Believe the Tabloids (Domus)

Feila is now home to a wide range of advanced technology that makes Earth's present day computers look like children's toys. Sentient androids walk the streets as free citizens, robots have taken over much of the industrial work, and the youth surf the streets on hover boards. Medicine has become so advanced that the disabled can be fitted with cybernetic limbs, while those seeking super strength can find said technology on the black market. Politics have shifted greatly, and Edwin has become a cold and controlling authoritarian state, with each of the remaining nations changed in its own manner. All natives are furry (Skin Avian are present here too). No native humans.
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Believe the Tabloids (Domus)

Post by Larcen »

Centuries ago, primarily the twentieth, the city of Retroit had been a powerhouse of the automotive industry, cranking out powerful, ravenous chrome-dipped behemoths for an optimistic post-war society. In the century after it, however, the thriving manufacturing city suffered a near lethal necrosis. Domestic manufacturers lost to cheaper, more reliable, more efficient Yamahan models, and were forced to outsource production. Entire neighborhoods died, eventually leveled into vast wastelands gridded by crumbling asphalt streets.

In more recent times, however, urban revival had taken place, resuscitating the industrial once-giant. The explosion of cybernetics revived parts of the city, though its former endowment would never be reached. Vitality was restored to the major metropolitan sectors, creating a bustling neon candyland of electronics, enhancements, and entertainment. In essence, "Rock City's" heart had been saved, and now beat robustly. Retroit was once again a respectable city.

Well, almost. Though its heart was strong, clean, and healthy, the condition of the city's extremities had deteriorated. Cyborg-age production, though it tried to be environmentally conscious, still created hazardous waste. The river running through the city was entirely devoid of even bacterial life, and had been given up on by even the most driven of environmentalist groups, written off as a total loss. Waste and garbage from the new hyper-consumer culture piled up along the shore, creating vast dumps and landfills for everything from mere trash to the previous centuries' means of conveyance; the powerful lithium-ion batteries that dominated vehicle propulsion in the 2020's to 2100's being too hazardous and too prolific to dispose of by other means. The old industrial district Retriot had become gangrenous, then begun to fester. Finally, the city's public safety department erected a concrete fence around the perimeter of the sector in the interest of the safety of its population. Transit in and out was limited to authorized refuse and industrial waste trucks.

And yet life prevailed even on the other side of the hazardous material safety fence. Sentient creatures, though more intelligent than the lower animals, if desperate enough, are still too stupid to avoid living in hazardous conditions. Destitute furs, many of them Kahunian immigrants, had set up shanty towns in Retroit's refuse bin. This toxic ghetto was now mother to an entire culture of have-nots, too neglected and too unhealthy to find decent work. Worse still, generations of exposure to mutagenic and teratogenic substances had mutilated these decent furs into disfigured mutants, making them even more untouchable. Only the most devoted bleeding hearts of the normal fur population could stomach dealing with these walking tragedies. Furthermore, the exposure of these residents was limited only to the hazardous chemicals; the media being too ashamed or perhaps too afraid of them to report on their plight.

But do not, reader, believe—like the few members of the population who are aware of them—that they who live in the toxic ghetto have been reduced to savage, inhuman freaks. They are still decent, family-based souls that have adapted to their situations as best they could. Some volunteers even claim that they are an educated people, just like you or I.

It is on the edge of this region, right on the other side of the concrete wall, that our story takes place. The setting is a dump, at one time a salvage yard, filled with all manner of cast-off items, from cups to syringes to sport-utility vehicles. The sign out by the street fails to tell the original name of the place, for the LED display is blank. Long since unused due to perceived proximity to the danger zone, even the more adventurous scavengers have passed over it.

Curiously, however, there has been some recent interest. Walking by, even curiouser is the fact that the chain that once bound the front gate shut now dangled loosely from it. From the shine on the cut edges, this breach was recent. However, the layer of dirt on the bolt cutters just inside revealed that the intruder was no longer present, and had left without taking the tool with them.

But first, some things need to be filled in. As it turned out, a tabloid—the type with questionable credibility, the type that reports on ghosts of dead aliens haunting the home of a housewife in the middle of the Mazan desert—recently ran a front page article claiming the existence of a monster living among the junk. According to reports from totally credible witnesses to be sure, the creature was huge. Sadly, it could not accurately be described except as being serpentine, possibly having four legs, and breathing smoke.

