This is me taking back control of my life. What the *&^% have you done lately?
Perfect Enemy is an advanced writing RPG inspired by the worlds of the Jumper and Wanted movies. People aren't as they seem, and the truth isn't necessarily important.
The fate of mankind is decided by a binary code written in a fabric woven by an ancient Fraternity of assassins, but the story that's told here isn't binary. It isn't black and white, good and bad, light and dark, like the Paladins teach. It's what's in between that counts. And it's in those in-between places that the Jumpers roam. It's an intricate dance, woven together like something from The Loom of Fate. Where do you fit in?
Joined: Aug 2008 Gender: Male Posts: 3 Location: South Elgin, IL
Gran Turismo « Thread Started on Sept 3, 2008, 1:48am »
Jesus fucking Christ.
Luke wasn't sure how long the alarm clock had been blaring at him when it finally stirred him from his dreamless coma. Half-opening one eye, the clock read 4:07pm, and he vaguely recalled setting the thing for 3:30. Tiredly smashing the buttons on the top of the annoying black box until the deafening siren finally ceased, he rolled onto his back with a deep sigh. Facing the ceiling, with eyes closed, he tried to recall what it was exactly that he'd done the night before. Letting his eyes slowly drift open, he studied the fan while his brain tried to make a sensible timeline out of the random image fragments that fluttered through it.
Blue signs. Bike trails. Sant'agata Bolognese.
Shit. Had he really gone to Italy last night?
4:00am. Orange paint. Golden bulls.
Yes. He had gone to Italy last night.
Automobili Lamborghini.
Fuck.
Letting the memories go for a moment, Luke continued to study the fan that hung motionlessly above him. Something was bothering him about it, and he wasn't sure what it was exactly. A single notion suddenly pierced his thoughts, and a cold wave washed through him. Holy hell. This was his apartment, right? He sat up quickly, looking around for the familiar non-matching dresser and desk. They were there, as was the typical mess of dirty clothes and bags from fast food places he tended to leave behind. Okay, so it was his apartment, so what was it that was bothering him?
Turning to his right, a grin flashed across his face and it was immediately clear to him. Though the sheets were now empty, the pillow beside him still had an indent from where her pretty blond head had lie. She'd apparently slipped out before the alarm clock had awoken him. He was admittedly glad, since he didn't remember her name at all, and he never had bothered to get a phone number. He only remembered how quickly she'd managed to get his pants off. Actually, he was pretty sure they'd made some kind of world record for getting each other's clothing off.
Okay, yea.
That was what was bothering him about the fan. One of the blades was now sans a scarlet C-cup bra that had been hung there quite impromptu the night before.
Yep.
Bored with that mystery, Luke disappeared from beneath the sheets and reappeared in the same instant two rooms away in the bathroom. Already nude, he stepped right into the shower and pulled the faucet handle to the correct temperature. The water that spat forth from the shower head was cold, but he was used to it because he was never patient enough to let the water warm up before he got in. Grabbing a wash cloth and a bottle of body wash, he let his mind wander again to the events that had led up to his waking this afternoon, as it was starting to come back in more detail now.
It had been a simple enough job. There was an annoying Italian 'businessman' who'd contacted him about grabbing a batch of Murcielagos right off the manufacturing plant. Luke was bored, so he accepted. The plan was easy. Luke would go in alone from the back, take out the rear cameras (Easily done when you can teleport to the roof), sneak into the control room and disable the guard, and open the front gate. Then Mario or Luigi or whatever his name was would have 9 of his guys come in and each drive away a brand new, unmarked Lamborghini. The 10th one (And the only one in orange) was saved for Luke. Oh happy day.
Towelling off, Luke took a quick look at himself in the mirror. He quickly decided that shaving was too much of an effort today and tossed the towel aside. He jumped back into his bedroom and pulled a pair of boxers out of his dresser, then teleported into his closet and examined his wardrobe as he slipped into the boxers and pulled on a loose-fitting pair of jeans. Fastening the belt, he sighed in annoyance when he realized all he had left before he'd be forced to do laundry was a grey t-shirt with the saying, “Nymphomaniac Treatment Center Staff Member,” on it. Growling to himself, he grudgingly pulled the shirt over his head. Popping through the top of the shirt, he was suddenly in the kitchen, standing in front of his refrigerator. He opened it up and grabbed a carton of milk. He turned away to put the milk on the table, and when he turned back he was facing a different cabinet. Retrieving a box of cereal and a bowl and spoon, he jumped back over to the table and sat down.
