Oriphiel

After getting fucked up on swedish meatballs and listening to Turbo by Judas Priest like ten times in a row, I decided to start writing a story to go along with the album. Yeah, I know, it was a really weird day. I also decided that it would be a good idea to write a romance, since I've never written about that sort of thing before, and also that I should write a story with no direct dialogue, since I rely too much on it, and it kinda bogs my stories down. So not only is this gonna be a story about Turbo, it's gonna be an experimental story about Turbo. I can already tell that this is gonna turn out perfectly. Anyway, let's do this shit.

The soldier squinted as he looked up at the swelling sun, smiling as the warm and comforting light reflected off of the visor of his helmet. His mind wandered away from his work, as he entertained thoughts of taking his family to the park later in the day. A cool breeze rushed by, kissing his un-gloved fingers, and his smile widened. However, a nearby scream brought him back to reality. His work was still unfinished. Regaining his composure, he picked up a box filled with vinyl records, and carried it to a military transport vehicle. As he slid it in the back alongside dozens of similar boxes, yet another scream broke through the air. The soldier glanced over at the building, and the people lined up outside of it. The pirates were becoming violent, pushing the soldiers away and shouting obscenities. One of the pirates was lying motionless on the ground, a small pool of blood forming under his head. Most likely, he had been clubbed on the back of the head after trying to escape. The soldier looked away. He had always found it to be a shame when people had to die over such foolish matters.

To drown out the noise of the swelling violence, the soldier tapped a button on his helmet, and a visual display appeared on his visor. Of course, he could have used a verbal command to call up the display, and eye movements to navigate it, however he was an old fashioned sort, and such gimmicks never seemed to work properly for him anyway. With a few more button presses, he began looking through lists of recommended songs, until he found one that pleased him. Selecting it, a calm tone indicated that his account had been charged for the privilege of listening to it, before the song began. Smiling, he returned to his work. In front of the library, the mass of soldiers had quelled the detained pirates, and began escorting them to the transport vehicles for processing. On the side of each van was written IME, an abbreviation that stood for “International Music Enterprise”. After a series of mergers twenty years ago, they had become the only record label in existence, using their money and influence to become not only a monopoly but an autonomous government, one that had long since attained mandates from all of Earth’s nations granting them ownership of all music. And they demanded complete control of their property.

This raid was one of many in a campaign to finally put an end to all unmonitored and unauthorized music. Physical media, such as records and CDs, allowed lawbreakers to play songs without paying the proper fees for each use, as well as allowing them to acquire music that had been deemed offensive by IME and erased from their database and digital store. Until all such artifacts had been seized and destroyed, IME would never have absolute dominion over their charge. And so, with the support of all governments, they exercised their right to enforce their intellectual property laws across all nations, with whatever force they deemed necessary. With such power, controlling the exchange of music across the internet took very little effort, and illegal downloading soon faded into non-existence. Now, the only reliable way to acquire music free from the grip of IME was through physical exchange. However, with the number of pirates and bootleggers dwindling under such a hostile assault, the day was fast approaching when IME would finally drag music out of the chaos of the past, and into the order of the future.

The sun gave out a deep red light as it rose above the city. Two figures, a man and a woman, watched it intently as they leaned against a concrete wall. Both were wearing black leather jackets, and red motorcycle helmets. The man’s jacket was covered in studs, as well as band patches spanning a variety of genres. The woman had rolled the sleeves of her jacket up, and she adjusted them as she looked towards the sky, her bright red nails shining like neon diamonds. The man turned away from the sun, looking at the woman’s face through the tinted visor of her helmet. She looked back at him, as his eyes told her that it was time to go. Though he couldn’t see it, she shot him a smile.

Racing through the streets on their motorcycles, streams of light passed by as they weaved effortlessly through traffic. Behind them, their competitors tried desperately to catch up to them, each now having more adrenaline pumping through them than blood as they indulged in their insatiable hunger for the prize. Swerving to the side, the man and woman narrowly avoided a car as it changed lanes. Unfortunately, the racer behind them was not as quick, his reflexes betraying him as he crashed full speed into the back of the car. His body and motorcycle became a cloud of metal and blood, shimmering under a rain of sparks. The racers behind him soon passed him by, their neon-lit jackets speeding ahead like shooting stars. Though they refused to slow down and risk losing the race, each silently honored their fallen comrade in their pounding hearts.

