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Post by 0 on Dec 6, 2017 6:13:39 GMT
So many things all at once. It was hard for him to keep track, especially when he was so rightly focused on slicing the flesh of the living.
First he felt a twinge. A sharp enough twinge that caused him to pause and glance towards his arm--the one that wasn't there. It had felt as though someone had pounded a rock against it.
But the sensation was brief, and a mere second later the sword-wielding tourist slid out of the cafe, shouting and waggling around for everyone to flee. That guy was quick becoming almost as much of a pain in his ass as--as....
The man whirled around suddenly, snarling and aiming to throw his hands around the closest thing he could find--that being the ghostly girl. She'd done gone and plumb pried his toy--er, weapon of mass destruction right from his hand. Rage consumed him just enough in that moment that, if he did manage to grab a hold of her, he'd want to at least TRY and choke the unlife out of her before snatching his icing spatula back.
It wouldn't last long, however: for once the ghost found himself crying out in pain, or perhaps it was only of surprise. So distracted was he that a whole clip hit him head-on: eight smatterings that compounded upon one another, and altogether flowed through him with quite the solid shot of pain.
It was enough force to send the ghost toppling over onto the street. The connection to his disembodied arm was severed by two bullets, and said arm, tucked safely away into the cafe, swiftly disintegrated, leaving nothing but a few spare traces behind. The remaining energy pouring from his wound now coursed freely in plasma arcs around the hole.
"I DON'T HAVE IT ANYMORE, YOU PLUMB MORON!" he screamed into the air, a deathly glare focusing in on the man who'd shot him.
What WAS this city? It was just one thing after another having an affect on him like nothing else had ever done before. One thing after another ruining his fun.
this. Was. ENOUGH.
As the officer reloaded, the exposed energy flared to life like a bursting star. Dark purple raged into violet, the ghost's body flickering, vanishing one second and reappearing the next, the man cloaked in a dark aura as he stood tensely, frustration and fury building.
He charged blindly for the man who'd last marred him, despite having no known way of attacking the enforcer without a sharp object in hand.
And he tripped. Fell flat on his face he did--more than that: he fell through the ground.
Anger disappeared almost immediately as panic took over, the ghost not wanting to get lost in the depths of the earth, his hearing consumed by silence, his vision bloated with rock and soil. His arms waggled frantically while he focused his direction backwards, reappearing in a different location some distance from his last. If he was lucky he wouldn't immediately be within view of the others.
"Screw it!" he shouted to himself (completely dashing any aforementioned fortune that might have occurred), feeling something like blood leaking from his bullet wounds--in fact, some of the bullets were lodged within his translucent flesh--his few senses slowly blurring into one another. He didn't think ghosts could die, but he couldn't fight well, not like this. Best be time to cut his losses.
He turned on his heels and then he keeled over.
He just...up and passed out. An arm cut off, eight bullet wounds--even a ghost could only take so much, especially one so unused to being wounded as himself.
The man's head flopped down and his body turned over, hovering at an angle in the air.
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Post by 0 on Dec 5, 2017 22:06:36 GMT
The watch vibrated as another message came up. He didn't have a chance to look at it before music was ringing out into the air. Instinctively he might have jumped, but tr helped him to tighten his muscles instead.
Walsh pushed his sleeve back up to glare at the infernal device, the terrible noise cutting out on its own almost as soon as it started. More messages began to pop up, Walsh only glimpsing the nonsense sentences as they sped by, his gaze flickering around the room to see whether he was to be reprimanded for this.
Well, someone was approaching.
Returning both arms to his sides, he pushed a button on a device that hung just beside his watch-bearing wrist, leaving it to scan for traces of magic. Although hacking was the more likely scenario, possession was still a possibility. From the messages' contents, it sounded as though the perpetrator could be in this very building.
And here was the visitor who'd been waving the documents around, now teasing him more so than truly chiding him. Still, Walsh couldn't stop the utter shame from rising in him; after all, he'd been the one to push the prankster into acting out.
"No, sir," he replied, getting the sense that the man must have been some sort of official. His muscles tensed as the stranger leaned in for a look at his watch, the cuff of his sleeve curled just so over it, leaving the narrow screen in full view, but dimmed as it began to automatically turn itself off. "Just a...," his voice trailed off as a distinct sound pierced the air around him: beepbeepbeep!
Walsh's eyes widened, instantly realizing the implications. Something had been detected the second the stranger had come so close. His distal hand instantly reached for the taser hooked near it. The stunning device was by default on a positive logarithmic setting, which would have gradually increasing intensity the longer the trigger was held.
