NFCRP - Tumblr Posts
(closed rp with @mestiquetx for a prototype character i don’t quite have a blog for)
It had been so long since he’d seen actual light. Or felt warmth...or cold for that matter, since the chamber was temperature regulated. For now as it had been, the radio had to do.
He didn’t have a choice over what was transmitted. But it had been going for so long and at a reasonably soft(!) volume that he was able to keep mental estimates for some accuracy. The largest portion went to old Partei or war march themes. Then there were field reports, from Afrika or some other far-flung theater. It was always some kind of a relief to hear about how his old unit was doing or not doing whenever they were mentioned in the latest reports.
This despite the resentment that had built up in him since everything that had...happened.
Thus it was also paradoxically nice to hear about the seemingly endless saga of Terror-Billy. All the slurs used to describe him and his rampage across Europe and the former United States by the reporters only amplified what only felt like vicarious enjoyment. At least someone was paying for what had been done to him, to others that fell prey to promises of ascendance for the “chosen.”
But even that came to an end. Terror-Billy’s execution was broadcast live, and those gaps were replaced by the popular music charts that often broke up the reports of his rampage. And sports news of nearby football and sport clubs. The people monitoring him probably didn’t want him to break into what they thought was another rage. And so until that time came, he would remain in the void, with his music and his reports.
Although he didn’t quite expect that time to arrive like it did. Suddenly the music was interrupted by frantic radio transmissions calling for backup...which occasionally cut off, leaving him in silence. Dreaded silence.
“Hallo?” he suddenly asked, his vocal chords croaking from what might literally have been corrosion. He leaned forward as much as the few centimeters of his bounds would allow.
He needed to know what was going on at the very least. Or at the most. Maybe it would finally put an end to a lot of things. Even seeing actual light one last time would be a truly welcome relief...
Carbonation (Closed RP)
@i-am-moss-the-boss
Running (and occasionally jumping) with the hordes was actually an efficient way of getting around the city. But for a Popper that broke off a pack to get to an alleyway, it was actually tiring. It wasn’t that the OD couldn’t feel fatigue, more like they had a much higher tolerance against it due to the extremophiles surging through their bodies 24/7. Rather, it didn’t help that this particular Popper was aware of their fatigue - which meant it was easier to get tired.
The mutant prowled down the alley carefully. There was never any telling where humans would show up, and the only surviving ones here were almost always armed.
They stopped before a large rectangular object that they recognized despite not having eyes; a vending machine that the Popper swore had been broken into only a few days ago had been repaired. They cocked their head around, trying to sense that no-one else was around. Not that their echolocation was that good with the constant sound of fizzing bubbles from the pustules growing out of their body, but it did help them keep alert.
Once they were sure, they recoiled their mutated right hand (more of a large club after its mutation) and started thwacking the vending machine’s safety glass, trying to get it to break open...
It wasn’t as if PT hadn’t been caught by surprise before. Bullets, they could take a couple as they escaped because having surpassed the regular life expectancy of a Popper weeks(?) ago had rendered the contents of their largest pustules gelatinous. Explosive projectiles like a TNTeddy, they could leap away in time. Fizzco Robots deploying? No problem. A little trained echolocation, however dulled it was by the sound of their inner chemical reactions, went a long way.
But by curiosity? That caused the Popper to let out a squeaky shriek, flinch and stumble back. They still hadn’t quite recalibrated their balance to account for their pustules always being in their “fully charged” state, and they landed on the pavement on their rear. Propping themselves up by their arms, they were even more surprised when bullets and/or explosive projectiles weren’t immediately forthcoming. Nevertheless, they could feel their pustules thumping outside their chest - or leg - or whatever part of the body they grew from.
They traced the general direction of that voice up above, to the top fo the building. They couldn’t tell how many people were up there, though if it was more than one they figured they’d already be an orange coat of carbonated paint all over the alley.
They raised their club hand - their once dominant hand - and waved in the voice’s general direction. “Hi?” Theirs was a voice made scraggly by their compressed torso affecting their lungs, but it was recognizably human.
Carbonation (Closed RP)
@i-am-moss-the-boss
Running (and occasionally jumping) with the hordes was actually an efficient way of getting around the city. But for a Popper that broke off a pack to get to an alleyway, it was actually tiring. It wasn’t that the OD couldn’t feel fatigue, more like they had a much higher tolerance against it due to the extremophiles surging through their bodies 24/7. Rather, it didn’t help that this particular Popper was aware of their fatigue - which meant it was easier to get tired.
The mutant prowled down the alley carefully. There was never any telling where humans would show up, and the only surviving ones here were almost always armed.
They stopped before a large rectangular object that they recognized despite not having eyes; a vending machine that the Popper swore had been broken into only a few days ago had been repaired. They cocked their head around, trying to sense that no-one else was around. Not that their echolocation was that good with the constant sound of fizzing bubbles from the pustules growing out of their body, but it did help them keep alert.
Once they were sure, they recoiled their mutated right hand (more of a large club after its mutation) and started thwacking the vending machine’s safety glass, trying to get it to break open…
Not even the Popper could exactly recall how or even why they retained some form of sentience, let alone why they only regained some human faculties after becoming a Popper from a regular OD. All they knew that it was probably a fate worse than being completely feral, since they assumed that the non-sentinent ones weren’t painfully aware of they imminent self-destruction.