Days later, the two found themselves on that same road. This time, however, there were black assault vehicles behind them instead of rival racers. Each bore the IME logo, and they worked tirelessly to keep up with the two motorcyclists, knocking other vehicles off to the side in their desperate pursuit. The woman saw them bearing down on her in her mirrors, and pulled a gun out from under her jacket. Turning on her motorcycle’s stabilizers and auto-drive, she then turned around and opened fire, aiming for their windshields. At first, the soldiers ignored her fire, as their windshields were protected against projectiles. However, as holes began to melt in the treated glass, they soon realized that the woman was using an illegally customized overcharged laser pistol. The assault vehicles swerved wildly to avoid her fire, crashing into each other in a heap of metal and glass. Putting her gun away, the woman caught up to the man, and the two continued to speed forward. Using his free hand, the man tightly gripped the strap of the duffel bag slung across his back, anticipating the wonders that it’s contents would surely hold.

Somehow escaping death once again, they returned to their apartment and emptied the duffel bag on their bed. As the woman picked up an interesting looking record and examined it, the man simply ran his fingers across the pile of music, his heart beating faster as he took in the beauty of it. The cover art of each album seemed to tell a story, and the plastic cases of the CDs shimmered under the bright neon lights scattered across the apartment. Even the beat up tapes with handwritten labels held a sort of charm to them, and the many mysterious unmarked flashdrives promised hundreds of digital songs free from IME’s watermark and formatting. Eventually, they put one of the records on, and the charged sound of Heavy Metal began to pulse through the apartment. As they embraced, the beating of their hearts began to merge with the rhythm of the song. Their love for each other was matched only by their love for music, a powerful addiction that ensured their self-destruction. However, though they knew that in the end their actions would have little impact, and that the forces they stood against would ultimately claim victory, they were nonetheless determined to make an adventure out of what little time they had left.

Weeks later, they found themselves in an unmonitored alleyway, buying a large quantity of rare music from a contact. The deal was soon interrupted by a hail of gunfire, as the contact and his associates decided that they could take on the two of them, so why leave without taking both the money and the music? Without hesitating, the man avoided their gunfire by falling to the ground, instinctively pulling out his gun and returning fire. The woman leapt to the side and withdrew her pistol as well, laughing as a shot from a laser gun ricocheted off of her tempered motorcycle helmet. Between the two of them, they made short work of the contact and his associates. Standing up, the man unzipped his jacket and examined the laser-proof vest underneath. While most of the shots had simply left singes here and there, one from an overcharged pistol had managed to pierce through, leaving a small cauterized wound on his side. The woman examined her own vest, finding that all the shots that had struck her had luckily been of the glancing variety. However, one of the shots had hit her wallet, melting it and all of the contents within. Pulling it out, she and the man couldn’t help but laugh. Throwing it to the side, she stepped towards the man and put a hand on his wound, and their gazes locked through their visors.

Later, the two of them returned to the concrete wall, watching a particularly striking sunset that blanketed the city in a sea of inviting orange. Being in a rundown and secluded part of the city that IME soldiers rarely cruised through, the two felt little apprehension in playing music publicly. The man withdrew a CD from his jacket’s inner pocket, a favorite that he often carried with him for luck, and one that had somehow survived all this time without being destroyed by a laser blast. The woman removed a piece from the frame of her motorcycle, revealing a hidden music player decorated with USB ports, as well as slots for CDs and tapes. She took the CD from him and removed it from it’s case, sliding it into the music player and turning up the volume. As the music washed over the two of them, they held each other tight, staring forward silently at the sunset. Before long, however, they saw smoke start to rise from a section of the city in the distance. Just then, small LEDs on their motorcycles began to glow red, a signal indicating that friends of theirs were being raided. Without hesitating, the pair withdrew their pistols and briefly inspected them, readying themselves for battle before setting off. Within the minute, they were racing through the streets once again, speeding past traffic with expert skill.