Things went without a hitch. Luke jumped to the roof and cut the lines to the cameras for the benefit of Luigio-whatever-his-name-was, then teleported to the interior and made his way to the control room. The night guard was waiting for him, but with the help of his trusty friend Mr. Lug Wrench, Luke made quick work of him. Quickly opening the gate for wannabe-mobster-guy and company, Luke also made sure to grab the DVD of the interior cameras and replaced it with a blank CD that was upside down, complete with nimrod-night-watch’s fingerprints.
Finished with his Frosted Flakes, he dumped the remaining milk into the sink and stacked the bowl precariously on a building tower of dirty dishes. He pointedly ignored the two big, fat flies that buzzed annoyingly around the sink, though he was slightly worried that if one of them landed too heavily on the high-rise of plates, the whole stack would tumble and shatter on the floor. Not particularly caring enough to do anything about it, Luke jumped to his entry way and slid into his worn brown leather jacket and walked out the door. Making sure there was no one in the immediate hallway, he jumped to the end and walked around the corner. He almost jumped again but caught sight of one of his neighbors just coming up the stairs, so, begrudgingly, walked the rest of the way to the stairs with his hands shoved in his pockets and his grey eyes downcast.
Jumping again to the finishing building, Luke opened the massive garage door and watched as a black van pulled up and screeched to a stop. Nine men filed out and immediately filed over to the cars, with the exception of Fabio, who instead walked over to Luke. “I am quite impressed, Mister Foust,” he said. Luke didn’t understand a word of it because of how heavy his accent was, but he could tell by the other’s tone he was being praised. He just nodded in return, and accepted the case of money that was handed to him at this point. The Italian then gestured to the Murcielagos, and Luke grinned in return and headed off towards the orange vehicle. Just looking at it, Luke could feel adrenaline seeping into his bloodstream, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as a wave of glee threaded up and down the vertebrae in his back. This was going to be fucking awesome.
Of course, such a feel-good moment had to be ruined by the sound of sirens.
Peering over the railing, watching and listening down into the dull, motionless, silent square spiral, Luke was confident there wasn’t anyone in the stairwell. Pleased that he wouldn’t have to walk down the stairs, he strode out into the lobby a millisecond later, a smirk beset across his scruffy face.
“Holy shit, you’re actually alive,” a dark-haired, thin guy commented as he turned away from his mailbox and joined Luke on his way out the door.
“Is there a reason I wouldn’t be?” Luke asked, turning right down the sidewalk.
“Dude, you totally stole some psycho’s girlfriend last night,” Jason Haley said through a laugh. “After you two left in a cab, the guy was making some serious death threats. I got a little worried he’d made good on them when I couldn’t get a hold of you earlier.”
“…Fuck,” Luke growled, frowning. “I don’t remember any of that.” He was surprised when Jason laughed at him.
“Well, I’m not surprised!” the other exclaimed, and, after taking a quick look at Luke’s quizzical expression, he went on to add, “You were fucking hammered, man.”
Luke just shrugged. He had a light headache but he didn’t feel hungover. He’d probably slept most of it off, but he was surprised how little he was actually feeling. He dropped the topic as he reached his goal, grabbing one of the last copies of that day’s newspaper from the magazine stand as he tossed a few quarters at the person sitting inside, muttering a barely audible thanks. Tucking the paper under his arm, he turned back to Jason, who was standing at the corner waiting for traffic to clear.
“So what were you all pissed off about when you got there, anyway?” Jason asked, squinting rather disgustedly into the chaotic flux of traffic. Luke just shrugged, his grey eyes following a late model, cherry red BMW that purred past them amongst the river of cars.
“I don’t remember that, either.”
The red and blue lights shining in the rearview mirror were relentless, making focusing on the road in front of him harder. A road that, to his extreme delight, was about as straight as a coiled spring. On the straightaway, the Murcielago would have no trouble outrunning the cars behind him, but on the tiny backroads he’d managed to find himself on, it was nearly impossible to get any kind of lead on them. Getting frustrated, Luke decided the minute he could put just enough distance on them to go around a corner and lose them for a few seconds, he would try jumping the car.
