11-25-2017, 05:23 PM
***
President Shadowkill of the Westside Deathblades is a terror to behold.
His gang encircles him nervously, a rag-tag group of orphan children in naruto headbands wielding comical anime weapons. The fury in their leaders face tell them this training session will be painful, if not lethal. Since the death of his sister, their President has been prone to fits of uncontrollable rage, which he likes to mask as impromptu training sessions.
The young President wields an oversized katana nearly twice his size, which crackles and spits flames as it whirls through the air. If closely examined, one would find that the katana is actually foam, but this does not make it any less dangerous than a steel blade. In fact, in the Omniverse, this sword is much more powerful that simple steel.
According to Omniphysics, the more OM invested in a weapon, the more powerful that weapon is. The vintage 1942 The Flash stickers on the edge of the weapon lets Shadowkill swing his sword with impossible speed.. On the tip of the blade, folded into a sharp point, is a 1st Edition Mox Ruby MTG card signed by Dan Frazier, allowing the sword to penetrate nearly any armor. Where the hilt meets the blade is a strange cross piece; it is a playing card stuck to it with chewing gum. The gum in question is from a pack of Rigleys from 1931 signed by the Great Bambino, and it’s really good at sticking to things.
The card in question is a 1999 Shadowless Charizard, and it lets Shadowkill use Firespin.
His gang leaps into the air as one to converge on their leader, but their flaming swords and frost axes and shocking shurikens cannot withstand the fury of Shadowkill.
“Firespin!” he calls with the voice of a child playing a trump card. The sword seethes with flames and Shadowkill launches himself spinning upwards into his gang.
As Shadowkill spins, ribbons of fire streak from the blade, creating a flaming tornado that explodes outwards and sends his followers crashing to the floor.
Their president lands and looks down upon his singed gang members with red eyes. They lay groaning, their weapons discarded, their hair singed.
“That’s it?” he asks mockingly. The Deathblades do not respond, but continue to moan.
Shadowkill frowns. “Alright you frickin wussies, get up. Stop whining, get up. We’re going for a walk. I need real training partners.”
***
Two Knife-Ear snipers are sharing a cigarette dipped in PCP. They are wedged into the shell of an old Escalade on top of a pile of broken down cars in a junkyard in Tier-5. There are no seats or windows or dashboard, just guns and ammo. They are gazing out over a freeway offramp blocked off with traffic cones and detour signs.
One of them, a blonde elven girl with a soft face, inhales a little too deeply. Her pupils widen behind her rifle scope. She exhales, and the shamrock tattoo on her tongue is visible for a moment in the moonlight. Her name is Clover.
Clover passes the cigarette to her handsome companion, a dark-haired human boy named Lasko.
Lasko brushes his hair out of his eyes and leans back in the shell of the Escalade, smoking. For a moment, the knife tattoo on his ear is visible. Although rare, the non-elven members of the Westside Knife-Ear Warriors have been a valuable asset to the gang. They have proven to be brave, loyal, and painfully arrogant.
Lasko grins at Clover, who still has her rifle shouldered and is gazing into the scope on occasion.
“Wow,” says Lasko after a moment, breaking an hour long silence.
Clover’s rifle slips just a bit, and she fumbles to catch it. Lasko chuckles softly as the elf girl’s face reddens.
“Sorry,” he says, still chuckling. Clover’s lips are pursed tightly, and she won’t look him in the eye. “It’s just, I never noticed before, your eyes change color in the moonlight, don’t they?”
After a tense moment, Clover blinks her turquoise eyes, and nods. She then readies her weapon again, clearly putting an end to the conversation. Lasko sits up and scoots closer to Clover. The elf shivers.
“Cold?” Lasko asks, although he knows the answer; elf chicks are always cold. He moves his hand to grab Clover’s waist, his phone pings. A staticy voice comes on.
“Lasko,” says his phone. “You got a white pickup going 90 ignoring the detour, heads up.”
The snipers hurry into position, or at least Lasko does; Clover is ready. Ten seconds later, they see the pickup burst through the cones and onto the off ramp.
“Warning shot,” says Lasko, a little boredly.
Clover drills a 50-mm hole through the hood of the pickup, and it doesn’t even swerve.