Walsh ripped the taser from its holster and swung it around towards the man, hoping to press it directly into the stranger's shoulder or side. He wouldn't hold it there for very long, only enough to subdue something slightly stronger than the average human, suspecting him to be some low level entity for having gotten in here in the first place.
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Post by 0 on Dec 4, 2017 6:57:08 GMT
"Whabever," he mumbled casually, although the look he gave the animal was one of awe and suspicion. He didn't know whether to believe what he was being told, but piling one unlikely thing on top of several that had already been proven made it hard for him to think the beast was lying. Thus he naturally found it that much more amazing.
Turning his head away for a moment, the child blew out what little mucus he could onto his sleeve, then reached for the can of peaches and retreated to the small kitchen table with the tin in tow. A crusty spoon was set out on the dusty wooden surface, and after sitting down on a creaky chair he began scooping up the peaches. He glanced outside through the broken window and made a choking sound at the sight of snow drifting in through the open frame, pounding a fist lightly against his chest while he hacked on a few peach slices.
There was another floor above this one, and in one area the roof had completely caved in. He imagined the snow piling up and then caving through the rain-sodden and wind-whipped floor boards into the living room below, which was where he'd been sleeping since the cold had crept into the land.
"So; you hungry?" he said, remembering the note's last message. "I can grab you a can."
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Post by 0 on Dec 4, 2017 6:12:33 GMT
He ruffled his brow. And it was one of those dogs that couldn't follow orders...it was Pop Rocks all over again. --(God damn it, where WAS that dog?)
But the ghostfoxdog made a good point.
He put his finger down, satisfied with the pawing on it. If it even was a ghost, then it was very good at being touchable. And making things up, his thoughts added latently, reminding him of the hammer and the note that wasn't there before--he glanced up towards the two objects in mind, wondering whether either had changed again.
"Wait, can you do that?" he asked, the canine's last suggestion coming back to him. Then he stood up, squinting down at it, one foot sliding out as though he intended to push the fox away from him. "And arb you diseased? Buck," he swore quietly when he felt his nose suddenly stuffing up again. One shoulder rose slightly as he prepared to wipe away some more snot once it felt like dribbling out.
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Post by 0 on Dec 4, 2017 5:49:09 GMT
Doppler blinked. And blinked again.
Ghosts were one thing. Something he expected. But THIS...well okay, he supposed a ghost could be a "fox"--his [uncle's] hammer had turned into a fake toy. No need to stretch his mind over this one.
A talking dog that thought it was a fox and that might also be dead. Sure.
The child crouched, hands over his knees as he stared at the small beast. He stuck a finger out. "Bite me."
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Post by 0 on Dec 4, 2017 3:51:50 GMT
Soon enough something came into view. Something...white.
Doppler's hammer arm twitched, but he stopped himself before he threw it and put a hole in the wall--besides: that wasn't a ghost. It was...er--was it a dog? ANOTHER dog? Golly, he must be a dog magnet.
The thought sparked a brief bout of sadness at the reminder of something else missing, and he quickly shifted his gaze back to the mysterious note. The words had changed.
"How about canned potatoes?" he said, setting the can and hammer both back down on the counter for the moment, still looking around for the purpoted ghost. He'd already ate all the regular potatoes while the stove still worked for him to cook 'em, and hadn't yet to dare and find out what canned potatoes were like.
He glanced down at the...probably a what-do-you-call it--a pomeranian? He didn't see any collar on it, but its fur was remarkably well-kempt for a stray dog.
He shook a foot at it, holding it out at length. In his experience small dogs tended to be ankle biters. And also annoyingly yappy.
"Back to the pound," he grumbled at it, offering only glances towards it while he continued to keep an eye out for the ghost. Last stray that came around coincidentally accompanied him on a wha-a-acky adventure, and he had no intentions of repeating that.
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Post by 0 on Dec 4, 2017 3:17:53 GMT
His muscles had tensed momentarily, a small grin poking at the corners of his lips, but all that retreated soon after, and he ended up merely shrugging. He'd thought a fight had been coming up, but apparently not. Fine, fine, whatever, fine; he wasn't much in the mood anyways. He just wanted to break some shit and then probably hit up the one bar once he worked up an apetite.
"Sure," he relented, swiping a hand through the air and letting it fall to his side. He bounced the bat on his shoulder with some manner of impatience. "How am I supposed to find ya?"