Finally, the tiny road opened up into a half-mile straight away, and Luke floored it. With 12 cylinders pumping out 650 horses and a jet-like, deafening roar that drowned out even the shrieking sirens behind him, he immediately put distance on the Polizia and their flashing lights. Despite the frustrating situation he was dealing with, Luke couldn’t help the wolfish grin that spread across his face as shivers ran up and down his spine and every cell in his body became turbocharged. Drifting hard around the sharp corner, the last thing Luke expected was to be met with another car.
“FUCK!!”
He felt the car lurch, felt everything start spinning in a hundred different directions, but he hesitated his jump only long enough to reach out and grab the briefcase full of money before bailing out. Landing hard on his ass a few feet shy of his couch in his living room, Luke screamed out a trail of profanities that would make a hundred sailors sound like etiquette masters. But the car was likely damaged beyond repair, and though he direly wanted to see it, to apologize to the beautiful machine, he resisted. He was overpowered then by a very strong urge to get totally wasted, and when Jason, Brett, and Alan called just minutes later from a bar a few blocks away, it was the perfect outlet.
Okay, so not remembering why he had been pissed off was a lie. Shit, he was still pissed off about it. But that was the extent of his memories, really. He didn't remember anything after getting to the bar. Jason just shook his head at him, and, when the ‘Please Walk’ sign lit up across the street, moved to cross the momentarily subdued flow of traffic. Luke’s brow furrowed, only just noticing that the other was dressed in a suit and was carrying a briefcase. “Wait, where the hell are you going?”
Jason rolled his eyes. “To work, you bum. I’ve got a presentation at eight tomorrow morning and I need to get everything sorted out before then,” he replied, pausing. He frowned, looking Luke up and down. “Jesus… Do you even know what day it is?”
“Uh…” Luke glanced down at the paper under his arm. He could see the full-colour spread of comics, so he made a guess. “Sunday? …Maybe?”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Jason turned away with a half-wave goodbye and jogged his way across the street. Luke watched him for only a moment before muttering to himself about chronic overachievers who had sticks up their ass. Suddenly annoyed, Luke decided to take the short way home and ducked into an alley. Normally he wouldn’t risk it in such a busy time of day, but he wasn’t in the mood to pretend he had to take the stairs like everyone else.
Looking quickly into the alley to make sure some bum wouldn’t be watching him, he turned around and was again in his entry way. Shaking off his coat, he tossed it aimlessly at the coat rack and then warped to sit on his couch. He tossed most of the paper aside, ignoring the political nonsense and what would normally be gripping reports about natural disasters on the front sections. Instead, he flipped straight to the classifieds. The automotive section confirmed that it was Sunday -- it was the only day they ran full colour picture ads. There were several classic muscle cars listed today, including an awesome fire-red 1972 Chevrolet Camaro SS, an impressive 1968 Dodge Charger in lime green with black stripes, and a sleek-looking 1970 dark blue Plymouth Barracuda. All of them were incredible cars, and he knew how hard his heart would pound if he could get behind the wheel of any of them, but when he got to the Pontiacs his pulse was stopped dead in his veins. There, at the bottom of the page, was his car. Or, at least, it was the same year, same make, and the same sultry, glossy black with a silver pinstripe running from the corner of the hood to the middle of the flared rear panels.
Could he have gotten that lucky? The ad explained that the car had been fully restored, and was mostly original parts. It went on to brag that it had won several trophies in the last few years, and had also been raced a few times. Could it really be his car??
Luke had ripped the ad out of the paper, warped to the phone, and dialed the number before the remainder of the paper hit the floor. It rang and rang and rang, and finally, the line connected to a woman’s voicemail. He didn’t listen to the first part of the message, but when she said, ‘If you’re calling about the car, leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can,’ Luke willingly obliged.
“Uh, hey, name's Lucas Foust. I'm calling ‘bout the ad you've got in the paper, the sixty-nine GTO? Yea. I've just got a few questions about it, especially where and when you bought it from.” If it was from the Boston area around 10 years ago, he might have a heart attack. And an aneurysm. At the same fucking time. “Anyways, give me a call back if it's still available. I’d like to come and take a look. 741-4753. Thanks.”
