- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per day
- Writing Levels
- Advanced
- Genres
- War, Horror, Dark, Psychological, Medieval/Ancient, 19th Century, Crossovers, Dysoptian, Fluff, Cyberpunk & Steampunk
~Ty-Kun's Prologue~
Hipline Miami
Miami, Florida
October 15, 20XX
12:34 AM
"Welcome to the city of sin, baby!"
Miami...
A lot has changed in the world in the past god knows how many years, especially within the grand republic of the United States and her foreign compatriots and enemies. In a matter of mere months, the Soviet Union had been reformed under ultra-nationalists, and thus, an unsteady, uncomfortable Second Cold War had emerged. America itself was thrown in a disaarray of feverish paranoia, skyrocketing crime rate, an increasingly idiotic population coupled with the usual healthy dosages of obesity and unregulated food being stuffed into major groceries. Yet, in blight of all of this,, what was shocking the most was this surprising culturally revival movement of the 80s. What was once drum and bass alongside street rap was now replaced with Synthpop, Journey, Daft Punk, and classic 80s hardcore rock. In a flash, neon colors danced around every corner illuminating the Miami night in this artificial sunset of glorious orange, pink, cyan, and magenta.
Walking upon the streets of this strangely different city, a blue-hooded teenager heavily breathed to himself. Keeping his head low, a black-and-grey stripped scarf attached to him, the shady, fairly averaged height, white, scrawny boy paused, raising his head slowly. With absurdly large eyeglasses shimmering against the neon glares, the purring of an engine caught his ears, watching as leather-studded bikers flew by on the streets of this corrupt city, spikes protruding from their helmets and Gothic imagery depicted upon their outrageous motorcycles.
Rolling his icy sapphire eyes begrudgingly, the mysterious, young teenager soon turned his attention to a parked, retro, open roof sports car. Smiling to himself, the stranger lifted up his hood, bushy, thick, yet short hair fluttering in the wind as he hopped in the back. With two fully-grown men awaiting in the front, one African American sporting a radical afro and the other looking like a reject for an unsavory movie, the car squeaked, groaned, and growled as it zoomed off against the artifical Miami sunset, smoke leaving in it's wake. Leaning forward, safely buckled into the car, Ty began to look over at the two men whom, quite obviously, were a lot stronger and a lot older than himself.
Markus "Slasher" Shift had been the first of the legendary Ty-Kun's elite mob, having met the 70s sociopath and explosives expert in a highly advanced correctional facility settled in Detroit when Ty was but 15 and charged for the smuggling of the newly banned narcotic, sugar. No, not cocaine, actual sugar, which had become rampantly popular on the streets. Having somehow beat Markus in an arm-wrestling fight, the African-American grew respect for the whiny little shit that Ty was, having broke out of the facility with him, taking down a few Detriot's futuristic, robotic, Neo-Police on the way out. To this day, he still boasts about one of those fancy, highly-illegal "Smart" burst pistols he managed to scavenge from.
Merely weeks after, the two met Dale "Josh" Mario Diggler the Second in Pennsylvania. Apparently, with the rise of the Second Cold War, the newly formed Soviet Union had already sent political agitators to many of the states abroad. With shocking success and grand swiftness, the entire town of Pennsylvania became completely overrun with socialist scum and absurd, laughable 80s communist tropes ranging from "sexy Russian sniper" to "sympathetic Cuban". But, back on track, the two soon became a trio, leading a makeshift rebellion group known as the Squirrels to bring back glorious freedom and pure democracy.
Now, before Ty, sat the two men he had been with for years. Their gang has grown increasingly stronger over the years, business blooming, despite a few unfortunate mistakes here and there. Unzipping his overly thick, navy blue hoodie, Ty-Kun revealed his true colors, the shockingly ruthless kawaii mob lord wearing a plaid red-and-black shirt. Dangling from his back seemed to be the scabbard of an Eastern sword, on his hip rested a mere axe, and in the folds of his shirt, his trademarked, legendary "Lil' Asskicker" Mac-10 awaited for the bloodshed.
Soaring through the streets of Miami, Ty smirked softly as Dale's voice broke the silence.
"Ey, Ty-boss, nice seein' ya again, so, whats the job on ya hands now? Does it involve another club, eh? Try not to get too excited with the friendly boys and girls, hahaha!"
"Dale man you fucking idiot, you balla-busting scrawny bastard."
