Post by Mjolnir 'Zapdos' Sparxx on May 26, 2014 10:17:55 GMT -5
It was a good day for any rock music fans in the region of Remoor.
For one day and one day only, the Rapid Rapidash Racetrack had been cordoned off and shut down of its usual use. No; today there would be no old embittered men by the track's barriers idly waving their tickets and screaming for the horse Pokemon they had specifically chosen to hurry up and get to the finish. Today, instead, the race track had been utterly and completely vacated; any form of prop or defining element that would have allowed one to presume that such a situation was the home of any sort of sport had been removed at the behest of whatever managing body was in charge for today, and instead, the wide field, beset on all sides by grandstand seats up to inconceivable heights, was today home to an indulgence of a different sort.
Three stages sat around the breadth, width, and length of the arena, wide as it was. The two on the west and east side were significantly smaller than their third counterpart, but formidable in size all the same, and all through the day, since the crack of noon, bands of varying levels of fame had been playing to crowds of fans and non-fans who stood there, sometimes waving their arms in joyous response and standing ovation, other times hurling various objects towards the stage and letting seep out mass hisses. The grandstands around the side had not been reserved for the rich and the prestigious, but instead served as an impromptu level of seating for all who purchased food and deigned it appropriate to watch from afar and rest themselves from the action below. It was a one-day festival celebrating music, camaraderie, and, above all else, alcohol - God knew Remoor needed it.
The masses below danced in drunken throes and screamed as various bands came and went. The sun moved along in the sky as thousands of people shifted around the stadium through the day's entirety, moving from stage to stage, entrance to exit, seats to standing and back to the seats... but now the sun was starting to tuck itself away. The sky had, a few moments ago, turned from one shade of orange to a significantly darker ochre hue, and above them, a conglomerate of dark clouds gathered, thick blacks and greys above them perched in the sky and ready to pour down open, wet misery upon the stadium's earlier-contented denizens below; but that did not matter. It was almost eight o' clock on their watches in unison, and a big digital clock above the main stage read in brazen red digital font the numbers 19:52:09 for an exact call of the time. Those who had frequented the lesser stages had now left them, either for home or for what was undoubtedly the day-festival's main attraction, the centre stage beneath the darkened skies, dead of light, colour, and sound, save for the idle thrumming of ambient music over their speakers.
"How do they sound?"
"Restless. How else would you expect them to sound?"
"..huh, you gotta' point, there, Johnny."
"It's the day most of them have been waiting for for some time now. Hell, the day we've been waiting for, now for, what, six months? A year?"
"I'd be worried if you weren't."
The speakers crackled outside. For a few moments, everyone stopped their frolickings in the crowd, the somewhat eighty-thousand of them poured out there before the main stage, and went dead silent as they perched listening for something else. With a series of clicks followed by the thrumming of powers and the heavy foomof illumination, from either side, great, daunting yellow lights cast their beams down upon the stage. No-one stepped out, but one at a time, they flicked on, and lit up the godly mantle in its entirety, soliciting a bellowing roar from the united monstrosity of the crowd. Paper pint cups flew up in the air and below people made the classic metal "devil horns" sign with their hands.
Then, once the lights ceased awakening and their merciless glare was cast down upon the behemoth black metal and plastic of the stage and its flanking speakers, behind them there unrolled a great fabric sheet. Another roar came out from the crowd as it descended; all of them knew what was coming. Embossed in bright, searing yellow on black fabric was a single cursive, jagged thunderbolt, ruthlessly contorted into the shape of a capital "L", sitting between three other letters on either side: "MJO" to the left and "NIR" to the right.
The crowd begun their ritualistic chant amongst them: "MJOL-NIR! MJOL-NIR! MJOL-NIR!" They called; nay, demanded for this man's presence. "MJOL-NIR! MJOL-NIR! MJOL-NIR!" The stage clock read 19:53:48.
..."MJOL-NIR! MJOL-NIR! MJOL-NIR!"
"...you hear that?"
