Sharp Cheddar

[SIZE="1"]Name: Jonas Maxwell Gender: Male Age: 44 Physical Description: When he served the Union in the Civil War, Jonas stood tall, strong and bold. Long days of tilling the soil on a potato farm since then have kept him in shape, but his blue eyes have faded to the color old denim under the constant sun. His skin looks and feels like the leather of a dependable saddle; it is well-worn but never fails. A frock of hair is slowly slipping away from Jonas's scalp, and specks of gray are weeding their way into the blackness. In one glance it is easy to tell that Jonas is and always will be a farmboy at heart, despite the other opportunities life presents. In the civil war he sustained an injury that doesn't effect his walking, but when Jonas tries to run anywhere he limps, and eventually has to stop, as the pain is too great. Personality Description: Jonas is a reasonable man, unlike others who have spent most of their life in the sun. While he never intentionally draws attention to himself, from time to time his sarcastic wit causes misunderstandings that the other party believes can only be resolved by breaking chairs over each other's heads. Generally, Jonas is not a fighter, but if someone is so inclined, he is willing to defend himself physically. While he never had any formal schooling, Jonas's intellect is well developed, in a rustic sort of way. He is one of the more respected farmers in town and carries himself as such. (auto)Biography: [I]You know, to tell the truth, I don't remember a whole lot 'bout my childhood. I had a Ma and Pa, sure as shit's brown, but he left not long after I was walking and Mom spent a whole lot a time workin' above a saloon. She wasn't the best role model. But there were a lot of us kids, and I was the youngest, and we managed to work the farm pretty well because when I was ten my brother Jeff was about twenty-five and there were eight 'tween the two of us. Long time ago, that was, and now we're spread all over the west. Those of us who ain't back in the earth, that is. I got a brother Jerry who lives in Colorado, too - he's working his way up as a lawman, and last time he wrote says he met a nice lady who he thinks he might make his second wife. I'm still happy with my first one. She's a long tall lady named Grace who's red hair still drives me crazy after all these years. Or maybe's it's 'cause she can outdrink me, damn her Irish blood. We raised two boys of our own, Connor and Rufus, and Connor's workin' at college in Boston, wants to be a professor. Rufus stayed home; he's the best damn plowhand money can buy. Still a little cross he convinced me that I need to start payin' him since he's 23 and needs to move into his own place with a lady someday, but them potatoes might not make it out of the ground if it weren't for him. When I was 'bout his age I was fightin' for the north. Ma said if I was gonna fight, and I didn't have anything else to do since I wouldn't been a college-type, I should fight "for the good men," since they didn't have no slaves. Course, it turns out they did have [/i]some[i] slaves, but in the end I think I picked the right side since we won and all. I haven't really shot a rifle much since then, but back in the day I was a sharpshooter. A good one. Course, I eventually ran into some other good ones, which is why I can't run no good anymore. These days I'm gettin' a little wary of farmin', since its been my life, and I figure since Rufus is gonna be movin' on soon I might as well get movin' on, too. Haven't figured out what I'm gonna do in my golden years, but I'm sure me and Gracie can cook somethin' up.[/I] [/SIZE]