Perhaps the strangest thing about the reports is that they actually gained serious interest, all the way up to being covered by an albeit laughing local television news reporter. Even so, no official investigation had been launched, for no one could take such a story that seriously. Please.

* ~ * ~ *

So now in the night, under the residual glow of distant neon and holograms, up from the knoll of metal and plastic rose a plume of what appeared to be smoke. Someone was in there. That someone was Chrys. Chrys picked up the sheet of tin roofing that served as the door to his home and set it back into place, covering the exit tunnel. The tunnel was lined with shiny bits of plastic, shards of colored glass, and even those little dangly crystals found on old lamps, all set into the trash lining the walls, floor, and ceiling in a way that suggested intelligent placement, even artistic influence. Large pieces of junk—refrigerators, air conditioners, auto parts—made up the walls, expertly crammed into place to support the heap above. The tunnel's entrance was through the engine compartment of an old sedan, one of those ridiculously large models from Retroit's heyday in the 1960s. The car was nearly buried, except for the hood, which, with the removal of the engine and parts of the frame, provided an ideal entryway that could be hidden in plain sight from outsiders. Which was exactly what Chrys wanted.

Tired, Chrys curled up on his bed of tires, hoses, broken waterbed mattresses, and similar substances. After a sigh that caused another cloud of yellowish smoke to rise up and out the ventilation shafts crafted from discarded ductwork, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
Last edited by Larcen on Sun Jul 08, 2012 4:20 pm, edited 3 times in total.
"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read." --Groucho Marx

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Re: Believe the Tabloids (Domus, Open)

Post by JamesG »

Terr-ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh. Terr-ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh-HUFF. Terrrrr... Terr-ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh-Rar!

"Oh baby, you came back to me!" The kangaroo wiped his grimy paws on his boiler suit and did a jiggly jig. The faded brown uniform's green fluoro stripes were near invisible under a layer of oil, dust and unmentionables. The engine did not so much purr as grumble at him, a disgruntled, but compliant mistress. Hydrogen engines were supposed to be smooth. Hydrogen was so much cleaner and safer and more efficient. Well, Bayard begged to differ. This engine was at least thirty years old, it had black gunk which was presumably the result of lubrication oil mixed with years of dust blowing through the grille and the rotor whirred. But the pressure tank kept all its precious fuel safe and un-leaked. That was what really mattered. Leaking hydrogen had been a big problem in early days, but this engine was robust and would last another thirty years. Bayard sniffed. OK, maybe only ten years.

"'Yard! Wotcher still doin' here?" A gruff voice called. The big kangaroo waved a paw at the approaching bull. Both were over six foot tall, the bull was bulky and muscled. The kangaroo was... er, well. Bulky. Not so much muscled. Generously proportioned. Oh, all right, overweight. But hey, who would look at the industrial waste disposal technician anyway? That was a funny job title. Bayard could swear that fancy technical jargon really boiled down to 'waste truck driver'. Dumping the waste products of DeLouise Industries was a routine, dull occupation, but it was work. The only real excitement was when the odd raving environmentalist pelted the sturdy waste truck with stinky butter, or threw thumb tacks in front of the tyres. Fortunately, DeLouise Industries was a surprisingly big believer in recycling. They had 'recycled' a fleet of decommissioned armoured troop carriers, each one rolling on six tensile molecular-engineered tyres, impervious to spikes. As for the environmentalists... well, Bayard had no problem with using his fists to rebut their arguments.

"Hey Jared. Got the old girl runnin' again. Is there a load waitin' for me?" Bayard asked. He had a nice voice, he liked to think. A pleasant, lyrical tenor, marred only by his sloppy diction. The bull waved at a crate of barrels that sat in the truck yard, waiting to be taken to the old industrial district, tossed into a pit and promptly forgotten about. The majority of waste dump runs occured in the evening and night. The trucks were enormous, were usually a lot wider than some of the city's more... antiquated streets and generally unpleasant to drive in rush hour traffic. Plus, nobody really wanted to see toxic waste being moved around schools and public parks.

"Usual run. Last one tonight. You hittin' the pub after knockin' off?" Jared enquired.