Without replying, he rose from his seat, and with his back turned to his comrade beside him, paced to the end. He moved to the array of props at the end of the ample backstage room, where there, at the middle of four others, there sat the lone filled stand; the other guitarists, bassist, keyboardist... all of them, off in various corners of the room, tweaking their instruments and making last-minute checks. And there sat it. His weapon of choice, lashed a deadly venomous green in hue, the sharpest guitar he had ever laid eyes upon, and not just for the chainsaw teeth and fuel injection system integrated within. "Be pretty fuckin' difficult not to," He murmured in response with a stifled chuckle. Hoisting it up by the neck, for a moment, in the cold white light of the room, he inspected the chainsaw-guitar hybrid underneath what seemed to be a cruel surveying gaze for just a moment. However, with that, he grasped the strap around its body, adorned with lightning strikes of its own, and pulled it around his shoulders with not so much as a sigh. The gaze was not one of cold surveillance; instead of an almost detached, sibling-like care, hopelessly in self-denial of its own emotional existence. "Let's get it started, Johnny." He murmured with not so much as a smile as his hand dutifully caressed the sharp green body of the chainsaw guitar.
"Alright, come on, people, start taking your places!" The one he called Johnny shot upwards from his chair and slapped his hands together. Immediately, the instrumentalists turned towards him; hoisting their instruments and utensils over their shoulders, they saw that it was almost time to begin. The red digital clock worked both ways, showing through backstage as well as over it, now reading 19:57:09. Soon enough, they emptied out of exits left or right, and in a few moments, the backroom was dead still save for the star cradling his guitar. It was time to rock.
"Ah--ah--ah--ah ah-ah-ah-ah.." Letting the guitar hang slack around his neck and shoulder, the incognito Zapdos clasped his hands together and rubbed them against one another. At first only slowly, though eventually he monumentally accelerated the speed at which his palms intertwined and clasped. The air around his hands began to thrum with energy; sparks started to crackle, and tiny arcs of lightning flickered and fizzled out moments later in the tiny gaps between his fingers. And then, in one swift, fluid motion, he cast his hands up to the sky sharply, holding them both out at either side. He stood there, Mjolnir Sparxx, incisive yellow-and-black pompadour haircut reminiscent of various wasp-like Pokemon, in a dark blue longcoat, collar upturned, black trousers with a chain-link belt and loops of metal hanging off it, clattering as he so much as moved, though at this present moment he remained still. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a pair of impossibly isometric sunglasses, unfolding them and propping them neatly over his face. With a final pop of his collar and a tug to open the different sides of his jacket, he checked the clock one final time. 19:58:19. "It's go time."
The crowd roared in ecstatic response as the first instrumentalist came on stage. It was the drummer, a shirtless man with a wide grin on his face, twirling signed drumsticks in his hands with simple motions of his wrists. Famed in some circles, yet not the man they were here to see. With a swift, impressive ride across his behemoth drum set, the crowd yowled in pleasure, Pokemon, Pokemorph, and human alike, throwing their hands up into the air as he kicked the bass drum a few times.
The next to appear were the bassist and the keyboardist, on from either side, who assumed their positions and thrust their hands in the air up into the "devil horns" formation simultaneously, typical of any rock or metal star. As expected, the crowd roared back in an almost choreographed response, happy to see that progress was being made.
The penultimate duo also spilled on from entrances either side, clasping flashy, jagged v-neck guitars adorned with various spatters of paint and decals to make them their own. Heading towards the middle of the stage, they pressed the heads of their guitars against one another with a gentle crack, grinned at one another in a sense of true brotherhood and camaraderie, then each shredded a few complimentary riffs to get it all going, the air clean save for the sound of facemelting guitar. Soon enough, the crackle and whine of pseudo-solo guitar faded, and the stage was left silent, all the five members having taken their places, absolutely quiet and still, waiting for the revered sixth to begin to rise up amidst his brethren.