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Post by 0 on Dec 4, 2017 3:10:23 GMT
His gaze flickered around the room, scanning the corners of the cramped kitchen. A note pinned to the clock above the kitchen table caught his eye, and he took a step forward to read what it said.
"Noo...really?" he mumbled with a scoff, and attempted to use the tried-and-true method of staring at nothing to "feel out" the ghost. Of course he was just a normal kid, and so all he felt was the brush of the wind against what little skin had been left exposed through his layers of clothing.
He tapped the hammer lightly against his cheek in thought, noting how the by-all-appearances squishy top still felt cold and metallic. Now how does one get a mischievous ghost to appear when it doesn't want to? Lure it out!
...But with what? All he had was the canned peaches.
He moved back over to the counter, noting the dent in the can's lid that had caused a small corner to pop up. The boy ripped open the can, wincing when he managed to scrape a finger on the tin's sharp edges, and tipped it over so that a few slimy sliced peaches slid into his mouth.
"Mm-mm, GOOD!" he said with much exaggeration after swallowing, rubbing his belly and wiping at a bit of juice that ran out the corner of his mouth. A disgusted twitch in his eyebrows, however, would betray his true thoughts to an observant eye.
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Post by 0 on Dec 4, 2017 2:05:22 GMT
Grdg...he grit his teeth as he whacked away at the can, his motions becoming more furious and rapid by the second. Every day he had to go through this, and that made it no less annoying--quite the contrary. He was lucky he didn't smash his own fingers.
It took him a moment to recognize something was off. A blur of brown and gray turned to a blur of red and yellow.
Doppler stopped banging the hammer, blinked, and then stared. That wasn't the right hammer. Looked like a toy, though it hadn't been squeaking.
Coarse goose pimples crawled up his back, yet a smirk creased his lips. The child was still for a moment, muscles tensing, then suddenly he whirled around, hoping to catch sight of--what else but a ghost? It was always his go-to explanation for any strange occurrences.
"AHA!" the child shouted as though he would automatically succeed in spying one of those elusive entities. He even held the altered hammer up in a victory pose.
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Post by 0 on Dec 4, 2017 1:29:35 GMT
He sneezed.
"Ub...grub!" the child grumbled, wiping a glob of thick mucus onto his sleeve. He wasn't getting a cold now, was he?
Sitting alone in a house a few miles outside the capital city, the abnormally tall child was all bundled up in blankets and winter clothing, cracking open a can of peaches on the kitchen counter with a hammer.
The house was old and crooked, little more than a log cabin, and still showed substantial damage from a certain unspoken-of disaster that befell the continent back in spring of that year. Only some of the destruction had been fixed up, and all rather shoddily at that. It sat some ways off from a highway that was rarely used anymore, a narrow dirt road that wound through an overgrown forest.
The house sat in a small glade up on a stubby hill, a property that legally possessed no more than few acres, if even that, but sat just so in the middle of nowhere that it was nigh impossible to find the nearest property owners. An old wooden shack sat rotting in the uncut grass, while the burbling of a muddy stream could be heard back behind the woods.
The weather had been holding up nicely since the summer, but temperatures had been steadily dropping for the past few weeks, and for the last couple months utilities had slowly been shut off one after the other. First the electricity, then the heat; now only water remained, but who knew for how long...although the pipes were just as likely to freeze and burst before that happened.
Notices had been piling up in the mailbox, bills and foreclosure and all sorts of things he couldn't deign to understand. After all: he was only nine.
He'd started using the letters for tinder; thank his parents for shunting him off to that wilderness survival camp that one year, eh? Honestly, when he reflected on it, he figured it was amazing he'd made it this long. But it was obviously because he was just that awesome.
His uncle had been missing ever since he stumbled back home from one futile night of ghost hunting, memories muddled and braindead ready for a good night's rest. It was only upon waking that he'd realized he had the whole house to himself, with both his uncle and the time machine missing, alongside everything else that he'd previously seen in the subbasement (including...THOSE two). It took him a while to come to terms with the fact that his uncle may be gone for good.
Done gone and ditched him, the bastard.
Now he had to ride a bicycle into town whenever he wanted food, and he was running low on forgotten funds. Actually, that wasn't quite true: he'd been broke for a good while now. The stored food he knew of in the cupboards and the fridge had long since run out or spoiled.
Some poking about the property had done him some good, however, leading him to a small storage space that had been tucked away in the closet of the guest bedroom that lay deep in the concrete basement. There were plenty of canned goods in that inconceivably hidden pantry, full of food that could last an eternity--or at least a year. There were also twinkies, but looking at them gave him a headache, so he decided to hold off on them until the absolute last moment.