"You know it!" Bayard heaved himself into the cab and switched on the robotic arm mounted in the centre of the vehicle. Through the fuzzy hologram of the camera's view, he used the virtual joystock to move the electromagnet over the load, before flicking a switch. Clunk. The load now magnetically glued to the arm, the cab's engine roared as it pulled the lashed barrels up and into the protective high-sided bed. Thump. The robotic armed folded its limbs up and deactivated. Bayard waved to his friend before gently easing up the accelerator.

~~~

The sensor atop the concrete barrier wall read the driver's clearance as the heavy machine rolled on through the gate. From there on in, it was like a ghost town. Of course, Bayard knew there were those that lived within this abandoned section of the city. Fires crackled in gutted buildings, old barbed wire fences had been torn down for ease of access. Bayard had to admit there was something of a charm about the gloomy shapes of past days. Yet he did not particularly relish staying in here too long. Most of the time, he never had to even leave the truck.

Terr-ruh-ruh...err....

Oh bugger.

"This... better not be serious," Bayard muttered. Lifting up the bonnet, a torch in paw, the big kangaroo sighed and sniffed at the air. His large ears flicked this way and that. Good. No... denizens about. He was not sure exactly how anarchic the place could get if he stayed too long. Best not to find out. He opened his tool kit and peered into the engine. "Come on, babe. Talk to me."
"You can't just remain a root forever. Eventually you grow and change into other things, like stems and leaves and such. Are a tree's leaves an insult to its roots?" - Sade

"It is easy for a statesman, whether he be in the Cabinet or the Chamber, to blow a blast with the wind of popularity on the trumpet of war, warming himself the while at his own fireside; or to thunder orations from this tribune and then to leave it to the musketeer who is bleeding to death in the snow whether his system win fame and victory or no. There is nothing easier than that; but woe to the statesman who in these days does not look around him for a reason for war which will hold water when the war is over." - Otto von Bismarck

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Re: Believe the Tabloids (Domus, Open)

Post by Larcen »

Lying awake and unable to sleep, Chrys felt the rumble of another shipment going into the restricted district. He snarled, then rolled over, knowing there was nothing he could do about it. The toxins would come, whether he flipped the truck over and spewed fire into the cab or not. Still...he considered baiting the sap behind the wheel. Maybe scaring the coveralls off him would make Chrys feel better. Nah, forget it. He was too depressed.

Then, faintly, through the vents, he heard the engine crank. And crank. And crank? Uh-oh. Then a door slam. Oh come on...it'll be too easy, Chrys figured. He crawled up the exit tunnel to his abode.

The hood—bonnet, that is—of the wastefully endowed Caddy groaned as he pushed it open. Chrys' forepaw zipped back. Pause. Let the other guy wonder, then shrug it off. He waited for five minutes, listening for either the sound of approaching footsteps, or any number of possible responses. While he waited, every scenario he could figure ran through his head.
Last edited by Larcen on Tue Aug 23, 2011 9:41 am, edited 1 time in total.
"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read." --Groucho Marx

You say 'fundamentalist' like it's a bad thing. X3
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Re: Believe the Tabloids (Domus, Open)

Post by JamesG »

"No!" Bayard pointed a claw in the general direction he heard the groan. That was always how it started in horror flicks. There'd be a noise and the violins would do some scary chords. Then they'd go silent and the victim would breathe a sigh of relief. Then he'd turn around and BAM. Chainsaws. Or teeth. Bayard was not going to let this creepy, creaky place get to him, so he sang a tune.

"I took back my paw and showed him the door,
No livre of mine would I part with this day...
"

Bayard had a decent singing voice, but he trailed off weakly, more interested in what his ears were telling him. Wind whistled through the glassless windows of buildings. Concrete and steel edifices, monuments to the dreams and visions of a bygone era. The kangaroo examined the wiring by the light, grimacing at the brittle rubber and filth. His tail swished across the ground impatiently as he tried to think. He shivered, then jerked around, fists at the ready. Nobody was there. Bayard sighed, and laughed to himself.

"Come on, I gotta get to the pub before they close," he scolded the engine, before leaning in to do some in-depth tinkering.
"You can't just remain a root forever. Eventually you grow and change into other things, like stems and leaves and such. Are a tree's leaves an insult to its roots?" - Sade

