The traffic light at the end of the street begins to flicker. The U-Haul ahead rumbles and begins to accelerate into the intersection. It seems the driver has had enough. Perhaps this won’t take forever after all.
The small silver spoon chimes against the glass. In the penthouse, all eyes turn to look at Elize. “Attention, e-very-one!” She beams. She waves her hand toward Makali, the emerald rings on her fingers throwing light wildly around the room. “Ze man of ze hour, our host and honored guest, Mr. Ma-ka-li-” she pauses, her eyes widen, her face pale and blank. Her shoulders lurch.
Outside, raindrops the size of golf balls slap onto the asphalt.
Above Mayfield, the clouds thrum. On the twenty-first floor of the Mayfield Tower, an office temp finds the windows rattling. Silver light glints off the trembling panes.
In the museum, Oscar glances down at the muddy brown water filling his bucket. It ripple, the soap-bubbles popping in unison.
The Cessna bucks suddenly, a strange whistle coursing through the cockpit. Before Chet can act, his instruments seize, the engine sputters once and dies. No smoke, no fire, no fanfare.
From the docks below, Marcus watches as the plane begins to drop. Marcus is already moving.
In Houston, several lights flash and then go out. Men scramble and scream into headsets for a few moments before a silence drops on the room. The project lead stands and bows his head.
Kruppe smiles and nods at a student as he leaves his office, suitcase in his left hand, “World’s Best Teacher” mug in his right. She shoots him a wink and continues walking. Oh my.
Elize staggers backwards, glass still held high, but her posture drooping. “Ma-ka-li,” she whispers under her breath, wide eyes fixing on him. “It hurts.” The stem of her glass slips between her fingers, and the delicate item tumbles toward the ground.
A spark in the clouds above draws a frat boy’s attention, and his throw goes wide. Instinct and muscle carry Jayce after it, soaring through the air like a sweaty missile. Michelle and Ash watch it form the bench, close enough to see all the details, but not near enough to stop it.
Kruppe never stood a chance. The frat boy slams into him, and the two tumble to the ground. The professor’s coffee mug spins from his hand, dropping to the hard pavement of the footpath.
Kane follows the ambulance and firetrucks back toward the center of the city. The sky above sparks and flashes. Something is wrong. He turns and watches as a U-Haul pulls out into the intersection. Before Kane’s eyes can trace across the street, it’s already too late - the semi comes barreling through. The fatman behind the wheel spots the smaller truck, and slams on the brakes, but not fast enough.
Henry watches as the inevitable unfolds in front of him.
Elize snaps like a woman on the end of a noose, her body lurching into the air. Silver light rushes into the penthouse. There’s screaming, but it is short, and muddied by the singing of the radiance. The furniture is torn apart, disassembled, made into its components, and into its component’s components. The guests are simply burned away. The glow consumes them. Takes them to pieces. They are made as ash, and they flow to her, as her dress is cut from her, the material disintegrating in the air. Everything unmade. Everything destroyed but his sculptures.
The ash of the guests around her. For a moment Elize is herself, she kicks and screams silently against the din of perfect harmony. Then she is gone again, and the gleaming gray dust settles on her face. hardening into a half-mask of featureless, perfect gray, like impossibly polished ceramic. Blank and empty as her remaining human eye.
She drops to her feet, and Makali finds his back is against the cold window. Outside, car alarms sound, screams break out, and the roar of water rushing through the streets reaches him through the soles of his feet - bare now, like the rest of him, his clothes unmade.
The light swirls around her. Her hand lashes out, and Makali is beside her. Her green eyeshadow survives, mirrored now by the faint lime lines that trace across the reflections in her mask. They close around Makali’s image.
Her mouth does not move, and her eye does not show any hint of emotion, of understanding. When she speaks, her voice is like crystal ripping through flesh.
Makali. You will serve.
Chet and James brace as the plane hits the lake, water flooding into the cabin, the force knocking them from the vehicle. Marcus dives in after them, moving on instinct.
Dustin snaps to, his lungs screaming, his body aching. Steam curls off his skin, trailing out into the dark. Someplace small. Someplace metal. The shuttle? No. Light coming through the cracks. Cardboard boxes. A truck. Small. A moving van?
Cobalt slaps the side of his computer. It freezes for a moment, then shuts off. His eyes raise to see the frat boy plow into the professor.