The mutant carefully brushed his giant pustule to the side with his non-mutant hand, letting out a “Yeah...that’d be nice...” while simultaneously nodding his head. His head, curiously, was essentially a human’s shape with a mouth as its only feature, and even that mouth was more humanoid than mutant although all of its teeth were shearing incisors.
He kept an echo-located “eye” toward the source of the voice just in case the human decided to drop down with a melee slam or some other attack, although he tilted himself to make sure their little conversation didn’t attract any other unwanted attention.
Carbonation (Closed RP)
The Popper took the time to stand up and approach the machine while the human descended from the rooftop. They put their non-mutated hand against the glass, pressing their face up against it like a child looking through a window at a trinket they want. The cans of Overcharge XT were mere inches away, but by themselves they had neither the strength or the cash (or the means to store said cash) to access that nourishment.
They knew they felt hungry (or thirsty), anxious of what the human could do, perhaps a bit appreciative of the help. But currently mostly thirsty. They had sampled human flesh (thankfully scabs, or rather they hoped they were), and whatever leftovers hadn’t gone completely rancid, but there was perhaps no better source of nourishment for them than the mutagen that transformed them into their current state.
As Richie approached the machine, the Popper stepped away and matched the human’s forward step with careful backward steps of his own, allowing him space to work whatever magic he could do.
Carbonation (Closed RP)
The Popper awkwardly observed Richie at work, hoping against but somehow expecting the crowbar to be used on them anyway. Their skin reddened a bit from the fear causing their already rapidly pumping circulatory system to accelerate, but this was alleviated by the door swinging open.
“Th-thank you,” the Popper stammered, taking an ice-cold can in his non-mutated hand and dexterously popping the tab with the same hand before proceeding to down it heartily and quite sloppily. If anything, downing the orange mutagen was as relieving as it was nourishing.
They pulled out a second can and then offered it to the human, apparently unaware of what the stuff did. “Sorry I...can’t repay with...anything else?” they added.
Carbonation (Closed RP)
The Popper placed the extra can on top of the machine with their left hand before reflexively offering his right hand to Richie. Upon realizing it was also their mutated hand, they switched back to his left one. “PT. Just the letters...it’s all I can remember,” they replied, forcing a genuine albeit somewhat creepy smile. “Thanks for...not shooting me, I guess.”
Although their smile looked creepy with their fangs out, their body seemed to be returning to its normal skin color, while their pustules seemed to calm down. “So, uh...you come by here often?” he asked, scratching the back of his head with his mutated hand.
Carbonation (Closed RP)
PT nodded hastily, trying to process his offer. “Yeah, sure...just...as long as we’re not followed.”
Like most jinxes, that was the cue for a Fizzco trooper robot to drop out of wherever in the sky they were dropped out of, right behind PT. The startled mutant turned around and put their back to the machine, with the robot issuing its standard threats to the two while aiming its rifle in a very threatening manner.
“...shit shit shit...what do we do?” PT whimpered to their new (and hopefully not final) friend, starting to sweat out a bit of the Overcharge they just drank.
Carbonation (Closed RP)
About a dozen mutants descended upon the spilling vending machine, the fizzco robots calling in one of their big guns to stop them. PT made a break past the horde, getting grazed in the side by a stray laser blast from the robot they tackled. Fortunately, the robots quickly got preoccupied trying to control the horde trying to crowd their way to the cans and PT managed to slip through.
Nevertheless, it took some time for them to get to the carnival area, what with the scabs and gangs and whatever else didn't look mutated trying to shoot at them. That and despite having reasonably good echolocation, it was also hard for them to remember what exactly a carnival was. Still, the prospect of a new actual friend drove them on though, until they found a spot by the carnival gates to recover. They peered around with their echolocation to see if Richie was nearby.
Carbonation (Closed RP)
PT’s side wasn’t bleeding right now, and they were thankful because they didn’t want to leave a trail that would have led right to the safehouse. Although the graze had clotted over, the scar itself was still glowing the same bright pink as the Overcharge circulating in their body. While they couldn’t actually see it though, they could certainly feel it still burning red hot.
While they could sense Richie approaching, it still surprised them a bit when he finally called to them. With their club hand over the wound, they reached out briefly as if to deter them, but seemed to reconsider. “Not too many people... ‘ve attracted too much attention today already,” they replied with a smirk. “I don’t want to scare anyone.”
Carbonation (Closed RP)
The Popper chuckled a little, watching the Carnival still somehow operate despite everything that’s happened - to the city, to its people, to them. “Don’t worry. I’ll do my best not to...die,” PT replied, reflexively blocking out the word ‘pop’ from their vocabulary. “Feels like...something wants us to meet up or something eventually.”
It totally wasn’t any kind of narrator or controller. This wasn’t some kind of video game complete with cheat codes, though with what they’d heard humans were doing with variants of the mutagen, it might as well have been.
They scratched around their wound with the finger stubs sticking out of their club hand. “I’ll catch ya’round...yeah?”
Carbonation (Closed RP)