Re: Gran Turismo « Reply #1 on Sept 8, 2008, 12:20am »
Nia smiled when she heard the voicemail, mentally jotting down the number and shutting her phone with a snap. It's almost too easy; she's afraid she's going to get bored, soon. Get the car, put the ad in the paper, buy the phone and record the voicemail message. Then sit back and wait.
She's never done well with waiting. Sliding behind the wheel of her green '70 Corvette (it's a bit ostentatious, at least compared to what she usually drives, but she's never been able to resist a 'Vette), she opens her phone again, dialing a number she'd learned a few months ago; it changes regularly. She's never been one to leave a trail, using the contact list on the phone, either. She changes phones so frequently that it seems ridiculous to enter in however many numbers over and over, especially since the people she calls change phones and numbers just as often as she does.
The person on the other end answers on the first ring, and she says shortly, "He called. I'm setting up a meet, and I'm taking pictures with me. I'll text you the location of the buy." They can set up their sting, as though they'll get a shot at him with Nia right there. She'll blow the back of his head out before they so much as lift their guns, much less before he can teleport away. She's good at her job, thank you very much. It's what they pay her for.
And if she's played her cards right, Foust will never suspect a thing. She looks innocent today; she'd deliberately chosen clothes that are very out of character for a mercenary, a pale blue dress, her hair pulled back, little whisps hanging around her face. A big, wide headband that makes her look like a teenager. He likes women, this Jumper, from what she's read about him. And a pretty woman with a fetish for hot cars (that part's not an act, anyway) will likely not set off his radar.
She'll shriek at a bug or something while she's with him, clutch at him for protection. No, he's probably not an idiot, but he also has a sex drive, and big doe eyes are difficult to resist. Tucking legs that look a mile long in her little dress into the driver's side, she hangs up, dialing another number.
This call is also answered quickly, and she smiles. Eager boy. Too eager to pay much attention, perhaps? "Hello? My name is Nia Bender, you called about my car?"
Joined: Aug 2008 Gender: Male Posts: 3 Location: South Elgin, IL
Re: Gran Turismo « Reply #2 on Sept 16, 2008, 12:00am »
Luke was bad at fidgeting.
Chronically impatient, he only sat next to the phone for a few minutes before he lost his composure. After putting the newspaper he'd dropped back on the coffee table, arranging his empty Red Bull cans in a semi-neat area on one corner of the same table, and fixing his shirt one too many times, he'd regressed to making mental threats towards whatever-her-name-was-with-the-totally-sexy-voice. Tapping his foot unconsciously, he found himself muttering profanities as he rose and tried to figure out what to do with his agonizing free time.
Normally, he would have called up Jason with this exciting discovery and invited him to go along with him to see the car, but after this morning, Luke didn't want to disturb Mr. Executive 8AM Meeting Asshole guy. Although, what was the worst thing he could do? Hang up on him? Yell? Bitch like a whiney little girl? Hire him? That was probably the scariest option. Ugh, office jobs.
Sorting through his very short, simple mental list of contacts, Luke couldn't think of anyone else he could share his excitement with, either. Alan Benton was a football-exclusive sports guy, not a car guy, and wouldn't see the appeal. The guy drove a fucking Celebrity and didn't understand why every one gave him so much shit about it. Jesus Christ. And Brett Schaffer was out of the question. He was either still completely hung over from the night before, or was already stoned for the afternoon. He briefly considered calling one of the girls, Emily Dresky and Rebecca Hanson, but threw out that notion with an irritated grumble. There were all too few girls who were interested in cars, and he hadn't found any that were tolerable enough to keep in his small group of friends.
Luke kicked the table in boredom, watching the cordless phone rock back and forth, it's ringer still tauntingly silent.
Fine.
Fuck you, phone!
Maybe he'd take care of that tower of dishes in the kitchen? Before even completing the thought, he was standing before it. Staring at it for a long, debating moment, he convinced himself that, yeesh, he wasn't that god-forsakenly bored, and settled instead for engaging in a mission to smash the two flies -- who, he was convinced, had to be related to Godzilla -- that buzzed fatly around the leaning stack of pizza sauce- and Easy Mac-covered plates.
