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An FFA

Dust hangs in a perpetual curtain over the bombed-out shell of a city. Looking out windows is like peering into an old sepia-tone movie, but your eyes adjust after a time to see everything in earth-tones and you forget what color is so that in a downpour, when the dusts are beaten down to the muddied grounds and the buildings and windows washed of their film, it is as if your eyes, too, have been cleansed and for the first time in your life you can see.

Buildings sag in the middle of this desert as the sun edges up from the horizon, this desert that is itself the world, seems to span on and on and forever. Streets straight-line and angle themselves into each other between the structures, fading into straggling rock at the edges of things before picking their way into the edge of the world, and cars dot it and sputter to life on it as dark men and women come out of their big buildings to go to work in bigger buildings, hoping that the car behind them or in front of them isn’t going to crash into a storefront and explode in a plume of fire and smoke and shattered bodies. Some stop at their local haunts for coffee or stand by their car inhaling the fumes of a cigarette, staring with furrowed brows into that half of a coin sliding up the sky, sweat beading in their skin and making them uncomfortable in their formals.

So the city begins to stretch awake, and the sun edges up from the horizon, and from one of the tallest buildings in the city watches a machine from the desert, more ancient than the oldest surviving religions in the city, and there are many more of him, many more, but he just watches from perfect solitude of a head-executive’s office-window. Behind him blood stains a massive desk, and a man lays face down dressed in his finest funeral attire, the skin of his neck flayed unnaturally outwards.

He watches and waits for something to happen.

From the point of view of this odd machine your vision snipes into a pinprick down below and you leave him behind. Instead there is a man strolling the streets in a dark blue suit worn languidly – dress-shirt open, tie hanging loose to the side – with black hair tussled with sand, stuck there as if by dried salt-water. He walks, and there seems to be an inquisitive pep in his step, and he passes a block of curious shops and he wonders just where he has found himself now, detached from the divinity of his satellites and his homeland.


OoC: Okay, so we kind of have a desert-city setting going on here, grabbed the idea from that MGS4 gameplay trailer with all its beautiful textures and such. But this city is smack dab in the middle of a desert with a few streets branching off into God knows where. So basically have at it, everyone. And there is a surprise waiting in the wings for later.

*CLANG*

His heavy boots did not even try to be silent. Walking around in layer upon layer of armor, metal from to to neck, it was a laughable objective. He step carefully and be relatively quiet, but why bother? Helmet, the only part of him that was not multi layered, under one arm he strolled casually threw the streets. He got a few odd looks, more for his age then his armor. A young man might be passable, some kid going to some event or another, this only a stop on the way. Maybe just a cry for attention.

This man, fit as he obviously was to walk around clad in what looked to be iron, was in his mid to late fifties. Most ignored him and went on there way soon after. He wasn't bothering anybody. Most he could be said to have done was give some street merchants false hope as he looked over they're various wares. Most of it was to gaudy, not gaudy enough, or just did not catch his steel grey eyes. He always like to bring the grandkids something shiny when he went back home.

(OoC: Was hoping more people would've joined in by now, but it's all good. Post coming tomorrow, likely. Anyone can feel free to jump in at anytime.)

Raji watched the city from the safety of the top of a building. So far, two people had joined and it looked like they were going to fight. "I love the smell of fighting in the morning." Raji said to himself, grinning slightly. "I think I'll join."


Raji jumped from the building top and landed on his feet. He looked around. No attacks had been done yet. "Good." Raji said. "I came here just in time." The young warrior then drew his sword and waited for someone to attack.

James cruises along the desert roads forever and on, it’s all he knows and by then he has an inkling in the back of his mind that he’s crossed over, so he bring his jeep to a halt and turns off the Black Keys record playing in its old stereo system and listens for that telltale buzzing at the end of one land’s time and the beginning of another’s – it leaks into your life in the spaces when you just listen and all other sounds fades away, sounding like a synthesizer burning air. He hears it and a rush fills him now that he’s done it, but then he looks around for the first time, really looks instead of staring into the horizon, and sees that he is only surrounded by sand, and the heat presses down on him anew. He starts the engine, prays in the space between it turning past and it kicking to life, and jams on the gas, switching the Keys album out for a White Stripes album as he weaves forever and on along the winding desert road.