“Light it up,” says Lasko softly.
Their muzzles flash, the floor of the Escalade fills with shell casings, and the pickup is smoldering on the off-ramp.
***
The clangs of Bat’leth steel echo around the dojo of the Mighty Westside Klingons.
The Klingons have split into pairs, their strangely curved swords dancing and causing sparks with every connection.
Kolgoth the Mighty, President of the Mighty Westside Klingons, walks among them, fearless of the blades whirling around his every side, making small corrections as he goes.
“Do not meet his gaze as you feint, Jaghoov,” Kolgoth says as he inspects a duel. “He will know you are trying to read his reaction.”
Much of Kolgoth’s advice about Bat’leth sounds like this. So much of the martial art is psychological, so much is based on projection and reading subtle mental cues from your opponent.
Jaghoov the Relentless, an aging Klingon with a broken collarbone, nods to show he heard. Kolgoth nods back, and moves on through the crowd of sparring aliens.
The President is the first to notice the cold draft, despite being on the far side of the room.
He is through the crowd and on the other side of the dojo before the door to the entrance is shut. The clangs of Bet’leth combat dim, and the echoes fade to nothing.
At the entrance to the dojo stands a tall, muscular human flanked by what are undoubtedly cronies. His face is hard with asiatic features, but his smile is coy and friendly. He removes the belt to his gui as he sidles in, displaying a chess criss-crossed with scars and gang tattoos. The Klingons shift uneasily as they recognize the tattoos.
The tattoos clearly mark San-Yi, Leader of the Floating Lotus Posse.
The cronies chuckle at the reaction. They are a group of scarred men with with asiatic weapons at their belts or tucked behind their backs, sneering around the dojo and making snide comments to each other.
San-Yi walks to the edge of the mat, where Kolgoth the Mighty is waiting for him with the crossed arms.
San-Yi stands eye to eye with Kolgoth for a moment, and then the massive human bows to Kolgoth, and steps on the mat.
“Nice place you got here, Kolgoth,” says San-Yi, craning his neck around. “Be a shame if someone killed the fuck out of you.”
“I heard about Skullcleaner,” the Klingon responds in his low rumble. “We all did.”
Around the room, solemn faced Klingons nod, their eyes on San-Yi. San-Yi frowns, not getting the reaction he expected.
“I said-” San Yi starts to say.
“I heard you,” Kolgoth interrupts. “And I said, we have heard of your victory over Skullcleaner's Southsyd Ork Warryorz. For that, you have our respect, as well as our thanks for defeating our common enemy. That does not change the fact that the Mighty Westside Klingons will not join the Floating Lotus Posse. You will not use our Dojo to smuggle your drugs or your weapons or your money, because the profits from those activities may go to fund our enemies. When we took the name Westside it means we stand against anything orc, and unless you are willing to take that oath as well, we have nothing further to discuss.”
San-Yi has his hand on his chin as in nodding mockingly. The anger is rising in his face. “Uh-huh, yeah, I see your point there. Interesting. Have you taken into account the fact that we’ll kill you? Did that, did that register at all? When you were spewing that bullshit? Hmm?”
Kolgoth sighs. “You have asked many times why we will not take the mantle of FLP, and join forces against our common enemies. And my response remains the same; if they were truly our common enemies, you would take the mantle of Westside. You would take an oath to perform no business with them, an oath to fight them, forever.”
San-Yi rolls his eyes loudly. “I just-we JUST tossed Skullcleaner’s salad, you think the Orks are gonna do business with us after that? Do you think we would even do business with them?”
Kolgoth’s silence speaks volumes.
“Look,” says San-Yi firmly. Kolgoth crosses his arms. “Lotus Posse isn’t Westie, never has been, never will be. Any dojo in this city is MY territory, period. I didn’t give a fuck when you were doing Tai-Chi, but when I hear the Mighty Westside Kucks are picking up swords-”
“Floating Lotus Pussies!” calls a Klingon voice, which San-Yi ignores.
“-then I say to myself,” San-Yi says to the room. “They gotta pay up. So, we can do this the easy way, or the fun way.”
“I vote the fun way,” calls the adolescent voice of President Shadowkill.
