Monolith: The Eclipsing World [Roleplay Thread]

[hellfiazz 879]

Edward's eyes dart from the now descending zeppelins to the sudden commotion with the solider and the seemingly familiar man. A sense of anger stirs within him at what appears to be an unfolding injustice.

He swiftly shifts his rifle's aim and shoots off a round at the soldier's armed hand.

[Lykos 276]

-Emil Brandt-

 

'Nasty shot, heh." 

 

Emil recoils as the rag is pressed against his wound, still a bit shocked by the last salvo from the zeppelin. He quickly turns, looking Alex over, gripping his knife tightly. After deciding that he was safe, he relaxes a little bit, pointing out the wound on his leg.

 

"My head's fine, see to that instead. Running is going to be very, very important, I think. We need to get to that alley, get deeper into the city. All we n-"

 

His words are torn out of his breath as a Zeppelin above combusts. Emil watches as the flaming skeleton falls out of his view, behind the building he had just escaped.

 

"Now's our chance!"

 

Emil motions for Alex to follow and darts into the street, the path to the alley only being a few good strides. He skids to a stop as the sight of soldiers appears in front of him. Instinctively, he takes cover against one of the buildings that made the mouth of the alleyway. He would turn to Alex.

 

"Soldiers.. We don't know who the Zeppelins belong to at this point, man. Stay down, don't take any chances. We gotta stay outta the streets."

 

He would look back into the alleyway, a wrought iron fence blocking their way. He steps into the alleyway, testing the gate.

 

"Locked. Sh*t." Emil would say, turning back to Alex.

 

"Keep an eye out for me, I'll get this open." 

 

Emil takes a set of tools out of his jacket's inner pockets and kneels down in front of the gate, getting to work on the lock. The sound of one of the rifles firing and the pained yell that followed from one of the soldiers only made him work faster, muttering curses as he goes.

[Samson Option 9652]

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4oLca-5Nd_w

 

The soldier and the man recoiled both as a shot of depleted uranium ate away at the soldier's hand. The man turned and began motioning you all backwards as the soldier laid crying out in agony. The gunfight below seemed to intensify fortunately and his cries went with no answer as he slowly crumpled to the floor, blood pooling below his wound. The man, like a shepherd, ran up to and gently congregated his flock through a ornate stairway that led downward. The lower tier smelled sulfuric and the wispy dust of the gray tracers lingered like the trail of incense leading from one building to another. The buildings appeared more commonplace, unlike the Gothic and Romanesque of the highest tier. The familiar man ushered you into a rail station, the cafe of which he walked into and sprung like a feline spooked.

There, a man blooded and squatting, looked up with exasperation with his revolver's cylinder slid out and naked of any bullets. The familiar man pressed a palm against his chest and closed his eyes in relief. The familiar man lifted the revolver-wielding one up and dusted him off. Looking at the group, the familiar man finally made himself known with a scoff and a chiding.

 

 "You do not recognize me students? O' bother, what goes on in your minds in my class I haven't the audacity to know..."

 

The teacher minced no words introducing himself as Professor Kearney and continued to dust off the squatting man who introduced his own self as Jesse Lupin. The professor leaned over, grasping Lupin's hamsa necklace, and chuckled.

 

"Superstitious one aye? Very well, let us see if the Fatima will give us a miracle. I have a man to meet and you lot to keep off of that upper tier. It'll be an uphill battle now that you've descended these stairs with me and I have no intention of losing comrades."

 

As if sensing disbelief, incredulity, or plain confusion, the professor placed his hands together on the bar after serving himself the last drips of coffee from a machine. Twiddling his thumbs, deep in thought, the professor decided to explain:

"It is a wonder the illusion you all are put through. Truly monolithic, as grand yet fragile as this very city we stand upon. They wanted you, with 'they' meaning the Oligarchy who govern this city, they wanted you all to attend the College. You sat level with your colleagues but nary did you glance towards what lied below. Trust me, I sat atop what is under us all and could give myself to the delusion. Quite an eye-opener the last hour or so has been for you? It was for me when I went down Under."

 

Taking a slight sip from his mug, Kearney broke into a pitying smile. He set the mug down lightly, motioning with his hands a mocking motion to ease the mug in its spot and looked at each one of your group.