Kruppe stretches out a hand, but he’s pinned, and momentum carried it too far away. The mug hits the ground.
Chuck and Jimmy step in the exhibition hall, passing below the wide advertising the upcoming exhibit, all horsemen and fur helmets. She sits in front of a suit of ancient armor, kept safely behind thin glass, seeming massive next to her. She clutches her knees to her chest, her bright pink cell phone lying dead on the ground beside her, her shoulders bobbing as she sobs.
Cassandra Steadman looks up as the boys enter, a single blue eye poking through the curtain of blonde hair. “He’s late.” She presses a hand to her head. “He’s late and it hurts.”
Silver light flickers around her, pooling around her feet. There is a pulse of air, and all glass in the museum shatters, dropping to the ground in great shards.
The semi side-swipes the U-Haul, crushing the smaller vehicle’s cabin. The shattered cabin slips under the sixteen-wheeler’s front axle, and the truck is launched up, spinning through the air before crashing back to the earth, throwing its doors open and tossing its driver through the windshield.
Arthur Colmsby slaps against the asphalt and skids to a stop, motionless. Music from the cabin filters out onto the street as the bystanders begin to climb from their cars. In the hot, choking air, bottled by the cloud cover that now churns and sparks overhead, the music spreads out across the intersection.
There was a scare, a few days ago - an earthquake in Euclid knocked out power for a good five hours. Then there was that tornado in LA, which didn’t do any damage itself, but did cue nearly a full day of looting. Add that to all the shit that happened in Japan, and suddenly it seems like there’s more than just the usual crazies screaming about the end of days.
It’s sweltering, the cloud-cover having turned the spring warmth into a choking humidity. The honks and muffled complaints bounce off the taller buildings, the heat and noise, the smell of sweat and hot metal, the dull gray sunlight filtering down through the haze all fading to a dull, annoying gray. It’s sort of miserable.
Leaning back in the cabin of his semi, Arthur Colmsby undoes the a few more buttons on his plaid flannel shirt, readjusts his bulk, and twists the stereo knob. “You’re listening to WHLK, The Lake - playing all the biggest hits from yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Up next-”
2:37. Henry Steadman is late. The whir of his sedan’s air conditioning protects him from the heat, but it can’t save him from the traffic. It’s impossible to tell what’s even causing it, the radio’s not mentioning any accidents. He was supposed to be at the museum by half-past. So much for that now. The U-Haul ahead of him lurches to a halt, its trailer swaying back and forth for a moment before settling. 2:38.
From above, the cloud-cover is a plane of swirling gray, a storm as wide as the city, on a perfectly clear day. The Cessna whirrs and sputters, circling over the gray mass, flying smoothly in the strangely still air. Chet glances back as his passenger leans out the door, his harness going taught.
James snaps several shots of the sky-scrapers rising up through the haze. In one image, a man is visible on the top floor, pointing at something in the cloud.
Dan’s jeep rattles to a stop beside the wrought iron gate of the University, the long-suffering engine hissing and popping as it cools down. It was the sort of reliable that small towns are built on - never breaking down, but never quite working properly either. A scrawny girl with a mohawk raises a pierced eyebrow at him as he steps out of the vehicle. It might’ve been the Sheriff’s uniform, it might’ve been the hat.
It was probably the hat.
On campus, the heat may have scared away the hackey-sackers, but Ultimate Frisbee continues on undaunted, albeit with fewer shirts. They dart and weave through the shade of the grounds’ trees, satyrs in khaki shorts and puka-shell necklaces. Jayce is dominating. He kicks off a tree and snatches the disk from the air, pausing to grin at the two girls on the bench beside the path.
Michelle and Ashley shoot each other looks.
Across the way, Gary "Cobalt" Steele stares curiously at the screen of his laptop as its list of wireless networks dwindles to nothing.
Chuck and Jimmy should not be here. They tip-toe around the corner, slipping by a security guard and ducking below the red velvet ropes. The heat and humidity could not pierce the rigidly controlled environment of the museum, but the eerie silence and sluggish movement of the adults proves that the weather’s effects are still felt. Past stone boobies and pictures of lions eating dudes, the two boys slink into the secondary exhibition hall - they have no time for distractions. They are on a mission.
In the east wing, Oscar’s hands grip the handle of his mop, white knuckled under his plastic gloves. Field trip, and one of the children was so scared at the sight of the wax cavemen that he lost control of his bodily functions. The mop slides across the floor, metal bracing scraping against tile. The music piping through his ear-buds crackles. In his pocket, the mp3 player’s screen flickers.