***
President Shadowkill of the Westside Deathblades is a terror to behold.
His gang encircles him nervously, a rag-tag group of orphan children in naruto headbands wielding comical anime weapons. The fury in their leaders face tell them this training session will be painful, if not lethal. Since the death of his sister, their President has been prone to fits of uncontrollable rage, which he likes to mask as impromptu training sessions.
The young President wields an oversized katana nearly twice his size, which crackles and spits flames as it whirls through the air. If closely examined, one would find that the katana is actually foam, but this does not make it any less dangerous than a steel blade. In fact, in the Omniverse, this sword is much more powerful that simple steel.
According to Omniphysics, the more OM invested in a weapon, the more powerful that weapon is. The vintage 1942 The Flash stickers on the edge of the weapon lets Shadowkill swing his sword with impossible speed.. On the tip of the blade, folded into a sharp point, is a 1st Edition Mox Ruby MTG card signed by Dan Frazier, allowing the sword to penetrate nearly any armor. Where the hilt meets the blade is a strange cross piece; it is a playing card stuck to it with chewing gum. The gum in question is from a pack of Rigleys from 1931 signed by the Great Bambino, and it’s really good at sticking to things.
The card in question is a 1999 Shadowless Charizard, and it lets Shadowkill use Firespin.
His gang leaps into the air as one to converge on their leader, but their flaming swords and frost axes and shocking shurikens cannot withstand the fury of Shadowkill.
“Firespin!” he calls with the voice of a child playing a trump card. The sword seethes with flames and Shadowkill launches himself spinning upwards into his gang.
As Shadowkill spins, ribbons of fire streak from the blade, creating a flaming tornado that explodes outwards and sends his followers crashing to the floor.
Their president lands and looks down upon his singed gang members with red eyes. They lay groaning, their weapons discarded, their hair singed.
“That’s it?” he asks mockingly. The Deathblades do not respond, but continue to moan.
Shadowkill frowns. “Alright you frickin wussies, get up. Stop whining, get up. We’re going for a walk. I need real training partners.”
***
Two Knife-Ear snipers are sharing a cigarette dipped in PCP. They are wedged into the shell of an old Escalade on top of a pile of broken down cars in a junkyard in Tier-5. There are no seats or windows or dashboard, just guns and ammo. They are gazing out over a freeway offramp blocked off with traffic cones and detour signs.
One of them, a blonde elven girl with a soft face, inhales a little too deeply. Her pupils widen behind her rifle scope. She exhales, and the shamrock tattoo on her tongue is visible for a moment in the moonlight. Her name is Clover.
Clover passes the cigarette to her handsome companion, a dark-haired human boy named Lasko.
Lasko brushes his hair out of his eyes and leans back in the shell of the Escalade, smoking. For a moment, the knife tattoo on his ear is visible. Although rare, the non-elven members of the Westside Knife-Ear Warriors have been a valuable asset to the gang. They have proven to be brave, loyal, and painfully arrogant.
Lasko grins at Clover, who still has her rifle shouldered and is gazing into the scope on occasion.
“Wow,” says Lasko after a moment, breaking an hour long silence.
Clover’s rifle slips just a bit, and she fumbles to catch it. Lasko chuckles softly as the elf girl’s face reddens.
“Sorry,” he says, still chuckling. Clover’s lips are pursed tightly, and she won’t look him in the eye. “It’s just, I never noticed before, your eyes change color in the moonlight, don’t they?”
After a tense moment, Clover blinks her turquoise eyes, and nods. She then readies her weapon again, clearly putting an end to the conversation. Lasko sits up and scoots closer to Clover. The elf shivers.
“Cold?” Lasko asks, although he knows the answer; elf chicks are always cold. He moves his hand to grab Clover’s waist, his phone pings. A staticy voice comes on.
“Lasko,” says his phone. “You got a white pickup going 90 ignoring the detour, heads up.”
The snipers hurry into position, or at least Lasko does; Clover is ready. Ten seconds later, they see the pickup burst through the cones and onto the off ramp.
“Warning shot,” says Lasko, a little boredly.
Clover drills a 50-mm hole through the hood of the pickup, and it doesn’t even swerve.
“Light it up,” says Lasko softly.