[SIZE="1"]This time they waited. Arriving at the scene of the riot, the unit confronted a larger, hungrier protest. Weapons were what could be found ? protestors brandished chains, knives, and even makeshift shields from trashcan lids. At the sight of Imperial troops it came forth, a storm surge violently crashing into eroding police barricades. [I]Some of them are like sick dogs. The kind you put down if you can catch,[/I] Darius thought. And that was what they had been sent to do, if the need arose. The rioters and protestors killed a friend and many more. Today they wanted a taste of more blood [I](My blood, spilled on the ground, draining in to the sewers like rainwater, pooling in the cracks and crevices of the sidewalks ? no mercy.) [/I] Yet looking into the eyes of the protestors he still saw it ? conviction, truth. They directed their anger not at the men in the uniforms, but the uniforms. The image. The imperial. Darius?s unit might be their only chance at getting revenge ? and at drawing the attention of the government to begin doing real damage. An uncomfortable irony began to curdle in his stomach. To die fighting for what you believe in is noble, he thought. To die lying down for what you believe in is a disgrace. I can fight for it later, if I must fight against it today. Roland moved with a sudden start to his right. Glancing over, Darius saw the extreme protesters. ?We?re leaving here today, Roland.? Darius said above the orchestral volume of the crowd. ?We?re gonna walk away from this bullshit, okay?? Turning to face him, a small, sheepish smirk spread across Roland?s very pale face. ?I?m holding you to that. I?ve lived in this dump for a while now, and I think this is the first time I?ve ever seen barbarians.? Darius looked back in to the crowd and readied himself for survival. [I]We can do this. We can?[/I] Darius?s eyes then locked with a set of eyes from his past. He was suddenly not so sure about his chances. He froze in his tracks. ?No, no, no, you are not leaving my side today, you are staying right here where I can fucking feel you breath, man,? Roland said as he gripped Darius?s arm and led him. The unit took a passive stance this time; as passive as a group can look with assault rifles. Across the barricade Darius tried to find the same set of, cool, impartial eyes but found nothing in that area but a sign, which read, ?Equality is shadowed by the Imperial!? Before taking it in, splinters flew as the barricades blistered, protestors pushing forth and pummeling those in the way. Separated by yards, the protest moved to swallow the police and soldiers whole. Roland grunted as a screaming man struck his stomach, then reached for his head. Without hesitation, Darius swiftly raised the butt of his rifle, sending the man away in a spray of blood. "Take this you tyrants!? Darius turned only to see a chain sweep inches from his face. Roland pumped bullets in to him as he readied another swing. The crowd hesitated at this show of deadly efficiency; it seemed that the forces that were so easily subdued the day before now held the advantage. ?I would have asked you to say thanks for that first guy, but I think that might work, too,? Darius said before the crowds rushed forth again. This time, protestors, forced forward by the aggressors in the bunch, were now scattered in the fray. Beating back each person who came within reach worked well for Darius and Roland, and several other soldiers and officers gravitated toward them. At that moment, several soldiers gasped. ?Holy shit, did you see that?? Darius turned in the direction indicated and saw a smallish figure, blinking hard, green eyes scanning wildly, stooped over the chest of the massive man he had just taken down. An impossible task for a man of his size. [I]But he is not a man,[/I] thought Darius. [/SIZE]

[SIZE="1"][SIZE="1"]Taki fled and Roland screamed his name, but Darius still remained in shock, staring at the blood trickling outward from Clyde’s corpse. Protestors fled, soldiers and police officers retreated, but Darius, as if planted in time, thought [I]Not Clyde Not Clyde It was almost me it should have been me I felt the bullet pass by…[/I] “Darius, what the hell are you doing just standing there?” Roland’s voice finally came in to focus. Stumbling, he grabbed Darius and pulled him back, forcing him to run behind a building where several members of the human unit already fled. “Clyde’s dead… he… I [I]saw[/I] it happen, Roland!” “… shit.” Many of the soldiers looked dazed. In route to the riot, they expected a feud. They expected a skirmish, a scuttle, maybe some gunfire. The human unit did not expect to be mowed down by high-powered rifles. Many men helped force the riot into an alleyway across the street, but Darius saw very few before him, lined against the wall in sitting positions, few eyes meeting and none comprehending. He remembered the crowd scattering in all direction when the gunfire erupted. Roland asked how long the firing lasted, and another soldier simply stated it was long enough. “They’ll be back tomorrow,” the soldier said. “The protestors will. The criminals will. We will.” “They… they wouldn’t send us back after today, would they?” Darius asked. Roland answered without looking up, “Of course they will. We’re just people, we aren’t their perfect war androids. They sent us here because they knew we’d get killed.” Slumping against the wall, Darius looked up into the polluted Septu sky. ---- When everything cleared out, the soldiers that could be accounted for were loaded into the truck and driven back to the base. A group of androids stood in the loading bay, ready to handle the bodies of the fallen. They were stripped of clothing and carried to the incinerator. The Imperial showed superior efficiency. Not a sound was made in the barracks that night. Darius and Roland retreated to their corner of the room. Despite another day of duty ahead, everyone but Darius eventually succumbed to sleep. He could not take his eyes off of Clyde’s pillow. --------- (ooc- That's the end of the first day of the riots, from Darius's perspective. He'll be there for a second day.)[/SIZE][/SIZE]