High, high above, Dustin untethers himself from his seat and drifts to the window. It hangs there, shimmering blue and green, bigger than anything. His eyes catch movement along the curve of it, gray swirls, faint, barely visible. On the console behind him, a red light clicks on, and the sirens begin.
Marcus watches the waters over the rim of his coffee mug. The sky was grey, and the lake was dead. Water flat as glass and just as reflective, the mirrored clouds strangely silver on the surface. No boats were out. No one would be in this weather. His first mate glances out at the water, then back to him. “Eerie, isn’t it?” he says with a dumb grin and an elbow to the side.
A small plane circles overhead, and Marcus takes another sip.
Richard Anderson was not strictly required here. No one was injured, exactly, just dead. The little garage was burned nearly to the ground before the firemen could even get there. The place was soaked in kerosene, every last inch. Hell, they were keeping them around because they were worried it might still go up - something about gas in the air. A big fire-fighter by the name of Crabbe had explained it, but Richard hadn’t really been listening - it was already too damn hot in this city, and standing in a burned-out house wasn’t helping.
A man in a suit and sunglasses was examining the body, or what was left of it. A human being reduced to a burnt little spindle of bone and flesh, strung up on a steel bar. Fifth in the last month, Kane knew, but it was being kept quite. Tension in the city was already up. He glanced down at the piles of ash below the corpse. Wood, likely. It was absurd. Something this awful happening...
...and in Mayfield of all places.
Manhattan is freezing. It should be snowing, but, instead, rain trails down the thick, tracing strange lines through the frost on the wide, east-facing dining room windows of the penthouse. Below, water slides across the ice that clings to the gutters and sidewalks below. There’s still people on the streets - this is New York - but they move slowly, and keep their distance from one another in the haze.
“Dreadful isn’t it? Just miserable.” Elize stares down at the city over the edge of her martini glass. Ice rattles against delicate glass - hers and a dozen others. People mill about the living room, looking with intense interest at each of the pieces put up on display there. Massaging their chins, nodding, and whispering small things to one another. Everyone wears black or white, formal attire, very respectable. Elize wears lime, and her eyeshadow matches. “Do not be so down! Ze weather may be bullshit, but zis is your big moment, Ma-Ka-Li!” She nods to the crowd. “All zese people here to bask in your glory.” She cocks an eyebrow and grins. The frost cracks and pops against the window.
“Thank you for coming to collect her, Officer McGee,” the dean says curtly. He glares at Sydney for a moment before turning back to her father. “...good luck.” He adds, closing the door just slowly enough so as not to qualify as a slam. A young man with a black eye and a beige polo shirt glares at the red-headed teen as Dan escorts her from the office.
Henry’s cell phone dies in his hand. He could’ve sworn he just charged it. Five blocks away and hours to go. The traffic light at the end of the street begins to flicker. The U-Haul ahead rumbles and begins to accelerate into the intersection. It seems the driver has had enough. Perhaps this won’t take forever after all.
The small silver spoon chimes against the glass. In the penthouse, all eyes turn to look at Elize. “Attention, e-very-one!” She beams. She waves her hand toward Makali, the emerald rings on her fingers throwing light wildly around the room. “Ze man of ze hour, our host and honored guest, Mr. Ma-ka-li-” she pauses, her eyes widen, her face pale and blank. Her shoulders lurch.
Outside, raindrops the size of golf balls slap onto the asphalt.
Above Mayfield, the clouds thrum. On the twenty-first floor of the Mayfield Tower, an office temp finds the windows rattling. Silver light glints off the trembling panes.
In the museum, Oscar glances down at the muddy brown water filling his bucket. It ripple, the soap-bubbles popping in unison.
The Cessna bucks suddenly, a strange whistle coursing through the cockpit. Before Chet can act, his instruments seize, the engine sputters once and dies. No smoke, no fire, no fanfare.
From the docks below, Marcus watches as the plane begins to drop. Marcus is already moving.
In Houston, several lights flash and then go out. Men scramble and scream into headsets for a few moments before a silence drops on the room. The project lead stands and bows his head.
Kruppe smiles and nods at a student as he leaves his office, suitcase in his left hand, “World’s Best Teacher” mug in his right. She shoots him a wink and continues walking. Oh my.