Machines hissed and smoke began to seep onto the stage, thin and white, specifically engineered to only obscure at around ankle-level. The clouds gathered overhead into one big, grey overcast ball, churning over and over in the sky, but not a single raindrop appeared. Those at the front would just, below the rumbling of oncoming thunder above and the hissing of smoke, be able to hear the whining thrum of hydraulics in front of them, a quizzical notion for the perfectly-aligned, choreographed five thus far on stage... but the fans still waited yet for he who would herald the music proper.
The loudest roar of response yet came back from the crowd. In the centre of the stage something begun to whine, obfuscated by the smoke; then, from atop it, there slowly - ever so slowly, upon an elevating hydraulic platform below - rose the sharp yellow point of an infamous and notorious pompadour haircut. The clouds continued to rumble and crackle overhead; the mammoth mass of people yowled in response, the majority absolutely awed by the man on stage. With his back to the crowd he continued to rise, his arms by his side, and the width of his imposing, signature chainsaw guitar just visible past his mass frame, as he stood there, gloved fists clenched and his stature not so much as moving and absolutely immovable.
Soon, he was risen in full. Their classic rock saviour. Their power guitar emissary. Their heavy metal messiah. Mjolnir "The Lightning" Sparxx. The time soon came. The drummer rose his sticks, ready for the song to begin in full. Hand clasped firmly around a microphone, he rose it to his mouth and began to hum the sacred non-verbal lyrics, so close to subsonic: "Ah--ah--ah--ah ah-ah-ah-ah.." The crowd roared in response. The drummer did not yet beat, waiting for the cue. "Ah--ah--ah--ah ah-ah-ah-ah.." Now just a touch more audible. "Ah--ah--ah--ah ah-ah-ah-ah.." Getting louder, now. "Ah--ah--ah--ah ah-ah-ah-ah.." As his left hand gripped the microphone tightly in front of his mouth, away from the crowd, his right, to his side, slowly began to rise up to the sky, a balled fist. "Ah--ah--ah--ah ah-ah-ah-ah.." His arm was fully outstretched. And then, so unfurled his index and pinky finger to make the devil's metal symbol. "Ah--ah--ah--ah ah-ah-ah-ah.." It was all ready. The tension was contained. The drummer's sweaty palms held fast around his sticks as he let his bare feet fall against the double bass pedals, waiting, just waiting... "Ah--ah--ah--ah ah-ah-ah-ah.."
"THUN-DER!" The double beats fell in time with the syllables and so Mjolnir's fist pumped twice. The crowd howled again, but as they did, on each syllable, down from the grey skies above, as if controlled by the very man himself, fell a great, forked arc of lightning, down onto the very top of the stadium's roof, crackling and blackening the top, in time with the lyrics. "Ah--ah--ah--ah ah-ah-ah-ah.." The crowd were going absolutely wild. This man, this hero, this celebrity, this star... he had reached new levels entirely. He was bending no longer just the wills of the crowd to his whim, but also the weather and the world around him: "THUN-DER!" Another two-part lightning strike, falling on either respective side of the stadium roof as he howled. "Ah--ah--ah--ah ah-ah-ah-ah.. THUN-DER!" And again he pumped, and again, the great pillars of electricity fell. "Ah--ah--ah--ah ah-ah-ah-ah.. THUN-DER!" And again, without relent or respite. "Ah--ah--ah--ah ah-ah-ah-ah.. THUN-DER!" The tension was growing. The adrenaline was growing like powder inside a keg, and who better to set the fuse than the one they called Sparxx? The crowd were churning like a living beast, all tens of thousands of them, an autonomous creature of flesh and flying hands waving in the air, rocking back and forth to his chant, at his very beck and call for response, waiting, just WAITING for his sacred cry, mimicking him as they did so. "Ah--ah--ah--ah ah-ah-ah-ah.. THUN-DER!"