[SIZE="1"] The human unit took full advantage of their downtime, and Darius Thompson layed a full house on the table as another precious minute passed. Although the other men ? boys ? around the table scoffed and threw their yellowish playing cards into the muck, they were happy. They knew it was only a matter of time until assignment came, and that the idleness of the morning would soon be disrupted. ?Goddamnit Darius, what?s the point in winning every hand if you don?t even smoke?? Roland Werner said. ?Working up to a trade for Clyde?s pillow. I could use an extra.? Darius scooped up the cigarettes and pocketed them as Roland dealt the next hand. The four men around the table slept in the corner farthest from the door, and in the weeks since joining the ranks they formed a makeshift, yet genuine friendship. The friendship of those who share the same unknown fate. Darius smiled at Roland, who whispered something obscene into the ear of Taki, the other player. Snickering, Clyde tossed two cigarettes into that pot and said, ?You can have that pillow on the day that I die, Thompson.? Before Roland, Darius, or Taki could react, the door to the barracks flew open. Darius always knew when it meant duty ? Androids opened it with indifferent strength. As if a light descended on a room full of cockroaches, the soldiers in the human unit scurried, but into formation instead of the darkness. The Android Sergeant stared down the line with his uncomfortably human-like eyes, and barked orders in a not so human screech. ?The High Command orders this unit to dispatch immediately to aid the police force in riot control in sector 7. Follow and depart.? With that the android turned out of the room, and the soldiers followed. ?Riot? Who the hell is crazy enough to riot anymore?? Roland muttered to Darius as the group of 30 or so moved in hurried steps through the narrow hallway that led to the garage. ?It might not have anything to do with being crazy.? ?So your saying it takes a group of lunatics, Darius?? Clyde asked, and a thought swept through Darius?s mind that he might be right. He didn?t have time to dwell on it, as the unit reached the vehicles and departed within a minute of the Android Sergeant arriving. The Imperial Army showed superior efficiency. --- Intertwined between two dissenting groups, the police welcomed the military assistance. The rioting crowd swelled forth in oceanic waves, eroding the wall of tactical shields. ?Shit, they need our help bad,? Taki said as they leapt from the vehicle. ?Let?s drive em back in to that alley! They won?t be able to do much in that cramped little shithole!? Clyde shouted above the tumultuous sound of the crowd. Slowly Darius and the rest worked their way to the front of the police line, leaned in and forced the crowd toward the alley. The criminals and the protestors joined in, shoving back in toward the main street, determined to not be stuffed away. [I]Funny that when the fuzz show up, prey and predator have a common enemy,[/I] Darius thought. The military unit surged forth, standing behind the wall of shields, guns drawn. In such close proximity, the words on the protestors signs came into focus. [I]Rid Septu of Scum Septu is no prison[/I] And Darius?s particular favorite: [I]Fuck the Man![/I] And in the eyes of the protestors he saw intense passion, determination, and most importantly the stolid fixation that comes with knowing the truth. He wanted to reach out to them, to drop his gun and join them. He wanted to be a son of their movement more than in thought, but in action. Like so many other young human men, Darius joined the army for one simple reason: Safety. Androids worked most labor jobs, and lord knew the streets weren?t safe with condemned criminals around every corner. A human couldn?t make a safe living any more unless his father had a thousand-dollar leg up for his son. Even if he didn?t agree with Imperial, if he hated them more than the scum that killed his family, if he felt like the cause was worth taking to the grave, he could not. Darius knew and accepted that fire would be opened that day, and many would be killed. He could not accept where it would come from and whom it would kill. A shout of triumph arose from the soldier's lips as the protestors began to spill in to the small alleyway. "All right, just keep pushin' em!" "Almost! Drive them down as far as you can!" The shouts of encourage flew from the ranks of the riot control. "Fuck! They got through, they got through to the left!" Darius heard Clyde's voice only seconds before the gunshots erupted from the left. Several policeman panic and bolted, the protestors surged forth and the ranks of the shield wall broke in a flood that washed the unit apart. A bullet flew past Darius, whistling as it went. He heard it hit something behind him as several of the brave police officers and the human military unit opened a round on the group of criminals. Darius felt lost in the push and pull of the mixed crowd, reached for his own weapon, and prayed to nothing in particular.[/SIZE]