Elize staggers backwards, glass still held high, but her posture drooping. “Ma-ka-li,” she whispers under her breath, wide eyes fixing on him. “It hurts.” The stem of her glass slips between her fingers, and the delicate item tumbles toward the ground.
A spark in the clouds above draws a frat boy’s attention, and his throw goes wide. Instinct and muscle carry Jayce after it, soaring through the air like a sweaty missile. Michelle and Ash watch it form the bench, close enough to see all the details, but not near enough to stop it.
Kruppe never stood a chance. The frat boy slams into him, and the two tumble to the ground. The professor’s coffee mug spins from his hand, dropping to the hard pavement of the footpath.
Kane follows the ambulance and firetrucks back toward the center of the city. The sky above sparks and flashes. Something is wrong. He turns and watches as a U-Haul pulls out into the intersection. Before Kane’s eyes can trace across the street, it’s already too late - the semi comes barreling through. The fatman behind the wheel spots the smaller truck, and slams on the brakes, but not fast enough.
Henry watches as the inevitable unfolds in front of him.
Elize snaps like a woman on the end of a noose, her body lurching into the air. Silver light rushes into the penthouse. There’s screaming, but it is short, and muddied by the singing of the radiance. The furniture is torn apart, disassembled, made into its components, and into its component’s components. The guests are simply burned away. The glow consumes them. Takes them to pieces. They are made as ash, and they flow to her, as her dress is cut from her, the material disintegrating in the air. Everything unmade. Everything destroyed but his sculptures.
The ash of the guests around her. For a moment Elize is herself, she kicks and screams silently against the din of perfect harmony. Then she is gone again, and the gleaming gray dust settles on her face. hardening into a half-mask of featureless, perfect gray, like impossibly polished ceramic. Blank and empty as her remaining human eye.
She drops to her feet, and Makali finds his back is against the cold window. Outside, car alarms sound, screams break out, and the roar of water rushing through the streets reaches him through the soles of his feet - bare now, like the rest of him, his clothes unmade.
The light swirls around her. Her hand lashes out, and Makali is beside her. Her green eyeshadow survives, mirrored now by the faint lime lines that trace across the reflections in her mask. They close around Makali’s image.
Her mouth does not move, and her eye does not show any hint of emotion, of understanding. When she speaks, her voice is like crystal ripping through flesh.
Makali. You will serve.
Chet and James brace as the plane hits the lake, water flooding into the cabin, the force knocking them from the vehicle. Marcus dives in after them, moving on instinct.
Dustin snaps to, his lungs screaming, his body aching. Steam curls off his skin, trailing out into the dark. Someplace small. Someplace metal. The shuttle? No. Light coming through the cracks. Cardboard boxes. A truck. Small. A moving van?
Cobalt slaps the side of his computer. It freezes for a moment, then shuts off. His eyes raise to see the frat boy plow into the professor.
Kruppe stretches out a hand, but he’s pinned, and momentum carried it too far away. The mug hits the ground.
Chuck and Jimmy step in the exhibition hall, passing below the wide advertising the upcoming exhibit, all horsemen and fur helmets. She sits in front of a suit of ancient armor, kept safely behind thin glass, seeming massive next to her. She clutches her knees to her chest, her bright pink cell phone lying dead on the ground beside her, her shoulders bobbing as she sobs.
Cassandra Steadman looks up as the boys enter, a single blue eye poking through the curtain of blonde hair. “He’s late.” She presses a hand to her head. “He’s late and it hurts.”
Silver light flickers around her, pooling around her feet. There is a pulse of air, and all glass in the museum shatters, dropping to the ground in great shards.
The semi side-swipes the U-Haul, crushing the smaller vehicle’s cabin. The shattered cabin slips under the sixteen-wheeler’s front axle, and the truck is launched up, spinning through the air before crashing back to the earth, throwing its doors open and tossing its driver through the windshield.
Arthur Colmsby slaps against the asphalt and skids to a stop, motionless. Music from the cabin filters out onto the street as the bystanders begin to climb from their cars. In the hot, choking air, bottled by the cloud cover that now churns and sparks overhead, the music spreads out across the intersection.
This is the way the world ends, not with a whimper, not with a bang...
…but with a crash.
…but with a crash.
[vidURL="
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4m1EFMoRFvY"]
[/vidURL]
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4m1EFMoRFvY"][/vidURL]
DE?AD on
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This discussion has been closed.