"W-What?! I'm sure Ty-boss doesn't mind a little joshing here and there, heheheaha!"
The mob leader leaned forward in the sun-roof car. readying his weapons in largely silence before Dale interrupted him. Glancing over at Markus, whom seemed to be nervously driving hastily, Ty gently lifted his face to look dead into Josh's eyes, the ice of the sapphire unnerving. Despite his cute expression and appearance, Ty-Kun was not a menace to be reckon with. After all, you can't punch a man with glasses, but a man with glasses and a scarf? Literally invincible, clearly.
"Who said it is a joshing, Josh~?"
With a mischievous chuckle, the car halted to a stop, sitting before a grey structure illuminated by the radiant glow of neon lights, the sounds of bass, drums, cheering, and yelling echoing from within. Stepping out of the sports car, Ty looked behind him, cracking his neck, cocking the barrel of his modified submachine-gun. Giving off a reassuring grin, Ty gave a brief salute, signalling for his crew to go off, not without parting with words.
"I'll take care of these Celtic bastards, for Little J. Let him know the Potato will be safe after this. Also, make a quick call to Kat, we have to see how our...laundering in the Midwest is doing. You two, set me up an escape car and meet me back in Virginia, k' peach? Oh, hey, give me that mask and the shotty, gotta fit in, ya know?"
Getting two nods, Ty stood at the street by the rave club, slowly putting on his mask and cocking his lever-action shotgun. From the darkness, with each striding step, he pushed forwards, slowly beginning to aim the ancient firearm at the unsuspecting, Irish-descended bouncer. His eyes widening, a thunderous boom echoed out, civilians scattering as viscera and bone splattered and shattered against the dull walls. Standing before a camera, pointing his shotgun once again at it, the feed got one good look at Ty before he made his way into the club.
"Time to party...in hell."
Adrenaline pumped into Ty-Kun, the seventeen-year-old murderer and smuggler of sugars racing through the corridors and offices hidden away from the club by glass-windows. To his right, he could see through the glass a thousand or so people dancing their hearts and souls away, getting lost in the thrill of the music, their bodies exhausted, their minds consumed by heroin, and their limbs fatigued from alcohol. Synthpop raged poetically in the background, Ty-Kun kicking down a door leading into the interior offices of this gang hideout, whom used their club as a facade to hide their illegal activities.
"OH SHITE! ITS DA FUCKBOI LU-!"
Ty-Kun could feel his shotgun rattling, pulling down upon the lever, a sickening grin etching on the young boy's face. The deadly dance of dirty gang wars, the feeling of vengeance for having this Irish Mafia fuck him over and risk one of his closest crew members. Ditching the shotgun, snatching an Uzi, Ty began to storm down the hallways, barely any words escaping his exotic lips, consumed with this feeling of utter euphoria. Before beginning to gun down several men, a whisper escaped the leader's lips, sickening yet apathetically deranged.
"This is just like my Dying Games!"
Laughter, gleefully laughter escaped Ty's lips, the dead beginning to pile around him, two submachine-guns constantly rattling in his hands, shaking them violently. Irish thugs left and right were gunned down in mere moments, gore and bone crashing around him like a symphony of the damned. A small explosion rattled off into the distance, what appeared to be some sort of propane tank violently erupting from a stray bullet, causing a part of the wall to crumble onto itself, the outside world revealed. By this time, the club's inhabitants began to evacuate, ironically not at the gunfire which was drowned out by the music, but by the whirling of a fire alarm caused by the unplanned eruption.
Hastily sheathing Lil' Asskicker and the Uzi, Ty screeched as he drew his iconic Lumberjack's axe, bashing a goon's head with the blunt end of it and splitting another's head down the middle. Kicking the corpse away, making a disgusted sound as the blood got onto his favorite plaid shirt, Ty couldn't help but roll his sapphire eyes, hastily continuing forwards, murmuring to himself.
"You got my favorite shirt wet. I don't like being wet."
With nearly thirty or so men dead around him, the aura around the offices grew quiet, the distant sound of relaxing elevator music echoing behind Ty. Swearing profusely to himself, Ty-Kun began to hastily sprint ahead, kicking down several doors and trying to find his employee, the Potato. Worrying of more of the Irish Mafia appearing, Ty flinched, pausing as he heard the shuffling of something alive followed by incomprehensible, muffled, distress, dreadful cries.
"mmf! MMMFF!!"