This time, there was no hum. Just the cry once more. "THUN-DER!" The lightning fell, as it had every time before. His arm fell slack once more. "THUN-DER!" Here it was. "THUN-DER!" Time to go. "THUN-DER!" He cast himself around, immediately, presenting himself to the stage, longcoat, face, sunglases, chain links and all, and strode to the very end of his little peninsula-like forward risen platform as his instrumentalists continued to play. The lightning had ceased from above, and the clouds were swirling, slowly starting to part, moving into a thinner, circular formation as the sky approached its darkest points. "I WAS CAUGHT, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE RAILROAD TRAAAAAAAAAAAACK!" He howled, as as the cry from his guitarists came once more from behind, the very same "thun-der", though with far less power - and no more accompanying lightning.
"I LOOKED ROUND, AND I KNEW THERE WAS NO TURNIN' BAAAAAAACK!" This, this was where he belonged. All dressed up, clutching a microphone at the very top of a stage. "MY MIND RAAAAAAACED, AND I THOUGHT, 'WHAT COULD I DO?'" Then thrusting his hand up to the massive looming "PRAVUS" logo overhead in the Nada Citadel skylinme, he cried: "AND I KNEW, THERE WAS NO HELP, NO HELP FROM YOU!" This solicited an empathetic half-roar half-laugh from the crowd in response. Mjolnir let slip a cheeky grin to his crowd. For they were his, and he was theirs. On stage, there was a connection; but not a connection between one man and another, or between one Pokemon and another; but instead, something... something entirely different. Something inexplicable, something that could not take root and grow in such a simple, fallacious language. "SOUND OF THE DRUUUUUUUUUMS, BEATIN' IN MY HEART!" He would have felt that very same organ - or, well, his equivalent - pounding in his ears, had he been able to hear anything but the gargantuan roar of the speakers behind him. "THE THUNDAAAAAAAAH' OF GUUUUUUUUUNS! YEAH, IT TOOOOOOOORE ME APAAAAAAART!"
Then, suddenly, it all died. The lights. The guitar, the bass. The drums, the crackle and the whine. Everything. The stage was once more suspended and complete in utter darkness. In fact, only the stage and the people there remained. For a moment, it was as if there had been some sort of mass power failure, and the entire grid had, for some reason possibly related to the mammoth amount of power usage this very show would require, up and died on them. But the sly musicians on stage grinned at one another, for they knew what was coming next - the clouds rapidly swirled back together in the sky, and the rumble of thunder was now louder than ever. And into his microphone, there came the ominous, heraldic call, signaling down the next pillar of light: "You've been..."
And so, down it came. As the lights flicked on and the suspending music kicked back in, now in an eclectic flashing pattern, various lights swiveling around uncontrollably and casting temporary, transient beams on all those below, the largest column of lightning of all came right down from the sky above, striking not either side of the roof of the Rapid Rapidash Racetrack... but instead, the metal girders and the frame of the band's stage itself.
Post by Nikita Z. Harris on Jun 4, 2014 2:35:50 GMT -5
Stupid racket. Stupid job. Stupid heart.
A band around his wrist, placed there by his boss, reminded him of handcuffs. Familiar with how those felt around wrists, heavy and restraining, Nikita was a rather good judge. Until the band, and ban, were lifted, he was banned from his normal duties. Unabe to quit work, stumbling into his office the third day in smelling of whiskey and despair, he had been given something to tide him over.
I think this music will give me a heart attack in a far quicker manner than removing any drug kingpin. Two-toned eyes, one red and the other blue, peered down at the stage. Sadly, while his joints were falling apart, his ears remained sharp. He wished he was deaf. “Harris.” Beneath his feet, pays over his ears, the Houndoom spoke the name louder. “What is it, Winters?” The Houndoom, smoke curling from his nostrils, lifted his streamlined skull to speak—more accurately, as the music grew in volume, to yell. “What makes pups like this bullshit year after year—“ A pause. The hound continued. “May I set them on fire?”The more morbid comment drew out dark laughter. The dark-haired man spoke again. It was a single word and a harsh whisper; it drew a sigh of agreement from his canine companion. “Teenagers.” Ugh.