Posts
I put that whole thing on the Ultimate RADlands main page. Was going to add the logo, but it doesn't work so well on a white background.
Also, should we start thinking up posts or do you have some more set-up you want to do?
Steam
Groups are
[Street] Kane, Dusty, Henry, Richard, Crabbe
[Lake] Marcus, James, Chet
[Museum] James, Chuck, Oscar
[New York] Makali
Freakers have their powers, but don't know it yet.
That was Kruppe's favorite mug. Oh, well. No use crying over spilled ceramic. Now, to start the task of getting up.
"Pardon me, Mr. Watts, but could you please remove yourself?
Steam
Makali presses himself against the glass, his face aghast and frozen with shock. Slowly he lowers the arm raised to shield his face. He looks around the room with uncomprehending eyes. His heart continues to struggle wildly against its cage of bone.
"Elize..." He says quietly and takes a slow step towards his friend, "Elize is that you?" His hand trembles as he reaches out to touch the mask covering her face.
What spring does with the cherry trees.
Ash leaps from her spot on the bench and rushes over to Kruppe, fearing the worst. Jayce was moving pretty fast, and the poor history teacher wasn't the most durable of individuals.
"Professor, are you okay?" she asks, kneeling down beside him. "Does anything feel, like..." she pauses as she thinks of a less jargony way to put her question, "it's not bending the right way?"
Yeah, she'd have to work on her vocabulary.
Crap crap crap crap crap. Up! Which way is up? Need to be up. Up has air.
Chet swims toward the surface. Upon reaching the surface, Chet takes what he would later consider the best breath of air ever.
"James! Buddy! Where are you!?"
made some changes to chet, they look good de?ad?
I carefully remove my hands from the 8 and 4 position on the steering wheel, moving automatically to the parking brake which I yank into place and my seatbelt which I release. Checking the side-view mirror to make sure I'm not about to hit anybody with the same idea. I open the door and step one foot out of the air conditioned interior of the car to meet the muggy heat of the city, leaning out to better appraise the situation.
I realize I haven't breathed out since I saw the impact. I do so now, a hand snaking upwards unbidden to the knot of my tie, not so much an adjustment as a nervous, reassuring gesture.
I'm late.
The silver light begins to seep into the walls, the dust that remains of the furniture and the guests still beginning to settle into new shapes - angular, sweeping forms of polished, white metal.
Elize's face is blank. Lime lines flare across the reflection of her outstretched arm. Identity: human construct.
[Campus]
There is a sudden rumble, and a scream echoes out. A pulse of air whips across the grounds, as the museum on the far end of campus shakes, and begins to sink.
The frat boys halt in their rush to aid their fallen comrade, and turn to watch as the building begins to drop.
[Lake]
Darkness. No fish. Chet [96%/60%] tries to orient himself, but only manages to confuse his sense of direction more. His lungs are burning. Beside him, the plane drops into the murky gray. Chet's eyes catch sight of something horrid - James' tether is still connected to the craft.
Looks fine, Shabooty.
OKAY YES THIS IS PHENOMENAL DEAD I LOVE YOOUUUUU
just getting back into character :P
Michelle feels like she's been hit by a car. She's in shock, breathing heavily, blood pumping like crazy. She jumps off the bench and follows her friend. "What's going on, Ash?"
I am naked. A cough sputters out of Dusty's lungs. He covers his mouth with the crook of his elbow before he notices.
Should have moved by now. Condition still exists. The astronaut circles around before ripping a box open at random, searching for something to preserve his modesty, as well as multiple injuries born from exposure. Bingo. A brown hoodie, a pair of work slacks, thick kevlar gloves, boots, and boxers with matching socks were neatly folded on top of a cube of tightly packed bathroom supplies. "Just like- hrrck hrrrrlk. Ahrrm. Just like what I have at home."
Serendipity.
Putting on the clothing, he notices his reflection in a hand mirror and shudders at the image. "Right. Need face covering." Dusty looks down at the hoodie's pouch-pocket, noticing a bulge in the material. "You are kidding me." He slips his hand in, kevlar locking around and drawing out a pair of sun goggles completely indentical to the ones he had left aboard the shuttle, as well as an eerily familiar ski mask.
Too much serendipity.