Approaching a nearby closet in the kitchen, Ty hastily threw it open, and lo, the white-suited, Irish-descent mobster known as the Potato fell out, bound and gagged. With a slight smirk, Ty cut the ropes binding his employee, managing to make a cheesy quip as the last restriant was thrown off the man.
"Looks like you finally came out the closet. With a little help from me, of course~"
"Agh...hells, just, shut up a'ight, u fockin' crazy demiboy, get that cock mask off ya damn head."
"Aww, ya don't like my cock mask?"
After a rolling of the Potato's eyes, the two young men found themselves startled at the sound of footsteps and slurring of panicked Irishmen. Glancing over, noticing explosion had erupted a hole into the wall of this room, Ty passed the Potato his other Uzi, giving the man a brief smile. Strutting over to the hole in the wall, the mob boss seemed confident in the Potato's skills, that, or it was more of a test if anything.
"Have fun, get back at them, ya big ol' vegetable. I'll be sure to talk to Little J for you, assuming the Maid doesn't rip your arse a new one."
"Wait, your leaving me here with rest of th-?!?"
Before the Potato could finish his sentence, Ty dramatically leaped from the blown out hole in the offices, embers dancing around him as the scarfed vigilante and criminal landed into a foggy, damp alleyway. Wincing, his landing not exactly grand, Ty began to hastily sprint forwards, spotting his getaway vehicle that Markus and Dale had left him. Giving a brief whistle, Ty hopped into the futuristic sports car. Grabbing the clutch and giving the engine a mighty purr, Ty suddenly lurched forwards, a haze of smoke dancing behind him as the blaring and wailing of police sires began to cry out to him.
"Time to go fast, super sonic fast."
And as the palm trees flew by him, the neon lights escaping his vision, the speedometer reaching absurd numbers of unfathomable speeds, burning rubber soaring north along Miami's prominent, a smile began to creep on Ty's face. It'll be a long drive back to Virginia, but a drive worth it. Sipping on a spare Dr. Pepper left by the duo, Ty began to gaze over, spotting a certain, particularly black box.
A Loot Crate.
Instantly, the "nerdier" side of Ty-Kun began to express itself, a childish, high-pitched, adorkable squeal escaping the boy's lips. In a very unhealthy matter, Ty reached over, struggling to open the interior of the crate with one hand, the other on the steering wheel of the Ferrari. With an almost fanatical rabidness, Ty couldn't help but violently slur out a plethora of hopes and wishes for the next content of good-old fashioned nerdy, geeky content.
"EEEE!! Ohmuhgosh I hope there is some Batman stuff in here pleasepleaseplease oh my I can't even! What, a stupid frigging air freshner?!! Get this nonsense out of here! AHHHH LOOK AT THIS, IT IS A TRIFORCE SWEATBAND! I simply have to put this on!!"
Throwing his wheels off the Ferrari completely, Ty slipped the band on, and as he raised his head up, he could only see two lights hastily approaching him, the blaring honking of a horn following them as his world went black.
---
Oh.
Giant forest surrounded by logs, strange people with gnarly hair, and other people with slightly malicious intentions?
Also, this looked suspciously like Hyrule. Not that Ty was complaining, if this was Heaven, this was a pretty sweet deal so far all things considered. Although, to be honest, he was be surprised to find himself standing before that sort of afterlife with his professions. Throwing himself up, the scabbard of a katana hitting him in the back and his axe dangling to his hip, the nerdy, white, scrawny seven-teen-year old awkwardly lifted his Samsung smartphone briefly, actually taking a selfie for his Twitter feed.
Woke up in really weird LARPing party after crashing car. #1stworldprobs
After that, Ty began to actually be serious for once, adjusting his scarf and glasses, having long ditched the chicken mask from earlier. All he could remember was the crash, did he just so happen to fall by some sort of LARPing convention on the way there? Keeping awkwardly quiet, Ty hummed, not exactly his "ruthless" persona but more or less a hybrid of the two oddly.
"I...uhh...hey...n-nothing I...sorry...."
The boy tried to engage some form of conversation, his shyness getting the better of him, beginning to frantically go to the South Log.
Thus begins the story of the legendary Homestead Lumberjack, the most ruthless demiboy on the East Coast...
Whom can't even start a proper conversation.
10/10
@Raven @TheSpringwoodSlasher @Jeremi @The Silver Paladin @FireDrake150 @Other Co-GMs @Anybody else