 

"The Under, haven't you heard of it? You think those are just wheels down there, nothing else? Believe it or not, a great many have the misfortune or the death sentence issued by Fate, the Lord, or what have you to exist on bare threads there."

 

Kearney looked past the group and clapped his hands slowly, motioning for someone out of view. The brush of shoulder and hip moved aside some of your own as a bearded figure walked to the bar and embraced the professor in a tight hug. The clicks of guns alerted you to more behind you, a rag-tag group of soldiers for those who turned to look over and behind their shoulders. The bearded man, his lined and wet lips creasing with amusement of what lied before his eyes, took a seat in a stool.

 

"The man of the hour himself!", Kearney exclaimed and slid the coffee mug towards his companion.

 

"The name is Bazarov. I know, foreign name to you all more than like. Regardless, a pleasure to meet you all and my sincerest apologies for the tension and smoke in the air. Such is the indicator of revolution, its absence indicating nothing but the status quo."

 

With Kearney's eyes glued upon Bazarov and Bazarov's gaze hovering above the group, a heaving sigh gave way to more of his speech:

"You lot, at least most of you, look too prim and proper to have been from the Commoners' Tier and no way in Dante's Hell have you crawled out from the bowels of the Under. That only leaves me with one assumption and a safe one at that, you are from the Gilded Tier. The highest tier? No need to answer, the lips of your unzipped pants and jackets do the flapping."

Bazarov looked at Kearney's admiring gaze and noted sarcastically, "Didn't know I was a poet aye?". Bazarov returned his gaze outside and continued:

"Be at ease, revolution or not, I have no intention of harming you all. As Kearney made mention of... heard it as I walked here... We are indeed from the Under. Mechanics and civil engineers the lot of us. Ah? Unaware of the Under? Regardless, the Under is the lowest tier encased in the wheeled platform that moves this city to and fro. The Oligarchy, upon mobilizing New York City had the poor of Brooklyn and Harlem moved into the Under and bought off our hostility with the offer of jobs. After all, as they said, it is a necessary evil that we do this work to keep the city moving lest other cities assault us.

There we lived, between the wheels that carried us like carriages. Oiled the wheels, fixed the wheels, changed the parts that wore and smelted the parts that were intended to be used. The dirty tasks relegated to us and hardly a thanks did we receive from any. All of this seemed menial for menial people with the monotony of poverty imprinted in us. However, this all changed about a month ago.

We had to clean the grooves of the wheels as well to ensure they did not lose traction for whenever we encountered swamps or snowed lands. We began to uncover the remains of many bodies, cracked and threaded like corn husks. This at first troubled us, but then it angered us. Kearney can tell you, the Oligarchy upheld a curriculum. . . a narrative that the world outside of these traveling cities could not be inhabited. These bodies obviously contradicted this, because somehow and in some way, people did live on the land. The navigators of the Commoner Tier also had these communities smashed asunder by this city with nary a care."

 

Kearney looked up as the sound of running footsteps echoed through the train station. Bazarov and his armed crew stood up and pushed themselves up against the walls of the cafe. Bazarov whipped out his own rifle, a scoped gauss rifle, and asked, "So, will you join with us or shall I have to get you all back to your ineffable heaven? I can see you all back to the Gilded Tier, but can't promise that I have no torch to burn the gardens of that paradise a floor above us!"

[Rig 17580]

Robert slowly creeps forward, watching the teacher with interest as he gathers scrap, quietly watching them as they speak, wordlessly. 

[MatrixNeo585 10]

    Nodding looking at his own wound but shaking it from his mind, "It'll be fine, I've sustained worse"  tapping his left lower stomach where a large scar sits from a piece of shrapnel striking it during a past mission, stepping back as the Zeppelin over head combusts and comes crashing down on the side of the city "Now's our chance!" limping across the street at this dragging the doctor with him.