Somewhere along the journey, the points where you’re not sure you were awake, information swells like a tumor in his brain and he knows Lachlan has sent him what he needs to know, all his gathering from his time spent under the sands. James sorts everything out as he sees the city and it grows in detail, is thinking about key points and the more shocking phrases littered in Lachlan’s thought-parsel as he slaps himself to stay awake upon breaking past the first building. He thinks, and has no idea where to go, and curses his partner – calling him out here and not even giving him somewhere to stay.

But then, James thinks, he probably wasn’t out here to languish in a hotel room.

He sees a hurtling shape out of the corner of his eye, tracing a fall down the side of a building, and with a start he realizes the dark shape is a man. He cringes as the man hits the ground, but is even more startled when he sees him from a distance rise up like a robot and draw out a blade, scaring people away who had been already traumatized from his sharp descent.

“Jesus Christ,” James mutters, “I think he’s one of them.”

James’s instincts are frayed with all of Lachlan’s packaged thoughts brewing around in his head, and he finds himself in an almost drunken stupor as he parallel parks on a sidewalk two blocks from the man. He thinks he understands, knows more than the few people around him, the many gawking and backing away from the man, and this fills him with a certain sense of knowing pride as he closes the two-block gulf between him and what he believe is one of many enemies. His eyes stray for a moment under blue sunglasses, and he hears before he sees a towering man in clanking armor making his way through what is the shopping district of the town. His suspicion grows as he notes the connection between the man with the sword and the armored man, the first eyeing the second.

James inspects himself, noting the belt slung over the end of his button-down shirt on which he strapped a scabbard before jumping out of his car. The scabbard resonates with him, and he feels safe out on his own, so as he crosses the few feet left between he and the man who had jumped (fallen?), as he nudges past the few startled onlookers, he draws a sleek rapier from his side and slides it across the man’s blade, and says, “So, man, what are you made of?”

His words don’t sound his own coming off his lips.

The old man turned, and ran. It was an impressive sight to see, proving with just how much ease the old man handled his burden. He knew the sound of panic, and usually what caused it. As his feet drummed and pounded at the ground the metal around his neck expanded, stretched, and formed into his helmet. He clasped his hands together and threw them apart, then grasped the newly formed spear that hard form between them.

It did not take him long to reach the two, blades drawn staring each other down in the manner common to swordsmen of skill. One in response to the presence of the other. Their expressions told him all he needed to know. He ran past James. He was not the source of panic, he drew secound

The aged warrior griped his spear in his left hand and swung, haft first the point nestled in his crook. Raji's blade went up and parried the strange strike.
"I am Knight. You have disturbed the peace. For that, you die."
As the armored fist struck him squarely in the ribs, Raji realized just why such a useless strike had been the first blow. He left his right open.

The sword wielder tried to counter attack, but Knight stepped back, his armor taking the entire force of the slash in a shower of sparks. The spear pulled back, flipped and headed straight for his face, business end first.

Raji was on the ground clutching his ribcage in pain. He was supposed to be a master swordsman, yet he made such a novice mistake! He waited until the pain subsided and he got up.



"I'm not going down that easily!" Raji shouted. The young warrior then took out his sword and stepped back a few steps. He then charged towards Knight, shut his eyes and swung with all his might. As luck would have it, the blade connected with its target, causing a deep gash that covered a third of Knight's body.

Raji pulled his sword back, or rather tried as he found it was rather stuck.
"Children should not play with swords." Knight's deep voice echoed from within his helmet.