[SIZE="1"]"Fuck 'em." The rest of the guards hooted and hollered at that. He hissed it to them, and the drinks went around and around until everyone stumbled back to the barracks. Was that all it would take? No, he didn't think so. They were always watching now, and sometimes he thought his headaches might be them searching his brain for what he really believed. [I]Fuck 'em[/I] No, he didn't want that. He [I]understood[/I] 'em. Never would he grasp why or how he began to empathize with the 'scum' in the streets, but he did. If he ever showed it to the force, his body would be out with the rest of the garbage before another breath escaped him. Dead, like the dissenting civilians, the ones he knew were right though he couldn't explain why. [I]Fuck [U]me[/U][/I] escaped his lips before settling in for another sleepless night. Did it matter if he wanted to help them? Fool them once, he knew he could. Twice, and they would find out. Rolling over on his cot he took an exasperated breath. Was he scared? Certainly. They loved making a show of executions within ranks. A dissenting soldiers blood spilled on the ground was, to most of the guards, all the entertainment one could wish for. "Self-cleansing," the Imperial called it, and they would certainly wash their hands of him if he ever tried to aid Septu. Two adjacent soldiers argued in a drunken stupor as he stumbled into sleep. He knew happiness did not exist in his life. Hope existed only under the intense gaze of fear, and he dared not look it in the eye. For now. Darius Thompson, soldier #26410, finally succumbed to sleep remembering how his home in the USA burned to the ground all those years ago with his family inside.[/SIZE]

[SIZE="1"][B]Name:[/B] Phineas Dougal [B]Age:[/B] 21 [B]Gender:[/B] Male [B]Occupation:[/B] Musician. [B]Instrument: [/B]Fiddle. [B]Items:[/B] The clothes on his back. [B]Weapons:[/B] None, though growing up with 5 older brothers he knows a thing or two about basic self defense in brawls. Appearance: Skinny Finny is a childhood nickname that Phineas has never quite been able to shake, perhaps because his is still a a rail. He is not especially tall, nor does he appear coordinated until he takes up his instrument. Finny is not particularly striking in any way - his brown hair and eyes don't help him stand out in a crowd. [B]Information: [/B]"For most of his young life, it was assumed that Phineas Dougal played with an incomplete deck. To watch him play with the other children reminded me of a broken-winged bird trying to fly with the rest of the flock. Finny remained blissfully unaware of his mental slowness; he was outspoken and energetic, eager to grow up and make friends, like any other child. Unfortunately, as he grew older, Finny started to understand his...'shortcomings'. It wasn't that he was plain dumb- Finny could learn anything the rest of the boys could. It wasn't that he was forgetful- at times, Finny's memory shocked his friends and parents. It was the sluggish pace at which comprehension came to him. Now, we all thought Finny was going to run into trouble as an adult, simply because we didn't think he'd be able to learn a craft or a trade. Not quite the case, you see. After church one day - I think Phineas was 15 or 16 - he scooped up one of the musicians fiddles. I think at first people thought he was going to break it (And that violin was a might fine piece of work - if he had, he'd have been working for the rest of his life to pay that man back), but quite suddenly and unexpectedly he broke into that morning's songs... with perfection. I don't know if a miracle happened because we were at the church or what, but I have never seen anything like it. I have never heard anyone as good as Phineas Dougal." -Bathilda Capricia, a woman from Finny's town.[/SIZE]

About the story: Is it going to work in a chapter system? It seems like that might work best, since there is a whole lot you want to introduce (and I am very excited to see what it all is).

