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Nov, 11 2020 Frustration was a familiar feeling. It was everywhere in her life really between ducking her pursuers, dealing with others, and mostly dealing with herself. It was not a new thing to feel the frustration boiling in the gut. She was just mighty tired of feeling it. When she had seen the city from Calder's ship she had been somewhat sure she had been here. The skyline of it looked familiar somewhat to her. As she walked the city though she couldn't seem to find anything that clicked in her head. Perhaps she only knew the skyline from a picture or something. Sometimes she was sure she knew something of the city but when she sat and tried to remember her mind was blank or she simply suffered from her brain trying to explode. It might have been a car driving by, a place that looked kind of like something she knew, or even just a person. It left her wandering for weeks, stealing food sometimes so she might eat and scavenging the rest of the time. There had been a few...opportunistic souls that she encountered as well but they had changed their minds about coming near her. Snapping a person's neck in front of his cronies seemed to do that. The fact that she could do that and not feel bad was...strange. Shivering she pulled the oversized coat she had gotten from Calder tighter around her still thin frame. If she didn't find anything soon she was sure she could go back to Calder if he was still in town. It was probably better than living on the streets like she had been doing the last few days. She simply did not want to give up unless she felt she had exhausted her options. With that in mind she had kept to major crossing areas. Spots that seemed like she should have visited them if she had ever been in the city, be it as a guest or as a resident. So far she was batting zero and she couldn't say that made her happy. It was dark now as she wandered through Central Park. Nothing was clicking as she looked at park and places around it. Sometimes she got that same feeling like something was staring her in the face but she couldn't drag anything up from her mind. Perhaps it was because it was dark? Maybe if she waited for it to be light out it might help. She didn't have anywhere else to go and with the farms right there she could at least eat in the morning. No reason to leave with a decent bench to lay on. Concrete was far colder anyway. So she curled into as much of an inconspicuous ball as she could on the bench, doing her best to keep the coat wrapped around her warmly. She should be alright this way, maybe cold as she tried to rest a bit but comfortable enough in the oversized clothes and boots while she waited for the sun to rise.
November 19, 2017 4:53 PM Pennsylvania Station [Towen] When I raise my flashing sword, and my hand takes hold on judgment, I will take vengeance upon mine enemies, and I will repay those who hate me. Oh, Lord, raise me to Thy right hand and count me among Thy saints.[/Towen] The tracks had long since been cleared, and there were a limited number of trains running per day--schedules had been largely curtailed with the fuel shortages the world continued to face. Towen stepped out of the bathroom, wiping down his hands on the cloth of his jacket, careful to protect the contents of his pocket from stray drops or wicking of moisture. Security cameras were back up and running, so an assault in broad view would be suicide. Surreptitiously, talismans were laid out in a rough pattern; scraps of paper with scrawled markings. They were attuned carefully to the mana signature of an ARMA mage Towen had been watching for the past two weeks. The mage would feel his magic disappear, and a panic would set in; a carefully induced panic attack within the confines of the talismanic boundary. [npc] Hey, Mark! Let me know when you get to Boston. Gotta tell me what the office there's like before I put in for a transfer. [/npc] One of the mage's friends called after him as he waved goodbye. [npc] Yeah yeah. I'll call ya, Jeff.[/npc] Mark made his way through the station down towards the former AmTrak departure area. As he stepped into the region of control Towen had established, Mark's confidence started to wane. It was not until he'd reached the waiting area that the mage felt his mana entirely disappear. He gasped for breath, thinking the lack of a constant mana flow was a failure of his respiratory system. After a few gulps of air, Mark seemed satisfied that his life was not in danger, and tried to flick a small cyclone into existence over his hand--an exercise at which he ultimately failed. When he'd successfully isolated himself, Mark tried again, failed again, bowed his head for a moment before intending to stand again, only to be interrupted by the liberation of his brain from his body by a single savage swing. Towenaar sheathed his sword and walked away, mingling back into the crowd for a time as though waiting for his train. He'd left the talismans around--not like anyone would notice scraps of torn paper in a litter-strewn shithole.