”DAD!” Angry blue eyes, a beautiful color he unconsciously avoids, peer up at him. Blonde hair curled around one finger. Gum in her mouth. Arms crossed over a swollen belly. Leg shaking with the remnants of whatever band had just been on the stereo. Pouting, looking like an angry little chipmunk, Meredith waits for him to hand the cord back; the radio did not work without being plugged in. “/Dad/.” Lips curled upward in displeasure as, like someone smelling curled milk. Back and forth. Back and forth. Teasing, like a cat’s tail, the little wire continued to sway.
”Turn that down, Mer. You’ll make the damn baby deaf.” Baby. Why was his baby having a child? The word, while it tasted sour in his mouth, was something he had begun to get used to. It wasn’t like he could change it. The tones from the headphones were similar to the ones from the stage at the moment. With a sigh, deciding it was better she listen to music than sleep with random assholes, the man caved.
Sparks jumped from the outlet. The cord practically buzzed as it was plugged back in. “Just get some sleep, kiddo. You have an appointment tomorrow.” Eyes rolled. A hand waved him off. Shaking his hair, still long even all those years ago, he wandered outside. It was hard not to laugh as he pulled a cassette tape from his pocket—at least he and his daughter had some tastes in common.
“Nikki, don’t you love that band?” Robin smiled up at him with a wink. Her arms were draped across the banister; judging by her hair, which stuck up at wild angles, she had just woken up from a nap. Crimson disappeared as the gesture was returned. Lips brushed lips as he chuckled. Someone had to be the bad cop.“ . . .just playing my part, sweetheart.” Her eyes rolled. “You are such a doormat dear—“
Someone has to be the bad cop. Someone had to be the janitor cleaning after drunken youngsters. Just doing his duty as an officer of the law—he had to tolerate this nonsense. The day he could return to shattering fingers with presses, pulling answers out with the roots of molars, would arrive soon enough. Enough of this babysitting.
Pulling his glasses down, listening to chatter from his headpiece, the officer smirked. “Concerts and drugs go together nearly as well as bars and alcohol—“ Dressed inconspicuously, black and dark purple, Nikita Harris rested near the top of the crowd. The area around him was devoid of life; he was not interested in being harassed or jostled by the seething mob. Eager to move away from solitary thoughts, diving into darkness, he moved toward the front of the crowd. Into the pitch-black underbelly of the entertainment scene, Nikita Harris forced himself. His daughter would never be somewhere like this. He could not even associate her with the place. No memories. No pain. No sadness.
Lightning erupted from guitars and the stage. He sneered as he shoved past a couple in the throes of passion—disgusting brats needed to learn to keep it in their pants. Their parents would skin them soon enough. “Officer Ha—“ The radio erupted. Discussion followed between the senior officer and his subordinate.
That display of pyrotechnics was dangerous. Silver flashed between fingertips as he pulled the handcuffs free of their normal spot. Like a shadow, sleek and black, the Houndoom surged ahead of him. The lead singer of Mjolnir likely found the man standing at the front of the audience to be out of place. He looked displeased. His eyes rumbled with the thunder his nonsense song claimed. “It happens to be lightning struck—hmph.” He did have to comment on that much at least.
“…….” People were happy. The smell of marijuana and sex was strong in the air. Time to ruin it. Someone has to be the bad fucking cop. A badge rolled into his fingers which he flashed at the singer of this band. He really didn’t give a fuck who disliked him right now. “Ahem.” The smile was friendly as sugar--and venomous as a Taipan. If he was ignored, which he likely would be, the houndoom would handle the matter.
Harper Mann: Anyone who wants to discuss the new site with me should do so on Skype. Just express interest or send me an email at email@example.com
Jun 21, 2014 14:50:49 GMT -5
Anya: Hi King c: this is for notifications (such as a profile being finished) the cbox is on the left hand side, which is for chatting. Sorry, should have made that more clear.
Jun 19, 2014 21:46:33 GMT -5