"It is easy for a statesman, whether he be in the Cabinet or the Chamber, to blow a blast with the wind of popularity on the trumpet of war, warming himself the while at his own fireside; or to thunder orations from this tribune and then to leave it to the musketeer who is bleeding to death in the snow whether his system win fame and victory or no. There is nothing easier than that; but woe to the statesman who in these days does not look around him for a reason for war which will hold water when the war is over." - Otto von Bismarck

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Re: Believe the Tabloids (Domus, Open)

Post by Larcen »

Chrys was taken aback by the yell. Still, he was determined to have his fun. As he listened, he caught the sound of metal on metal inside metal, or tinkering in an engine compartment. Good. Keeping his eyes shut to avoid their glow giving him away, he slithered up and out of the Cadillac's engine compartment, making as little noise as he could...which was impossible, given the loose clustering of debris that made up his home. A few cans rattled down the slope, but Chrys was already behind the pile. He cursed the noise he was making; it delayed his stalking of the "industrial waste disposal technician."

Another good sprint and he'd be upon him, but dammit, the alerts of the clattering trash halted his progress until he assumed his quarry lost interest...or at least, until the willies had died down enough for the roo to continue working.
"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read." --Groucho Marx

You say 'fundamentalist' like it's a bad thing. X3
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Re: Believe the Tabloids (Domus, Open)

Post by JamesG »

"...And forgiven the whole house of Orange,
King Billy, and the whole house of Orange!
"

Bayard turned the key. Yes, these old models still had physical keys instead of DNA authorisation. The starter motor... uh... started. That was a good sign. The kangaroo briefly considered just hauling the barrels out one by one on his own. Well, rolling them out. They were built to contain as much heavy waste as possible, not to be ferried about by a living creature. Machinery was expected to do all the work these days. Pity, when the machinery didn't feel like it.

"Should buy... some limb upgrades," Bayard muttered, half-joking to himself. The chances of him ever saving up enough for cybernetic limbs was about zero. Plus... he did have a somewhat squeamish side when it came to cybernetics. Come on, the surgons literally amputated your living limbs and put machines on your torso. That was all well and good for amputees but for someone with healthy limbs? It didn't feel right.

Bayard decided to ignore the sound of rattling in the ghost town. It was a dumping ground for rubbish, he should expect a few clanking and clattering bits. He thumped the engine into life, leaving the cab door open for some fresh air. The hologram display of the robotic camera hissed into static, dimly-coloured vision, and the kangaroo's paws began working to extract the truck's load.

(OOC: My internet is dying. Sorry man, I'll have to post more tomorrow or whenever it's working.)
"You can't just remain a root forever. Eventually you grow and change into other things, like stems and leaves and such. Are a tree's leaves an insult to its roots?" - Sade

"It is easy for a statesman, whether he be in the Cabinet or the Chamber, to blow a blast with the wind of popularity on the trumpet of war, warming himself the while at his own fireside; or to thunder orations from this tribune and then to leave it to the musketeer who is bleeding to death in the snow whether his system win fame and victory or no. There is nothing easier than that; but woe to the statesman who in these days does not look around him for a reason for war which will hold water when the war is over." - Otto von Bismarck

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Re: Believe the Tabloids (Domus, Open)

Post by Larcen »

From behind the skeletonized carcass of an electric SUV, Chrys stalked his prey. He squinted until his phosphorescent glowing eyes were mere slits in order to reduce the chance of the driver seeing him.

Slipping out from his scant cover, he charged, closing in for the attack. It took a few seconds to get both tonnes of him up to speed, but when they did, his body became a scaly battering ram. A moment before impact, Chrys pulled his serpentine neck to the side. His forelegs left the ground and pulled back as well, channeling all his momentum into his shoulder. With the same technique, an athletic individual might singlehandedly tip a sleeping cow. He roared, sounding strikingly like that combination of hydraulics and animal noises from the movies—he had practiced; how, exactly will be revealed later.

At a full fifty kilometers per hour, Chrys slammed into the side of the truck's cargo container, hitting it high enough to lift the driver side tyres off of the ground. The side of the vehicle caved a little, registering within the monster a small sense of satisfaction with his blow.
Last edited by Larcen on Tue Aug 23, 2011 9:43 am, edited 1 time in total.
"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read." --Groucho Marx