So long as he rationed them he should be good through the winter at least. Or half of it. Assuming the water wasn't shut off, or the pipes didn't all freeze up. Drowning him in his sleep. Or hoping he didn't freeze to death.
The child growled as he hammered away at the can of peaches. Eventually the tin lid popped up and he was able to peel it away, although not without some damage to the countertop. How could a man stash so many cans and not have a single can opener? What, had he hidden that, too?
With a sigh, he plopped himself down at the tiny kitchen table, and began poking away at the peaches with a crusty spoon. Pulling the blankets around closer, he listened to the wind whistle through a window without glass. Corn brown eyes stared boredly out through the square hole, his throat making a particularly loud gulp when he saw it: snow.
Some of the first few specks were now beginning to rain down.
Well, he was most definitely a goner for sure now...better finish up this terrible food right quick!
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Post by 0 on Dec 3, 2017 19:56:43 GMT
Tall, dark ears twitched.
Elsewhere it was the start of winter, but here...it was as though the dead of spring had never left. He could feel the natural energy infusing the land trailing sparks through his jagged whiskers.
The raggedy scraggy tailless fox took a step from cold, hard soil onto the warm, moist ground. Soft green grass brushed across his long legs, wound up the curling trunks of trees in full bloom. Dark wood shed pink and white petals in a shower that reminded him of the snow that surely already blanketed his frigid-turned northern homelands.
The narrow rip in space he had stepped through shrunk until it was gone not long after he pulled his final foot through. He folded his ears back when he saw this occur; he hoped these lands were as peaceful as they were pretty.
A small archway built from swirling stone sat behind him, suggesting that it was some device that might be turned on and off at will--too bad he didn't know how to operate it. All around it was a landscape of gentle knolls and open woodland, and woven in amongst the trees were various artificial structures that blended in well with the wilderness, a town built within its own park.
With naught else to do the starved fox continued on with quiet footwork. His muscles warmed up fast under the spring-forced sun, steps going springy. Whatever force caused the eternal spring now wound its way through his body, and he could feel the weariness leaking out of his thin fur like vapor to the wind.
But that didn't stop his stomach. The hunger remained, and the second his pointed nose caught a whiff of something possibly edible, the canine turned on his heels and headed towards it.
The trees grew thicker together, bigger and more bountiful in their blossoms. A veritable cloud of pink whorls rustled overhead, and great showers of the petals scattered across his patchwork coat.
He huffed, mildly annoyed, and paused to shake them from his pelt. It was a futile effort, however, as another breeze was soon blowing through, and within seconds he was speckled pink again. This time he resisted the temptation, drawn further on by the strengthening odors.
A long nose poked through the weeds, low brown eyes blinking and staring. The fur along his shoulders spiked up, bristling. Though what sat before him appeared to be human, not even the fragrant flowers and odiferous food could belie the stench of another fox.
He crouched close to the ground, trying to remain hidden, as he examined the scene, watching as the fox ate and drank in human guise. He didn't sense anything malicious about her, but one could never be sure.
His muscles tensed, and the tendrils of ripped fur on his haunches twitched as though a tail, were it only that he had one. He watched for an opening, and took it when the other fox sipped daintily from a fragile cup, her eyes seeming to narrow for that moment in satisfied thought.
The skinny fox darted out from behind the foliage, jaws wide so as to snap up anything at all. He choked down some small balls on sticks on the way to what he was instantly drawn to: a puffy-looking thing that was perhaps the biggest thing on the blanket. Were he successful in grabbing it, his teeth would clamp shut deep into the fluffy mass, and more than likely tear off a good chunk rather than drag the whole thing with him, considering just how soft and spongy the cake was.
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Post by 0 on Dec 2, 2017 16:52:02 GMT
Can't a ghost get a break?
Seemed his luck's been runnin' rampant ever since he got out of his element--and it weren't no good luck neither. First the clown who wouldn't die, then that last kill turnin' into an annoying bitchwad ghost on 'er own, and now his bloODY FUCKING ARM WAS CUT OFF. WHAT!
Things must only go from bad to worse once a ghost leaves all that he knows behind, 'least that was as far as he could make out in the reasonin' for all this.
And at the same time his measly ghostly arm plopped out of its spectral socket and went flopping around like a dead fish on the floor, little miss "noo, don't kill'um!" priss socked him under the jaw. His head snapped back at a disturbing angle before his smile could manually be turned upside-down, and his body went flipping through the air again, momentum carrying him a clumsy arc through the ceiling and wall, much to his chagrin.