Riding alongside each other, their hearts beating in unison, both accepted that this could very well be their final hour. However, even if their lives were to be cut short, neither could complain, for both had desired little more in life than to become lost in their passions, a desire that had long ago been fulfilled to satisfaction. Their speed increasing, and the engines of their motorcycles screaming ever louder, their fears and doubts found it quite difficult to keep up. And, in time, they were left behind altogether, simply one more mark in a section of the road that had been passed long ago. As the lights and cars around them became little more than a blur, all that remained now was energy, determined to stay in motion until the curse of inertia finally brought it to a halt.

As they sped past a police car, it turned on it’s sirens and began to take chase. Gingerly maneuvering past other cars, it briefly managed to pull up behind the two motorcyclists, before the pair noticed their tail and increased their speed. The cop sped up as well, however his driving skills were not up to par, and he clipped a large truck that wasn’t fast enough to move out of his way. Though the thought of ignoring the truck and continuing the pursuit of the speeding motorcyclists was a tempting one, the officer forced himself to give up the chase and come to a stop, making sure that the truck driver was unharmed. Ahead, the motorcyclists saw the spectacle in their mirrors, and both shot each other a glance, laughing all the while as they continued to race down the highway, eventually fading into the blinding orange light of the sunset.

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Tristan_Geoff

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YW Fam: All MB Music Projects Under One Roof

Emo/Pop Punk Journal

Techno Journal

Frownland

Well now you have to turn it into a Turbo (2013) erotic fanfiction. I recommend going for the slow burn.

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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.

Oriphiel

Thanks for the encouragement, you guys. Shitposting in someone's journal is like second base here on MB.

On a hot summer night, the two motorcyclists stepped into a dive bar hidden in the abandoned section of the city, breathing in the atmosphere as loud Heavy Metal played through the illegal sound system. It was a wild and chaotic place filled with mirrors and red neon lights, where the dregs of society traded music freely. In the corner, a crowd of people were packing themselves around a table, intently watching a high-stakes bout of arm wrestling while shouting obscenities, as well as the odd word of encouragement. At the bar, an assortment of misfits were throwing beer bottles while hollering at the television as it broadcasted the end of a heated boxing match. The motorcyclists took off their helmets, setting them aside near the doorway, and fell in with the crowd. Taken by the energy of the song playing, the two of them couldn’t resist the urge to dance. After indulging in the infectious rhythm for a moment, the man forced his way past the crowd to procure drinks for the two of them. Naturally, the bar’s drinks were legendarily terrible, but they often served their purpose well enough.

Before long, he had returned. The two continued their dance, occasionally taking drinks from the cold bottles in their hands, each one making the atmosphere that much warmer. Of course, their “dancing” was little more than moving their hips and shoulders to the beat, and grew sloppier by the second. However, they were far too absorbed in each other and the music to notice or care. The neon lights around the bar seemed to grow more bright and bold as they continued to dance, their reflections flickering like fiery snakes in the mirrors on the wall. Eventually, however, the song came to an end, as most songs do.

After the song had faded, and they became surrounded by the ambient noises of the crowd, they smiled as they held each other in a tight embrace. Just then, another energetic song began to play, and their embrace was broken by a drunken dancer stumbling into them. Helping him to his feet before pushing him away, the motorcylists glanced at each other and laughed. They then began to make their way through the rowdy crowd, greeting old friends and pushing aside other dancing drunkards, heading for the back of the bar. As they did so, a man standing by a decrepit door noticed them, and opened it as he waved them in.

Stepping through, the motorcyclists walked down a hazy stairway packed with boxes of assorted electrical equipment, eventually reaching the pirate communication center beneath the bar. At first glance, it appeared to be little more than a cramped cellar filled with monitors, patchwork electronics, and tired looking men and women holding soldering guns and fistfuls of gaffa. Despite appearances, however, it was the bedrock of resistance within the city, a heart stubbornly still beating within a corpse, refusing to give up. The pirates within put aside their work and greeted the motorcyclists warmly, always eager to take a break to catch up with friends, as well as to pass along albums and recommendations.