[SIZE="1"] In a world that wasn?t called home by the race that it birthed, Ben Morrison believed he was lucky to have one. He was born in the building and once imagined he would die there, as well. Perhaps years from now; perhaps on the end of a Morlock spear in his sleep the next night, but Ben truly believed he would never leave. The dust around his feet swirled up and was carried off into the wind, streaming east into the barren land that stretched before him, seemingly conveyed to the end of the earth. Buildings lay crumbled on the ground, however most were decayed and fragmented beyond recognition. To the west, on a clear day, Ben could make out the wreckage of the former city of Warsaw. He never ventured a journey that far ? not after his father never returned from his search for the Hub. Ben had long since forgiven him, and forgiven his mother for passing away when he was 17, but that never made life alone for 8 years easy. The ?Wehrmacht? building seemed to be a blessing from God, of course ? a nuclear generator and a cooking range and huge storage refrigerator. His father always remarked, ?Ben, you don?t need to worry. I promise you, for three of us, this generator is going to deplete before the food source does.? Ben mouthed the words to himself as the steadily increasing wind whipped through his long, uncut dark hair. He found it hard to believe, but knew he had to suppress the urge to damn God ? ?I have been blessed by these supplies? can I now blame anyone but myself for squandering them?? Yet he resisted and refused to think of a plan to trek east, like his father had so many years before. The Hub was the only place left on earth that was still Earth, that was what they all had heard. It was not decrepit, it was not destroyed, it remained a beacon not only of hope, but of the accomplishments humanity had made in architecture, and science, and humanity, and brotherhood, and perhaps Benjamin had been reluctant to go because he did not want to shatter that dream; learn it was all only an illusion. Or worse ? learn it existed and find only the tell-tale signs of Morlock destruction in its place in the former Moscow. To learn that humanity had reared its head one last time, strong and proud, only to be brought down by its own dark shadow. He looked directly into the rising sun for a moment. Its rays played and danced across the landscape, doing their dance, illuminating the dark blue ocean of sky that hung over the world on which Ben stood. ?No,? he whispered. ?It?s still there. I would know. I would have felt it if we had fallen, the same way I knew? that I had to stop believing dad might still be alive.? He knew no one was around to listen, but in the mornings he liked to believe the earth still had ears for those left below, as they had no one else. Looking back into the building, branded ?Wehrmacht? above the only armored entrance, Ben carried his thin, tall frame back inside. ?What do I truly need?? The food he could carry, of course. God only knew whether he could make it or not. Scanning the blank, lifeless walls of the interior he moved to the shelf, making sure to pull down the book of the past and the book of words, along with many of the ones that were called novels (He did not think there was a book left inside he hadn?t read, but he believed some remained that he hadn?t re-read.) The maps provided by the past book were his only hope for discovering the location of the Hub, unless it had been thought to place signs. He entered another room and emerged with a large, two-strapped bag, and another he imagined he could sling over his shoulder. He then rummaged through the fridge, trying to discover any amount of food that would not perish. ?Cans,? he suddenly thought to himself. ?In the books when they?re traveling they always eat out of cans and heat it up with fire,? These and water bottles nearly filled up the backpack entirely. In fact, his memory of the novels almost worked as a checklist for Ben as he prepared that morning. Stuffing his packs as full as he could, he left room for one more thing. Diving back into the store room, he began to search for what his father long ago hid from him. After moving several crates he discovered it ? a long, steel device with a round opening on one and a large butt on the other. Next to it was a box of cylindrical shells the novels called ammunition. Ben had never fired it, but read a book in which a character with a gun was quite safe. Walking outside, the morning had come in full. He stared east again at the unforgiving terrain and raised the gun to his shoulder. Had anyone been in hearing distance, the crack of gunfire would have been heard for the first time in the area in a century. However, having no idea what kind of force a shotgun packed, Ben found himself flat on the ground facing the realization he would be walking with a very sore behind on the first leg of his journey. Scooping up his bags, Ben slung them onto his body. The final piece of his outfit was the bucket hat that sat on the cooking range. It fit snuggly onto his head, and when walking outside his hair billowed out underneath like tattered black sails against the red-orange morning sky. He looked back at the footprints leaving home, and could only hope he would find another one in the former Moscow. [/SIZE]