January 22, 2019 4pm "Little Monk's" Customs, Classics and Parts It was purposeful, of course being a businesswoman it wasn’t necessarily the smartest thing to do. Nevertheless it was probably for the best of everyone’s sanity. When she got annoyed, she tended to get angry. When angry, shit hit the fan and not in a good way. Today, she was angry and shutting herself off from the entire shop- hell no the Impala wasn’t going to repair itself. There was no time to deal with the annoying drama that was spilling onto her street, no patience, no desire! It was a complete pain in the ass to be a legacy. No... it was worse than a pain in the ass, a pain in the ass could be enjoyed if that was your inclination. She never wanted to write off that kind of romp, it served its purpose on the most frustrating of moods. This was a flat out clusterfuck. They could either get the hint and go fuck themselves, or they would continue to come back and find out how very little patience she really had. For most, the sound was a weird annoyance to the eardrums… crackling unlike anything that could really be identified in this world. It didn’t have the same sound as lightning, or electricity. It was always different in each artist’s hand. The flow of the metal, the weight of the touch. Each experienced tech had their own hum to the sparks. At first, she’d swathed herself in leather or denim. The floating arcs of orange were so beautiful when they bounced off reality. Her pop's buddies, the sandpaper rough crew her father surrounded himself with never protected themselves. Ripped sleeves off of flannel and jean. She couldn’t afford to hide behind cloth if she was to survive. She tried to imagine they were sparklers at first, concentrated on memories of her braided pigtails bouncing across her shoulders on a warm summer fourth, the bright yellow bursts flinging in every direction. Indeed. Reality was a bit more harsh, brighter. The flicking pepper of needles became ignored, her skill sublime. Dangerous… ...and at the moment pissing her off. Visor flipped up, flash fading, well-worn Doc kicking the edge of the frame that used to sit behind a fat tire on the classic, a chunk of rust hitting the cement floor and splattering into a fray of pieces. It was trash. It was all trash. Why the hell would someone repair a frame from nose to asshole and forget the rear mudflaps? They had painted every damn panel at this point. Damn it. BILLS! Every spine in the shop twanged to ramrods at the sound of her voice. Rare, like a white Rhino, and just as fucking vicious. *npc* Yah, Monk. He was wiping his hands with a grease rag when he stepped into her bay, gingerly slipping his coveted grease rag into his back pocket grease rag spot… He might have well kicked a few pebbles on his way in, hip avoiding one of her shelves. Nobody worked in her bay, everything was lower for her height. Most learned to avoid it after accidentally corner pocketing their balls on one of her tool hooks. Did this go up on the lift when you brought it in? It hummed in her chest, the gentle voice bordering on silence. *npc* I believe so. Doc heel smacked the side of the frame again, another chunk of rust shattering onto the floor as it gave way. It was on the inside, somewhere that even some of the most experienced didn’t reach up and touch when inspecting a ride. Her people were not the kind to miss it. This was just stupidity. Whose stupidity was yet to be seen. *npc* Can we patch it? Plate? ..and attach it to what? Visor clunked on the bench and she racked the gun, gloves pulled off to reveal the creamy hands against the lithe bare arms that were slapped rosy pink from heat. She said nothing. He knew. He knew in order to put the damn thing back together, to recoup all the work that had been put in they would have to find another frame. At the end of the world, even with big ass clients, it wasn’t that easy. Two shitstorms in one day was not what she wanted on her mind. Fix this. He ran his hands over the grizzly face, twisting his pointy beard a moment before they settled on his hips. *npc* I know a guy... I know you don't like.. but... I can fix this. Throbbed eyes flicked to him. It was worse than screaming at him. Much, much worse. Fingers danced in quick succession as he watched her through puppy dog eyebrows. Verbal berating was terrible… this, shit...there were words that couldn’t even be described that her hands could put together. God damn it. God damn it!! They’d been here again. Again! *npc* No, Monk. Kett. Ketterine! Two at a time, stairs were always two at a time when she was in a hurry. The chrome hi-power was loaded, it had been loaded for the last few weeks. Too much crap. Too many vultures. She lived alone above the shop. When the lights went out at night, it was just her. Vintage cars, vintage bikes, and even herself was a target to dipshits that wanted to take things that weren’t theirs. They weren’t her concern, never had been. The mob daughter had no problem shooting some asshole in the kneecaps to find out what they were doing there before she took a blowtorch to his face. She also had no problem doing the same to a mob that felt it had the right to move in on what her father had left behind. She may have been Bakkhos by blood, but it took more than blood to be loyal. They had gotten to Bills, they would get to the others. She needed them. She loved them, they were loyal to her father, and they were loyal to her. Intimidation by any means was unacceptable, and apparently she needed to again remind someone in their ivory towers of bullshit casinos. Their latest thug was done stopping by to drink her coffee and stroke his own dick ego. Stuffing the hi-power in the back of her belt, she pulled on a beat to hell brown leather coat and pushed open the door to seek her bike. It was a death trap in the winter, for someone who didn’t know what the hell they were doing. Ding. Tiny frame jumped on a chair in stride and swiped the damn bell off the hinge, tossing it into the trash as she left. Damn door.