You say 'fundamentalist' like it's a bad thing. X3
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Re: Believe the Tabloids (Domus, Open)

Post by JamesG »

Bayard had been in crashes before. It was an unnerving experience, being tossed about by forces much more powerful than you could ever be. But that was nothing compared to being sideswiped by a roaring THING in the middle of a ghost town. The kangaroo gave a yelp of fear then a roar of pain. The sharp jerk of the vehicle had slammed his door shut on his leg. Shoving the damn thing open he checked his instruments. Engine was still running, the electromagnet was still holding the waste load. Bayard limped from the cab to see what was going on.

He was speechless for a moment. His face was suddenly very cold and sweaty. His paws quivered and his gut instincts told him to ambulate as far from this monstrosity as local gravity would allow. His mind replied that this was an impractical solution to the problem, as he had as much chance of outrunning this creature as he did learning to fly.

"Ah...ah..." A scream choked in the kangaroo's throat, his eyes hypnotised by those glowing embers of the beast. He felt like a rabbit, staring at oncoming traffic. Something inside of him told him he was no rabbit. He did the only thing he could think of doing.

"Ah... ah... Aaaaarrrgh! Shoo! Get! Get!" Bayard waved his arms and staggered forward, groaning in pain. He desperately hoped his wasn't bleeding. If the creature smelt blood... Bayard's mind flashed with every single monster horror film he had ever seen and what happened to characters that got injured and then devoured to prove the situation was serious. Hopefully, the wild animal (for it was a monstrous, savage creature!) would be scared off by a supposed show of force. And hopefully it would not notice the heavy 'roo quivering all over like jelly seated on a particularly badly installed washing machine.
"You can't just remain a root forever. Eventually you grow and change into other things, like stems and leaves and such. Are a tree's leaves an insult to its roots?" - Sade

"It is easy for a statesman, whether he be in the Cabinet or the Chamber, to blow a blast with the wind of popularity on the trumpet of war, warming himself the while at his own fireside; or to thunder orations from this tribune and then to leave it to the musketeer who is bleeding to death in the snow whether his system win fame and victory or no. There is nothing easier than that; but woe to the statesman who in these days does not look around him for a reason for war which will hold water when the war is over." - Otto von Bismarck

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Re: Believe the Tabloids (Domus, Open)

Post by Larcen »

Monstrous? Sure. Savage...well, not quite, exactly. Chrys was merely toying with the guy who was doing his part to make the mutated zone's residents' lives even harder and more hazardous. He saw the false bravado, tasted the fear with a flick of his tongue. He would not be shooed. Still, the limp his plaything was displaying was beginning to worry him. Just one more scare, and he would let his prey go. His eyes widened—two glowing, yellow-green lights the size of the old incandescent traffic lights you found in antique dealerships. Tiny, lighter dots no bigger than thumbtacks pointed out his pupils. From about ten feet away, he looked the roo squarely in the eye and froze, but just long enough for suspense.

When he moved again, it was to open his mouth. A cloud of nearly invisible, chartreuse flame erupted forth, spreading out over the broken asphalt. Chrys slowly moved his head upward, making the edge of the fire creep toward Bayard's boots. It followed him for a moment before Chrys ran out of breath.
Last edited by Larcen on Tue Aug 23, 2011 9:49 am, edited 5 times in total.
"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read." --Groucho Marx

You say 'fundamentalist' like it's a bad thing. X3
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Re: Believe the Tabloids (Domus, Open)

Post by JamesG »

Bayard tripped. Oh, very clever, Bay. Trip over your own damn paws and catch fire. This was a horrid nightmare. And the 'roo was absolutely positive this was happening. He had a very definite idea of reality, and his mind could see no other way to explain the monster's presence other than 'Monsters actually do exist'. Well, what did you know? The loonies and conspiracy theories were true. There were actual monsters in Retroit. Bayard wondered why he was being so calm about this all of a sudden. Maybe he was in shock. Yeah, that was it. Shock. He could feel the shock wearing off actually. Which is probably why his snout was open and screaming blue murder to the high heavens.

"AAARGH I'M GONNA DIIIIIIE!" Bayard bawled. A full-grown kangaroo jack actually bawled. He didn't want to die! So it made sense to advertise this fact to his surrounds, just in case the universe was listening and actually gave a damn about his fate. Either that, or someone might be inclined to save him. No, that seemed unlikely. He was in an abandoned, walled off wasteland inhabited by actual fire-breathing monsters. No wonder Retroit was voted Domus' Worst Tourist Destination.