No matter...the ghost, head spinning as his body stopped twirling and he was left hanging in midair, cracked his skull back into place with the butt of the icing spatula, eyes staring directly at the building's facade. He was out of view for a few split seconds from the both of them, and at least it hadn't been his knife-wielding arm to get chopped off.
Most of the folks were outside now anyways, weren't they? It was perfect really. Maybe it was all just good fortune buried beneath the bad.
The ghost giggled through what little pain he felt (what was it from again--a missing arm, was it?) as he dropped fast towards the front of the cafe, dark violet energy spilling from his exposed hole, a few tendrils of which still remained connected to the disembodied arm. Some folks had went and toddled off to their cars or retreated into other early businesses, but a few remained in a curious crowd, huddled just outside the bakery doors.
He slit one's head clean off, a glorious little fountain spouting out the neck, which went noticed straightaway as the blood splattered across the closest living body. Bodies began to disperse once more, this time much more quickly than they had before, and the ghost followed right after, also at greater spee: he hadn't much time to spare, so now he began to do away with formalities and frivolities and get right to the killing.
A stabby here, a slicey there.... He shall become the greatest painter this side of the city, oh yes!
Sirens could be heard in the distance.
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Post by 0 on Dec 1, 2017 22:39:00 GMT
An alert came up on his dashboard. Walsh glanced over it while he was stopped at a traffic light, watching a short video play beside a map with several icons. He was one of the closer enforcers with a free hand, so he pushed a button to signal that he was taking the call.
Flashing lights and sirens went on as he pulled out into the road, racing down the street to meet up with the speeding car. While turning a corner he crossed another intersection to cut off the skidding vehicle; almost as soon as he pulled over something else caught his eyes in its approach: the other enforcer's vehicle propelling itself backwards with a giant cat coming after it.
Instantly Walsh forwent the speeder as he pulled a rifle from the passenger seat and hopped out of his vehicle, aiming down the sights at the enormous animal. Cracks erupted into the air as he pulled the trigger, great globs of antimagic plasma arcing through the air towards the beast.
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Post by 0 on Dec 1, 2017 22:19:58 GMT
He began a dismissive wave at the ghost comment when something knocked him upside the head, causing a hiss to slip out from under his breath. One foot slid out to turn him halfway around, where during the shift his eyes fell on an old softball rolling through the dirt.
Using his foot to pop the ball up into the air and into the palm of his free hand, he looked towards the other man and said with a crooked grin, "Not very nice to throw things." He tossed the ball once into the air before pocketing it behind his jacket. His now whether the other liked it or not, although he loathed to think where the guy might have been storing it.
"If you wanted to play ball you coulda just asked."
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Post by 0 on Nov 30, 2017 22:37:53 GMT
The spatula glimmered, floating and dancing in the air. Unlike the ghost himself it was perfectly visible to all eyes, including the drops that flew onto the countertop when he twirled the object in glee. A bonny sweet scream rang out, and the man spun on his ankles towards it.
He was preparing for another swing when a blur of movement caught his eye. He wasn't fast enough to avoid the spectral body, but a quick step did manage to keep it from barreling full force into him. He practically went spinning through the air as he was shoved across the room at an angle and into a corner, the ghost pushing off a cushion of air (or, yanno, whatever spirits used for purchase these days) to keep himself from flying through the wall.
As he touched back down on the ground, he managed to catch a glimpse of that insufferable "Bitch!" he snapped, instictively striking out with the makeshift knife, what bloody good that would do to another ghost.
He caught the mistake almost immediately and stepped aside as he swung away, trying to avoid any counterattack to knock him down.
It was hard to miss the floating bloody spatula whirling through the air after all that mess had occurred, and after a shout from some tourist in a blinding floral shirt, that seemed to snap many of the perplexed onlookers into exiting the cafe posthaste, those nearest ducking away from a stumbling swing at their heads. No doubt calls to authorities alongside ambulances were now being made. Already his rampage was coming to an end before it could even begin!
With a growl the spirit leapt onto the countertop, eyes scanning for an easy victim while he jittered about, expecting another attack by the woman to come very soon. There--!: the second cause of these problems, the flowery man sitting at a table...something shiny, but more importantly sharp, had slipped into one of his hands. The ghost dashed forward, jabbing down with the icing spatula in one hand, while the other reached for the sword. Imagine the mess he could make with that...!
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