Rolling up the politics section of the paper (This was about all it was good for), he watched one of the flies hover around in what seemed like the fly equivalent of slow motion. With the newspaper ready in hand, he stalked silently towards the sink and waited for the fly to finally circle down and land on the counter next to the tower that was it's feast. The obese fly didn't move even as Luke crept less-than-inconspicuously towards it with a murder weapon grasped tightly. It buzzed it's wings noisily once, flicked it's multi-lensed eyes this way and that, but was ultimately unbothered.
Unintentionally holding his breath in dramatic pause, Luke wound up to smack the fly beneath the paper, but just as he moved into a rocket-like downswing, the shrill blare of the telephone burst into the silent air.
Instantly, Luke was in the other room with the phone pressed to his ear. "Hello?" He was only slightly aware of the sound of crashing dinnerware in the other room, his sense of hearing reserved for the voice on the other line.
"Hello? My name is Nia Bender, you called about my car?"
On the inside, Luke was jumping up and down like a six-year-old whose parents had just given him a puppy. On the outside, he wasn't doing much better. So far, he was successfully holding it all in. But if this turned into a long conversation, that success was going to have the equivalent lifespan of a mayfly. "H-Hey, Miss Bender, thanks for such a quick call back," he said, even though his brain was shrieking, WHAT THE FUCK TOOK SO LONG, BITCH?! "Yea, I called on the car -- I just had a few questions for ya."
Oh shit, this is where he starts babbling.
"I'd obviously like to come and see the car either way, I've been looking for a sixty-nine GTO for quite a while," he began, "But I've got some specific questions as to where you got the car from." Clearing his throat, he went on, "My dad and I restored a sixty-nine GTO about ten years ago, but we had to sell it when my parents died. I've been looking for the car for several years, but no luck so far," his tone was sincerely rueful. He paused for a moment, before he started yelling at himself to just get the hell on with it. "So, uh, I guess my question to you, Nia - right? - is whether or not you know if it was originally purchased about ten years ago in a Boston suburb? Reading, that is, the town of Reading?" he should have stopped there but his mouth wouldn't shut. "I met the guy who bought it, maybe your father or uncle or something?"
Then, his mouth snapped shut with a audible snap, the resonating command of SHUT THE HELL UP, FUCKTARD!! his brain was sending him finally making its way to his mouth. Chewing on his lower lip and cracking the knuckles in his free hand, he waited on her reply.
Re: Gran Turismo « Reply #3 on Sept 25, 2008, 1:22pm »
Nia pauses, wondering how she should answer this. No, she doesn’t know how the car was purchased; the Paladins had come up with the ‘Vette. But he’d said he’d met the man who’d bought it in the first place…
“My grandfather purchased it from an older woman a few years before he died,” she says slowly, as though she’s trying to remember, when in reality, she’s brainstorming. But then, thinking on her feet has always been of her strengths.
“He went through a phase, after her retired, three years ago, I think, when all he wanted was to pretend he was young again. I don’t know where the older woman got the car from. I think he bought it from her off the street; I doubt a dealer was involved.” She sighs, putting a distant sort of sadness into her voice. “I would direct you to him, but unfortunately he passed away just a few months ago. That’s why I’m selling the car; it brings back bad memories, and I need the money.”
Time for the sheepishness. “I’m sorry, you didn’t need to hear my life story. But I wish I could help you.” Now she puts a note of excitement into her voice, still keeping it low and husky. “You still want to see the car, right?”
Oh, this is too easy. It almost takes the fun right out of it… except not really. Nothing could take all of the fun out of this.
![[Search This Thread]](http://s1.images.proboards.com/search2.gif)
![[Send Topic To Friend]](http://s1.images.proboards.com/buttons/sendtopic.gif)
![[Print]](http://s1.images.proboards.com/buttons/print.gif)
Author![[avatar]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v255/bakurachan776/foust_av2.jpg)
Logged![[image]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v255/bakurachan776/foust_ban.jpg)
![[avatar]](http://i74.photobucket.com/albums/i259/nightshade468/nia_avvy.jpg)