Hood up, fully covered, and only vaguely aware of how ridiculous he would look in public, Dusty turns his attention to the back door of the U-Haul- a mechanism not designed to be opened from the inside. Finding a crowbar (something he didn't recognize from somewhere else, much to his relief), he wedges the tool into the space beneath the door and pushes with all his strength.
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One of the EMTs and a couple of the firefighters have already left their vehicles and are darting over to inspect the trucks' drivers, but, from where Henry stands, it does not look good.
A rumble rattles up through the soles of Henry's shoes. Another earthquake?
[9%/90% Dusty throws his weight against the crowbar, and the dented doors pop open easily.
Stupid, Captain Marcus "Skiff" Skiffen thought to himself, too old for this. Even at his age, Marcus remained a man of instinct, instinct that had forced him into the water through which he was currently swimming. Despite his years, his burly arms pulled him easily through the lake-water, his movements smooth and easy, his old lungs filled with air. Being in the water was natural for him. Always was.
Marcus's eyes were locked on the cabin of the Cessna, plummeting ever deeper into the lake. As he approached closer, the shapes of two men became clear to him -- presumably the pilot and a passenger, one evidently tethered to the sinking aircraft. Marcus pulled himself towards the tied man, trying to wrench him free.
"I'm fine Ms. O'Neill just ne-," A noise wafts from the museum, "what was that?"
Kruppe gives scrambling out from under the strangely quiet frat-boy a try.
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He continues to stare, "A what? What? Where are the guests? What have you done to Elize?" Tears begin to fall unevenly down the artist's pretty face. He grabs a bunch of his shoulder-length black hair in his hand and inhales sharply, wondering if he was losing his mind.
"Ah Jesus Ellie..." He sees her human eye watching him and a flash of illogical anger explodes within him. I always hated that shade of lime. He rushes forward and raises his hand, bringing it around to slap the creature in the face. "Let her go, you trash!"
What spring does with the cherry trees.
Dan takes his hat off for a moment, scratching his head as he walks his daughter towards the jeep. He sighs. "Again, Syd? Can't you find a better way to..." How had the counselor put it? "...handle your emotions? Somethin' better then fighting?" He put the hat back on, trying not to smirk. "That was a pretty good shiner he had..." He harrumphed suddenly. "That's not the point..." A rumble interrupts him.
"What in the hell?" A boy and a professor were on the ground, but that wasn't what caught Dan's attention. The museum appeared to be sinking into the ground. "Go to the car and stay there!" He tells Syd and begins hurrying towards the commotion. This wasn't right.
"Blub!*"
Chet swims after James. He pulls at the tether, trying to find a way to free James from the sinking plane.
*James!
"Hopefully nothing major. Just Jayce being a goof aga--"
Until she had decided to turn her head toward her friend, she hadn't even noticed that anything else was wrong. Too focused on making sure Kruppe was okay. But as her eyes locked on the sinking museum, she suddenly understood what her friend was actually asking.
"Oh...oh, Jesus Christ. 'Chelle, call 9-1-1. I'll help the professor up. Just...just don't go into any buildings, okay? If this is an earthquake, we'll be safer outdoors."
"Hell's bells!" Oscar cried out, leaping backwards as the glass all around him shattered spectacularly. The dilute sewage filling his mop bucket sloshed around violently as it rocketed backwards, spilling brown wastewater all along the hems of his jumpsuit. He cursed silently. The jumpsuit was a prized possession. The curator had insisted that he could wear his "civvies" to work, but Kaiser saw that for what it was: an attempt to undermine his authority. A uniform was important, a symbol of his station. People respected his symbols. It was important that the patrons knew whose symbols they could look up to, to trust. Symbols. He absentmindedly scratched himself.
There sure was a lot of glass that needed cleaning up. He told the curator that a museum on a faultline was a bad idea. No faultline anywhere near here. Pfffft. Yup. Lot of glass...
"I bet the teachers need help calming those kids down. I better go lend my expertise." Oscar wandered off, glass crunching underfoot.
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"G-Got it." Michelle pulls out her smartphone and hurriedly dials 911. It takes her a few seconds, she's jittering badly.
Dusty half-rolls out the door, landing on his side on top of asphalt, the crowbar clattering next to his head. Disorientated by the light and shaking, he stands up, his fingers brushing by the bar and pinching around the metal. He was starving, he realized. Thankfully, he had been equipped with a hydration unit before the crash, otherwise he would be dead.
"Wh-where am I?" he manages to say, as the ground starts to shake.