"You can't just remain a root forever. Eventually you grow and change into other things, like stems and leaves and such. Are a tree's leaves an insult to its roots?" - Sade

"It is easy for a statesman, whether he be in the Cabinet or the Chamber, to blow a blast with the wind of popularity on the trumpet of war, warming himself the while at his own fireside; or to thunder orations from this tribune and then to leave it to the musketeer who is bleeding to death in the snow whether his system win fame and victory or no. There is nothing easier than that; but woe to the statesman who in these days does not look around him for a reason for war which will hold water when the war is over." - Otto von Bismarck

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Re: Believe the Tabloids (Domus, Open)

Post by Larcen »

The luminescent orbs of Chrys' eyes became downward-pointing crescents as he grinned. The stumble was a little worrisome, but the scream...that was just beautiful. All right, now send him off, he thought to himself. No sense giving the tubby kangaroo a heart attack—well, maybe just a little one; a slight arrhythmia or something.

Thud. Thud. Chrys slammed his weight down on each step as he approached the fallen worker. The scorched asphalt was scalding hot, but to Chrys, it felt no toastier than the outside of a toaster. He craned his long neck to bring his face within inches of Bayard's. His head was the size of a regular fur's torso. It was rimmed with four spikes; two pointing back from the top of his head, two connected to the base of his jaw, pointing down and back. A fifth spike swept up and backward from the top of his muzzle, like a rhino's, but narrower and sharper. Twin tendrils of smoke wisped their way out of his nostrils.

"No, you're not gonna die," he rumbled like the idle of a diesel engine. He huffed, then puffed a cloud of brownish yellow smoke into the roo's face, enveloping Bayard in...wait, it wasn't quite smoke. The foul smell of the thick, lingering cloud spoke of neither sulfur nor creosote. This was something that an old fur, especially from Edwin's western coast, would remember well. It was smog.

Chrys backed away, leaving Bayard in the blinding smog-screen. A little puff wouldn't hurt, he figured. Long-term exposure would kill him, of course, but a wee cloud should do little damage. Chrys clambered off, leaving him there. For a creature that tipped the scales at over 2000kg, he could be nimble when he tried hard enough. Therefore, the manner in which he skulked off was remarkably quiet.

As the smoky fog lifted, Chrys hid behind a wall of scrap, peeking through a tangle of what used to be mattress springs. He wanted to make sure the kangaroo had not passed out from his disappearing act, and that his prey could make a getaway.
Last edited by Larcen on Tue Aug 23, 2011 7:44 pm, edited 4 times in total.
"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read." --Groucho Marx

You say 'fundamentalist' like it's a bad thing. X3
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Re: Believe the Tabloids (Domus, Open)

Post by Kael »

A tumble of cans could be heard from a little farther in the junkyard. There was a pair of Minks scavenging for tech in here. Both females were slender, but one had a sleek coat, and the other was kind of raggedy, with grease mixed in.

"Quiet, Jan. We dont need anyone hearing us." Solara fiercely whispered to her cyborg companion. She knew Jan would hear, for she had communications set up directly between her and Jan. Solara wiped at some of her grease-stained fur. She liked the feel of grease, made her feel accomplished with her tech work, but it didnt look good, and she knew it. Oh well, no-one was around to see her.

Jan was surprised that shifting the car would send a racket going. She had popped the hood, and inside was a full 2020 engine. "This what you need, Sol?" Sol looked through the visual array of Jan.

"Exactly, let's take it back so i can convert it, and make it like new." Solara needed the cash she would get for this thing to buy new parts. Jan needed a few upgrades, and It wouldn't hurt to add a few things for her home at the same time.

Both froze as they heard a scream sound. "That can't be good," they simultaneously said. They quieted their steps and approached the source...
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Re: Believe the Tabloids (Domus, Open)

Post by JamesG »

Bayard coughed. He spluttered and hacked and wheezed and spasmed. His throat felt like if was reduced to a straw. The kangaroo was suffering badly from the fumes. Bayard was very rarely reminded of his breathing problems in a mostly sterilised environment. Despite what he actually was dumping in this wasteland, DeLouise Industries was not so daft as to let their employees get a lungful of anything particularly harmful.