 

    As we duck down into the alley way only to see soldiers ahead moving himself behind cover watching as Emil begins to work on the lock, checking his rifle once more and looking at the rounds.  "Better make it quick."  The sound of shots ringing as Emil fumbles with his tools and the lock

[Booklight12 481]

 

Jessie is a tall man in stature with a well kept body. His multi-layered and most like expensive suit contrasts with his odd slightly tanned skin having dark brown eyes that glare to the group around him. He has a rugged demeanor obviously not new to the death around them, though seems to have another tone to him with his soft features. This prideful, yet still reformed stature indicating he is most likely of new money, gaining his money from Smuggling? Organized crime? Perhaps a simple merchant that has struck rich? All that wouldn't matter now, as he is but an equal to everyone around him in these times. He rubs the worn down handle of his revolver, the natural silvery sheen of his revolvers barrel matted with powder and soot, he nods to the group and introduces himself

"Uh.. Hey, you can all call me Jessie.. And don't mind the mess." After his brief introduction he strides over to one of two men laying on the ground motionless, they adorn the same uniform as the soldiers outside though have blood pooling around them that dampens the ground around the group. Jessie sifts through their pockets as he searches with some success for casings and bullets he may use fumbling along as he places them into his undervests pocket. After a few moments he looks back to the men as they speak wiping his bloody knuckles on the side of his suit pants, raising his hand before right after the man speaks loud shots ring out around them aswell as a sudden "BOOM" Jessie stumbles a moment as the blast shudders the area they are in before looking back to the group and hastily picking up his voice

"It is too dangerous out here. I have a home in a few miles down the way, and we will be safe there to continue speaking."

[Lykos 276]

-Emil Brandt-

 

   As the group was shepherded down a level, he could not help but not trust the man leading them.. But once they had reached their destination, a cafe in a railstation, one tier below, the man identified himself as a teacher. As much as it was, teachers were trustworthy, and had little political intent. He did not know this man, but the others in the group seemed relieved, so he allowed himself to relax a bit himself. Just as he had gotten settled in, a ghost from the past walked in. After the group from the Under finished speaking, he heard footsteps approaching from the distance, and took cover, as the others did.

 

"Bazarov? I thought you got executed last month for theft.." Emil says, gripping his old knife tightly, whether or not he could do any damage with it.

[dirtryhary 26]

Lucy was hunkered down between a chimney and solid wall, bullets whizzing everywhere. Living up to her former expectations, this band of people were no where near capable of fighting. Being the only one shooting at the damned zeppelin, she stole quick glances in between shots. One man was fumbling with his weapon looking like he pissed himself, another bleeding from the head. Some uppity women scoffed at her dress being dirtied, and a peculiar bald man seemingly calm amidst the eye of the storm. Puffs of dust, rubble, and air from the outside world fused the air, and breathing was hard. Sliding her goggles down, she clicked a button on the side of them. A metal dust mask slid out of their fixtures and covered her nose and mask-an invention of her own that helped tremendously while engineering in the lower decks. 

 

Sighing, and brushing her fire red hair out of her eyes, Lucy racked the lever to her gun. One more time, then I follow these headless chickens to their apparent bolt-holes. Time slowed down, every particle of drifting dust picked out in ultra detail for her. The cracks in the chimney looked like so many rivers running frantically, the people around her wreathed in smoke. Standing up, Lucy calmly stepped out of cover and aimed at the Zeppelin. Everyone was running past her or hunkered down, but she walked into the storm. Bullets whizzed past her, but a sense of dread filled her. She was going to die, but she would take a partner down with her.

 

Aiming high to compensate, she snap fired three shots. Three shots were all that were needed, and the already weakened Zeppelin was shot down.  As it crashed into the tower, time caught up with her. Letting loose a gasp, and her body visibly shuddered. Not even rejoicing or bragging in the fact that she had almost single handedly taken the death machine down, she was just glad to be alive. Sliding against a nearby wall, Lucy clicked her mask back into it's fixture. Too numbed to do so much as think, she idly toyed with her hair in a soothing process wired to her. Blood, piss, dust, and rubble filled the street, and a slow trickle of blood ran past her. Not wounded, Lucy was to out of it to realize how lucky she had been. The altercation with the familiar man brought her out of her trance, and she allowed herself to be lead by the rest of the group.