Their muzzles flash, the floor of the Escalade fills with shell casings, and the pickup is smoldering on the off-ramp.
***
The clangs of Bat’leth steel echo around the dojo of the Mighty Westside Klingons.
The Klingons have split into pairs, their strangely curved swords dancing and causing sparks with every connection.
Kolgoth the Mighty, President of the Mighty Westside Klingons, walks among them, fearless of the blades whirling around his every side, making small corrections as he goes.
“Do not meet his gaze as you feint, Jaghoov,” Kolgoth says as he inspects a duel. “He will know you are trying to read his reaction.”
Much of Kolgoth’s advice about Bat’leth sounds like this. So much of the martial art is psychological, so much is based on projection and reading subtle mental cues from your opponent.
Jaghoov the Relentless, an aging Klingon with a broken collarbone, nods to show he heard. Kolgoth nods back, and moves on through the crowd of sparring aliens.
The President is the first to notice the cold draft, despite being on the far side of the room.
He is through the crowd and on the other side of the dojo before the door to the entrance is shut. The clangs of Bet’leth combat dim, and the echoes fade to nothing.
At the entrance to the dojo stands a tall, muscular human flanked by what are undoubtedly cronies. His face is hard with asiatic features, but his smile is coy and friendly. He removes the belt to his gui as he sidles in, displaying a chess criss-crossed with scars and gang tattoos. The Klingons shift uneasily as they recognize the tattoos.
The tattoos clearly mark San-Yi, Leader of the Floating Lotus Posse.
The cronies chuckle at the reaction. They are a group of scarred men with with asiatic weapons at their belts or tucked behind their backs, sneering around the dojo and making snide comments to each other.
San-Yi walks to the edge of the mat, where Kolgoth the Mighty is waiting for him with the crossed arms.
San-Yi stands eye to eye with Kolgoth for a moment, and then the massive human bows to Kolgoth, and steps on the mat.
“Nice place you got here, Kolgoth,” says San-Yi, craning his neck around. “Be a shame if someone killed the fuck out of you.”
“I heard about Skullcleaner,” the Klingon responds in his low rumble. “We all did.”
Around the room, solemn faced Klingons nod, their eyes on San-Yi. San-Yi frowns, not getting the reaction he expected.
“I said-” San Yi starts to say.
“I heard you,” Kolgoth interrupts. “And I said, we have heard of your victory over Skullcleaner's Southsyd Ork Warryorz. For that, you have our respect, as well as our thanks for defeating our common enemy. That does not change the fact that the Mighty Westside Klingons will not join the Floating Lotus Posse. You will not use our Dojo to smuggle your drugs or your weapons or your money, because the profits from those activities may go to fund our enemies. When we took the name Westside it means we stand against anything orc, and unless you are willing to take that oath as well, we have nothing further to discuss.”
San-Yi has his hand on his chin as in nodding mockingly. The anger is rising in his face. “Uh-huh, yeah, I see your point there. Interesting. Have you taken into account the fact that we’ll kill you? Did that, did that register at all? When you were spewing that bullshit? Hmm?”
Kolgoth sighs. “You have asked many times why we will not take the mantle of FLP, and join forces against our common enemies. And my response remains the same; if they were truly our common enemies, you would take the mantle of Westside. You would take an oath to perform no business with them, an oath to fight them, forever.”
San-Yi rolls his eyes loudly. “I just-we JUST tossed Skullcleaner’s salad, you think the Orks are gonna do business with us after that? Do you think we would even do business with them?”
Kolgoth’s silence speaks volumes.
“Look,” says San-Yi firmly. Kolgoth crosses his arms. “Lotus Posse isn’t Westie, never has been, never will be. Any dojo in this city is MY territory, period. I didn’t give a fuck when you were doing Tai-Chi, but when I hear the Mighty Westside Kucks are picking up swords-”
“Floating Lotus Pussies!” calls a Klingon voice, which San-Yi ignores.
“-then I say to myself,” San-Yi says to the room. “They gotta pay up. So, we can do this the easy way, or the fun way.”
“I vote the fun way,” calls the adolescent voice of President Shadowkill.
***
![[Image: V4Dvvfy.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/V4Dvvfy.gif)