"Helllp... urk..." Bayard crawled up to the driver's seat, paws scrabbling for his phone. It was one of those gimmicky ones he had bought when there had been a craze for holographic communication in EVERYTHING. A nice little reminder of the kind of things furs that grew up in the 2120s thought were cool. The craze had died off when furs had realised having voice-only phones meant they could continue picking their noses and subtely ignoring the majority of their mother's 'staying in touch' speech, occasionally interjecting an 'Uh-huh' to prove they were still listening. Technology was wasted on this generation, Bayard had grumbled at the time. Damn kids and their eye implants and throat mics. Now, however, he hardly cared.

"Damn... whereizzit?' Bayard sucked in another painful breath, feeling his body losing the battle. All he could do now was pathetically scoot his paw over empty drink cans and scrunched up work schedules, hoping to connect with his antique communications device and his last hope for salvation from this nightmare.
"You can't just remain a root forever. Eventually you grow and change into other things, like stems and leaves and such. Are a tree's leaves an insult to its roots?" - Sade

"It is easy for a statesman, whether he be in the Cabinet or the Chamber, to blow a blast with the wind of popularity on the trumpet of war, warming himself the while at his own fireside; or to thunder orations from this tribune and then to leave it to the musketeer who is bleeding to death in the snow whether his system win fame and victory or no. There is nothing easier than that; but woe to the statesman who in these days does not look around him for a reason for war which will hold water when the war is over." - Otto von Bismarck

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Re: Believe the Tabloids (Domus, Open)

Post by Larcen »

An incredulous, worried squeal came out of Chrys, non-verbally saying, "Oh no. You kidding me?" He crashed his head against the bed spring bramble. Way to overdo it; now Mr. Roo was having an attack. Such was the problem with living in a pristine, antimicrobial environment. If the immune system was not given a workout defending against real threats, it began to make them up, causing asthma, allergies, etc. Chrys mused for a moment, wondering how many furs on the outside were allergic to something as stupid as peanuts. There were no allergies and little asthma in the polluted district, though there was plenty of cancer and emphysema.

Still, there might be hope. But it meant scaring the fat one even worse. Or did it? He snarled. One thing Chrys' parents had taught him—the stainless rule of living in the industrial waste-land—was that any medical supplies you could find were good ones. Therefore, there was an entire dishwasher in his den devoted to all things medical. So now the puzzle remained: Bring the patient to the life-saving medication, or bring the medication to the patient? Option B was more appealing, both for the roo's sanity and the lizard's privacy.

Chrys threw open the bonnet of the decrepit Deville that served as his entrance-way and barreled down the tunnel. Ripping the door off of the dishwasher that housed his pharmaceutical collection, he fished around until he found the small, yellow plastic tube he was looking for. Shaking it, there was still enough medicine left for an inhale or two, and this stuff lasted practically forever. He better make it count, was the giant lizard's thought.

Doubling against himself like a ferret, Chrys pulled a u-turn and snaked back up the tunnel and out. Not daring to show his face again, he placed the inhaler into the oil pan of a long-forgotten V8 and whipped it skidding across the street. The metal pan bounced with an imperative clang against the truck's tires.

Meanwhile, Chrys chewed on his claws and was reminded of just how bad they tasted. Will he even look at it, or is he too panicked to think? he worried. He raised his head and bugled to refocus Bayard's attention. Then he brought his head down against a forepaw. Lived away from everyone too long? he chided himself. Words, moron. Words.

"HEY!" He then called. "LOOK! USE THAT!" Use WHAT? Fat Jack over there had not been looking when Chrys threw it. "INHALER!" Come on, let that be enough. I don't need to kill you too.
Last edited by Larcen on Tue Aug 23, 2011 10:10 am, edited 13 times in total.
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Re: Believe the Tabloids (Domus, Open)

Post by Kael »

Solara saw the roo have his panic attack. Jan noticed it in the instant that Solara said, "Help him Jan." Jans darted forward hoping to assist him before he seized up.

Jan jumped when the pan hit the truck while she was moving. Solara had noticed it, and told her it was nothing. Jan continued until she heard the inhaler was in the pan. She grabbed it and held it to the roo so he could take a few breaths.

Meanwhile, Solara had moved over to where the source of this mysterious pan was. She grabbed out her home-made scanner and used it to scan for life-forms. She was wrapped up in the scanning that she was wide out in the open...
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