[SIZE="1"][B]Name:[/B] Dr. Jonathon Nelissen [B]Age: [/B]Late 30’s; early 40’s [B]Cast:[/B] Regular [B]Profession:[/B] Professor of International Affairs and Politics [B]Appearance:[/B] Jonathon is a skinny 5’10, and though it looks like he would lose a fight against just about anything, his fitness level is probably that of a 25-year-old’s. Bits of grey have slowly worked their way into his head of dark brown hair, though he still retains all of it. He has blue eyes and dresses up only for occasion. In fact, he has been known to wear a jeans and a shirt during some lectures, despite being strictly against the school’s code. One thing about his appearance he does care about is facial hair – He is almost always clean shaven. [B]Excerpt:[/B] A student near the back of the class mindlessly tapped away while staring out the window toward the setting sun, and Dr. Nelissen simply did not care that he had to compete for his attention with something that happened daily. Intrigued by his utter loss of one student’s attention, he scanned over the rest of the room. It seemed as though a thick layer of dust might settle on them before long – there was no movement, and not because the lesson in imperial aggression had them frozen on the edge of their seat. Near the back of the class, one student’s nose was crinkled up against his face as it was pressed against the desk, and Nelissen was sure that it would smart when he awoke. A seat ahead, one student had become very interested in the ceiling, and almost looked like he ready to start a conversation with it. In fact, the only student who was paying attention was a girl in the front who preferred sleeping with her professors to actually applying herself. [I]God almighty,[/i] he thought. [i]The entire class is going to fail. [/I] Nelissen turned to the board on which he had simply written “Benadir” and “Ceylon”. The lesson was supposed to detail how Benadir had basically walked in one day with their entire army and told Ceylon they didn’t exist anymore. However, Ceylon’s constant resistance over the last twenty years seemed to be coming to a point. However, the last twenty years of Nelissen’s teaching career seemed to come to a point on that day. Traveling, one of his favorite hobbies, was becoming increasingly difficult around his scheduling. He dreaded teaching most of his classes, and worst of all, he was still unmarried at his age, and blamed that on being married to his profession. In one relatively inexplicable moment, he knew he would never, ever be able to teach this class again. He made sure he enjoyed the last lecture. “Ceylon and Benadir,” he started. “One of the most intriguing battles ever to take place in history, class. Everyone knows Benadir is an authoritarian regime, correct?” No one in the class acknowledged him. “Well, over the last 30 years, the leaders have been developing certain technology that aid in the creation of vampires.” A few students looked up at that. “Yes. How else can we explain the tendency of their military strategy? Many of Benadir’s great charges took place at night. Now, Ceylon was obviously taken aback by the sudden onslaught of mythical creatures. Now, why might vampirism be highly beneficial for the army?” Unbelievably, two students slowly raised their hands. Nelissen believed that was a first for this very slow class. He chose the girl in front. Unsure of herself, she slowly allowed her answer to spill out. “Because…. Once you bite someone… they become a vampire too?” “Exactly, Amanda. Now the trick is, you have to be invited in if you want to bite someone, so Benadir stole medic outfits from the Ceylon front and dressed the vampires in those. As if things weren’t already dire enough, Benadir had successfully trained small woodland creatures to fire handguns, and, in groups, mortar rounds.” For the first time in years Nelissen had rediscovered the joys of teaching. Once the class had emptied in a somewhat dazed state after being informed that Benadir’s vampire army was marching north toward Clover with the blood still warm in their mouths, Jonathon Nelissen let himself relax in his chair. For the first time that day, he noticed the mail on his desk. He thumbed through the usual junk until coming across an unusually ornate envelope from one Basil A. Orgoglios. Juma Razi lept out of the page as he read it. He himself had a moderate preoccupation with the relic, but after a few years of research and several well-regarded papers on the subject he concluded that it was lost forever. If this man, though, was willing to seek people out and fund an expedition, then he must have some idea about the whereabouts of the fabled artifact. Looking around the empty classroom, he didn’t need to debate about whether teaching or questing for a relic would be a better use of his time. It also occurred to him that after today’s debacle he was probably going to be fired anyway. Picking up the phone on the desk, he submited his resignation, read over the letter one more time, and then began a frantic search through his desk of his old research. [B]Favorite Cheese: [/B]tasty Provolone for sandwiches; Cheddar for eating alone or with crackers – delightful either way. [/SIZE]

I have to give my vote to "Electrician's Day" by Liam Lynch. It's just a very nice feeling to imagine god saying, "Honkey... Getcha white *** off the stage!"

Don't worry about claiming anything; we're just taking the ideas that work best. Essentially, we're going to build the world before we start laying claims to anything, at all.

As an employee, my favorite thing in the world is when people get annoyed when I try to [I]sell them something. [/I] God forbid you should enter a store, browse, and be expected to buy something.