The aged warrior had many choices at the moment, he went with the simples. His metal covered head smashed into the youth's unprotected one. It was cold . Not the simple cold of iron, but that of iron in early winter. Raji cried out in pain and his free hand went to his ruined face. At least he knew better then to release his grip on his weapon. Unfortunately, as once before, he took his eyes off the armored one. Spears were not weapons for close range, so Knight's mace smashed into to the hand Raji was using to protect his shattered nasal passage.

James stared at that. Knight had one weapon, one moment a spear, the next a mace, and now a chain that was in his other hand. Chain the with a flick of his wrist, Knight wrapped it around the protruding sharp implement, and yanked it out. Raji would need much more then simple luck. Pulling his hand away form his face, the young warrior could see he had penetrated the full plate Knight wore. Then the chain mail, and scales beneath that, yet there was more layers of armor beneath.

Knight tossed the sword at it's owners feet. The helmet almost seemed to give off a smile as he took a fighting stance and held his own sword defensively. A massive thing, six foot of curved blade. The armor bent and the gash closed. Perhaps the young one would learn, perhaps not. It mattered little to Knight.

Raji was once again on the floor, writhing in pain. He saw that Knight had even MORE armor underneath all that armor. He was badly hurt, and his opponent was hardly damaged at all! How could he win this?



Suddenly, a blur charged into Knight, knocking him over right next to Raji. Raji saw who it was and recognized him at once. It was his friend Balkin! Raji was grateful yet confused.


"Where the hell were you when I needed you 5 minutes ago?" Raji snapped.

"I was hungry, so I had a bite to eat. And you're lucky I saved your sorry ass when I did." Balkin shot back, helping Raji up.


Balkin then picked Knight up and delivered a hard right into his face, making a giant crack in his helmet. Balkin then lifted Knight over his head and tossed him across the street. Knight stayed airborne for a couple of seconds before eventually crashing into a car someone was foolish enough to park around when there was a battle going on.

James had since sheathed his sword. He almost laughs at the exchange between Raji and Balkin, though is unnerved at the speed of the second man’s arrival.

Leaning now against a car he crosses his arms and ponders the length of the black scabbard on his belt, tracing the loop on its side, there so it can be carried around his back in the event he finds himself without a belt. He feels on the opposite side another weapon, holstered and hidden under his shirt, haphazardly hidden as it silhouettes through in the winds.

James watches Balkin’s unusual strength as he rights Knight and half-heartedly attacks the beastly man, his first punch contrasting with his incredible feat of throwing him across the street and into a car. James raises an eyebrow at this, and his mind spins because the man in the armor and the new arrival both demonstrate feats of paranormal ability – and, yes, Raji as well, jumping or falling off a building and landing on his feet.

But none of them matched James’s idea of what he was looking for, all were too their own person, not yet degraded into the clanking undead. Unless he was missing something, but there was only blankness when he put himself in Lachlan’s state of mind, telling him this was not what he was looking for.

Gratefully sighing, but nagged at the fact there are such odd, odd people in this city, James turns and begins to walk away, blending in to the scenery in a heat-shimmer from Raji’s point of view.

“This could be a lot more complicated than I thought,” James murmurs, and he sees his jeep up ahead.

OoC: Oh, I'm still here. Two characters in the city, now, and I think it'll be three, as I want someone to strictly fight with. So expect something soon after a post from either of you two.

Knight rolled off the car, it's caved in roof being a slight hindrance, and let himself drop on the ground before picking himself up, trying anything fancy was just a waste of effort. Two on one, a coward as well as a foolish child. No matter. Once more on his feet he hefted his halberd, and walked slowly toward Balkin. The simple length of pure metal ( Adamantine if you want to get to the specifics), shaped like a quarter staff and rather much longer then the halberd had been, struck him in the gut driving the breath out of him.

He moved closer, gripping the heavy mace with both hand and struck Balkin across the temple, sending the man to the ground with a bloody head. The long spiked chain whirled in his gauntleted hands, waiting.

Ooc: If you haven't figure it out yet, Knight's weapon constantly changes forms. Never in a bad way.