 

"Revolution"

 

The peculiar teacher and his seemly friend were a strange sight, and the band of merry troops and words they brought stranger. Shell shocked, Lucy dimly heard his words. They were a heaven send, as Lucy fully related to what the man said. She lived and worked as an engineer on the lower decks, and the atrocities she witnessed were many. But she was scared, very so, and never had a means to rebel by herself. But now she had a means to an end, and two men who seemed to have a plan and the troops for it. Even had she not wanted to fight, she realized what the others did not. These men were charming, and she agreed with their words, but others might not. That did not matter, for they did not notice that the soldiers were rag-tag and held their weapons at the ready. That meant they lived rough, and living rough makes you rough. Without a doubt in her mind, she knew they would be gunned down if they refused.

 

The sound of coming troops startled her, and the troops went from unseemly rugged men to professionals, dropping into cover and establishing firing lanes. She was no soldier, but she knew how to use the guns she had spent most of her adult life making. Sighing before nodding to the teacher, she hopped over the bar. Laying shells out next to her, she covered the entrance and grimly waited.

[Kralek 519]

Norris Cole stared on as Edwards fired rounds out from behind his cover, aiming past the alley and into the streets in front of the group. His ears were immediately filled with screams of agony emitting from a man and Norris reluctantly picked his head up slightly from the cover to inspect, eyeing a fallen soldier rolling on the ground, hand bloody, and screaming to no ends. A man receded from the soldier and Norris' attention was diverted towards him, a familiar man, yet forgotten to Norris. The group around him assembled to the man as he issued orders to them. To him, they seemed like a flock of sheep following a sheep herder off the end of a cliff.

 

"Well ah'll be damned. These people will follow anyone blindly if they were being shot at." he thinks to himself and scoffs as he watches the group run off into the direction of the tunnels that lead to the under parts of the city. He hesitates for a moment, thinking, before running after the group, muttering "Better to be with a group, then dead on my own."

 

Inside the cafe, dark and smelling of putrid minerals and waste, he takes a seat nearby as he notices the man giving a heart-warming speech while explosions and fire are erupting not too far away from them. He grins slightly at the notion of speech giving at a time like this and thinks to himself as the men blabber on "It's almost like one of those motion pictures and children stories of heroes. They think they can go in all gun-ho, shouting 'rebellion', 'freedom' and it all ends in a happy ending". He sits quietly, his rifle lying in his lap and stares at the rag-tag group as the man finishes his speech. A group of wannabes and wannanots is what came to his mind. An under city wench who thought she shot down a zeppelin, an upper city wench who thought she was the Queen, a man who doesn't even know what a barrel of a gun his, a man who brought a knife to a gun fight, and out of it all was a crazed professor who thought violence was the solution to inequality. There were extremely limited capable and competent people among the group in the eyes of Norris Cole, but they were the only ones there. If he wanted to stay alive and not be killed, he had to stick with these people whether he liked it or not. 

 

His decision was made. He would stay with the group for as long as he needed to. "Aye, yeh have me for now." he bellows among the voices of the group. "Now how about we ******* do something before we're killed." He hastily quiets down as the pound of footsteps from within the train station ring into the ears of inside of the cafe and he immediately withdraws from his chair, kicking over the table next to the chair he was sitting in and crouches behind it.

[bickando 3967]

John Rokenfell stepped over to one of the chairs in the cafe, sitting down to listen to the professor talk. Looking around, he saw a band of misfits and a history professor that had turned out to be more than John originally thought. Today is just not my day, John thinks as he watches the speech more than listens to the words. He looked down at the gauss rifle still on his lap, and sighs. This could all be over in an instant if he gets up and shoots the two, but that would be risking his life on a fast draw, and he was not willing to make that decision quite yet. He could also just go back to his barely Upper Tier house and keep overseeing that metal refitting factory, but he'd be passing over a once in a lifetime opportunity.

 

John was indeed quite the average looking man, but on the inside he quickly calculated his chances and what he would get if the rebels won, and nodded lightly to himself. If they won, he'd stand to gain much, and if they lost, he would have probably died eventually. He stands up at the sound of footsteps in the hall outside, and pushes over his table towards the entrance, sits leaning back against it, and checks his rifle. "My name is John Rokenfell. I'll join you people, but I'd appreciate a handgun or a mod for this rifle." He sits there for a moment before adding, "Who gave us these guns anyways?"