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Cobalt rolls his eyes at the sight of Jayce bowling into the professor. Jocks. Shaking his head he turns his attention back to his laptop, trying to discern what the problem was. He's distracted suddenly as the ground begins to rumble, and looks up to see the museum slowly sinking.
"What the hell?"
I still like the idea of having a callback to the carbosillicate arm, so I am going to suggest that Cobalt lost his right arm up to the elbow in a car accident when he was little and wears a prosthetic.
http://www.audioentropy.com/
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I look down at my foot, having just registered the first tremors. Leg jitters from nervousness maybe? Hopefully? No. No, it was not. I close my eyes.
It takes me 2 minutes and 45 seconds to walk one city block. At a sustainable jog, that would be reduced to roughly 1 minute and 30 seconds per block. I would be able to reach the Museum in less than 8 minutes given enough leeway. With congested sidewalks, add another 5 minutes at most.
The average lethal traffic intersection, even with ideal response time from emergency personnel, is in excess of an hour in my experience, and can often be up to two or three hours. That is without a possible earthquake warning soon to be in effect.
...The answer is very, very clear. I lean in to remove my keys from the ignition and grab my bag. I'll worry about the repercussions later.
[50%/70%] Marcus braces himself against the craft and hauls on the tether, tearing it from its anchor. The pilot tries to help, but doesn't do much - still, shows a good spirit.
[Campus]
Kruppe frees himself from the stunned frat boy just in time to see a man in a sheriff's hat dart past, moving toward the museum. The ground is quaking, the trees swaying wildly.
Dan moves toward the museum, and is hit by a wave of students running the other way. Bits of startled conversation hit his ears between bouts of confused screams - "-sinking into the ground!" "-the windows just burst-" "-school bus outside-"
Michelle grabs her phone. It sparks angrily in her hand. Weird, it's battery wasn't full this morning. No that it matters - there's no signal.
[New York]
[97%/10%] The hand is stopped by silver light. Makali feels his skin peeling away into dust.
Converted. A ripple of green over the mask. Essential materials taken. It waves Elize's hand toward the ash settling around the room. Non-essential converted to useful. It takes a step forward, and Makali moves with it, lifted from the ground by the radiance. Elize's eye narrows as a lime reticule tightens around his reflection in her mask. Host partial to you. Cooperative on request of your safety. Your existence: Convenient. You will serve. It's voice rattles in Makali's skull. Comprehend?
[Museum]
Oscar turns to find the children as the museum lurches, and the floor suddenly takes on a forty-five degree angle. There's a scream from the general direction of the field trip (East Wing, Dinosaurs), and the lights go out. Oscar tries to keep his footing on the slanted, wet tile [90%/40%], but he finds himself unable to. He lands hard on the soapy floor, and begins sliding toward the east side of the room, slamming into the diorama of a saber-tooth tiger family.
[Streets]
An EMT checking the cabin of the U-Haul spots Dustin climbing from its trailer and rushes over to inspect him. A hand slaps down on Dustin's shoulder, and a flashlight is promptly shone in his eyes. "Sir? Sir, are you alright?"
Henry grabs his car keys and begins to leave, shouldering his way through the on-lookers (panic seems to be rising among them, but shock still has a decent hold for the moment). There is a loud crash from somewhere above. Tinkling glass. "Excuse me, sir?" a man calls from behind him. A firefighter breaks through the crowd, moving toward him.
Sounds good, Speed.
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Michelle pockets her phone with a scowl. "A-Ash? There's no signal. What should we do?"
Everyone but Makali is in Mayfield.
The Mayfield Museum of Natural History actually abuts the Mayfield University campus.
http://www.audioentropy.com/
Richard skids to a stop beside the body of the man thrown from the semi. Falling to his knees, he begins to check his vitals.
"You hear me, chief? C'mon, wake up. You're gonna be just fine." His voice only cracks a little.
Better not to cue a medical examination at the moment. Need to sort things out. "I am fine. Suffered no-" he glances toward the ruined cab, catching the plates on the rear bumper. Mayfield. "No damage from the crash. Better turn your attention to someone else in need. I was hitching a ride. Am fine."
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Much better. Kruppe gives his extremities a quick once over, and, finding nothing broken, begins to stride over to the museum.
Do I still have my suitcase? Yes. Good.
"Ms. O'Neill, Ms. Tallon, please come and help me make sure everyone in the museum is uninjured."
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