[TheWyrdWolf 1532]

This was all too much for him, both a strain on him mentally and physically in this dire hour indeed. Pushing to the front of the group at the Cafe he held his hand up in greeting to the Proffessor and Bazarim

 

"If what you say is indeed true.. then i will join you."

 

A warm smile on his face as he rubbed his hands together nervously.

 

"Though i may not be a fighter, i was a doctor in the tier you so wish to set a blaze with revolution and will lend myself to help the injured in these troubling times. If you will have me of course. My name is Zak Ikkala."

[hellfiazz 879]

Edward's face curls into a grimace at the gruesome effect of the shot. He wasn't expecting such a reaction, but quickly swallowed his remorse and ran with the now moving group, silently praying for the soldier.

As he moves through the Monolith, thoughts race through Edward's mind at the drastic turn his life had taken in the space of a few moments. He expected that his actions would result in him being labelled a fugitive, his old, somewhat peaceful life gone forever.

His pondering was interrupted as the posse halted, and the professor asks for their support and commitment, he gives a firm nod of assent. After all, if he couldn't go back to being a normal citizen, he might as well become a revolutionary, right?

[wolfdwg 2677]

 

Len emerges from the back of the motley group gauss rifle in hand, with a blade sheathed on his hip. Few holes tatter his clothing, and on his cloak along the trim is soaked with dirt and grime. His hair that crept out of his odd hat was a ebony black. Over his right eye an eye patch crossed, while his left eye a soft dark blue color.

 

Len hears the word of revolution and smiles he gives a slight bow to professor with a sincere looks, and a stoic expression. He points to the patch over his right breast it read.

 

"Len Bowie."

 

He simply then smiles to the others around him, for after all he was mute.

[MatrixNeo585 10]

Arriving at this cafe as he sets his gun down against a table taking a seat and rubbing his forehead looking around at the group that sits before him, his face would be covered with dust along with his clothes, patting it down a bit in an attempt to get rid of some of it on his pants legs before stating his name to the group.

 

"Alexander Rooksbee, just call me Alex though." saying this with a thin smile even though having just been shot at and hit in the leg.

 

Pressing a handkerchief against the area which the bullet ran along as crimson red blood trickles down.
 

"A rebellion you say though?  Never liked the uppity ups who ran this place anyway, so you can count me in."

[CowsGoMoo 267]

Nat had remained silent when the professor made her speech--it wasn’t really different from some of the overly dramatic tangents that her customers spouted while she did their hair. She had gave people like that stiff smile and a nod of her head, usually people like that were all talk, with no intention to actually do anything. However, the professor--although just as caught up in the romanticized image of revolution as the rest of them, seemed to be actively doing something. The gap between the lower class and the privileged was only growing and growing, though thankfully, she was one of the lucky few who managed to land smack dab in the middle of it all. She was part of the ever thinning middle class. She wasn’t quite sure how she was able to live a somewhat privileged life from simply cutting hair, but once in a while, some rich gal would stride in--probably preparing for some fancy party or something--and after seeing that she had done a satisfying job with her hairdo, they would give her a substantial tip for her services. After all, people like that were quite literally made out of money. To them, a couple hundred of dollars was nothing, but to Nat, it was what kept her from teetering over the edge into poverty.

 

The other survivors haven’t really acknowledged her yet--probably barely even noticed her in the rush of everything. If there was one thing she was good at, she thought glumly, it was being invisible. Even the professor hardly offered her a glance while giving them all his tangent of a speech. After he finished, a few people spoke out, offering their names, and what they could offer to the cause. When the professor turned to her, she blinked, slightly taken aback. She gave him two rather nervous nods, and said, “Urh, my name’s Nat Kearney…” . He seemed satisfied with that, which made her sigh with relief. She honestly didn’t have much to offer. Unless everyone needed a haircut extremely badly or something, all she had was her extremely limited (or rather, basically nonexistent) skill with a rifle. Even so, a revolution seemed to have been long-coming, with the growing resentment within the cities and the ever increasing separation between all social classes. Clearly, something was wrong with the inner workings of the city, and she supposed it was about time for change.