After a few minutes of lively conversation, however, they were interrupted by a man rushing into the room with a distraught expression on his face. He urged them all to hurry upstairs, and what could they do but satisfy their curiosity? Running up the staircase, the motorcyclists and the pirates returned to the bar above. The music had been cut off, and the noise of the crowd had been reduced to whispers. On the television, a raid was being broadcasted live by IME, no doubt meant to demoralize any rebels that might be watching. The motorcyclists instantly recognized the building being raided; it was the headquarters of a large group of bootleggers, led by one of the figureheads of the movement.

Brutally suppressing the bootleggers, the IME soldiers efficiently disarmed and contained them, handcuffing them as they packed them into transport vehicles, likely planning on interrogating them at one of their detainment facilities. Before long, they had captured the leader of the bootleggers, and the officer in charge of the raid personally escorted him from the scene, putting him in the back of his private assault vehicle. Turning their attention from the television, the motorcyclists shot a glance at the pirates, who nodded in response. Seemingly all at once, every pirate and bootlegger in the bar pulled out a weapon and headed for the door, as the noise of the crowd began to rise. The motorcyclists briefly checked their own pistols before setting off, retrieving their helmets on the way out.

The rebels split up into two groups. One would focus on stopping the transport vehicles carrying the majority of the captured bootleggers and seized music to a "processing facility" near the IME headquarters, a large building where violent pirates and illegal music were quickly disposed of. The other group would go after the officer’s assault vehicle, fighting past his entourage of elite guards as they escorted him to the garrison on the outskirts of the city, a well guarded base where prisoners of value were often detained. The motorcyclists were of the former group, and led the pack as they sped fearlessly towards their destination. The asphalt beneath them had been covered in a thin film of moisture by a light summer rain that morning, and seemed to glow under the neon lights covering their motorcycles. Pushing their machines to their limit, they accelerated past the point of recklessness, until the transport vehicles finally came into view on the highway up ahead.

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Oriphiel

The pirates raced down the highway with inhuman speed, withdrawing their weapons as they gained on the transport vehicles. Looking in their mirrors, the IME soldiers scanned the coming pack of neon warriors, and prepared for battle. In a flash, hatches on top of all of the transport vehicles opened, as laser turrets pushed their way out and unfolded. Soldiers climbed out of the hatches as well, mounting the turrets and opening fire. The pirates swerved to avoid their shots, while returning fire. As the transport convoy entered a tunnel, one of the turret gunners aimed his fire at the motorcyclists, forcing them to split up. The man moved right, firing at the gunner, while the woman swerved to the left, between the concrete pillars holding up the tunnel, directly into oncoming traffic.

A shot from the man’s laser pistol put an end to the gunner, silencing his turret. The woman expertly dodged the cars hurtling towards her, each honking at her frantically. Fearlessly taking her eyes off of the road ahead, she briefly glanced to the right at the transport convoy. The pirates were putting up an admirable fight, however the remaining turret gunners were still tearing them apart. Speeding up until she was ahead of the convoy, she slipped between the concrete separators once again, returning to the right lane. She then turned on her motorcycle’s auto-drive capabilities, before turning around and firing at the turret gunners. Facing the other direction, the gunners were easy targets, and the majority of them were killed within moments.

In response, two of the transport vehicles sped up, attempting to ram the woman off of the road. However, as they focused on her, they failed to notice the other motorcyclist, who had dodged the fire of the final turret and pulled up beside one of them. Firing at the tempered side window, his overcharged laser pistol melted a hole through it, wounding both the driver and the passenger. Stunned, the driver involuntarily swerved to the right, clipping the transport vehicle beside him, and both ground to a halt as sparks flew from the hoods. The drivers behind them frantically pressed down on their brakes, doing all they could to avoid crashing into them at full speed. Before long, the whole convoy had come to a stop, and the pirates wasted no time in surrounding them.

The surviving soldiers exited the transport vehicles and fired on the pirates, making a desperate last stand. The pirates dismounted from their motorcycles and left their cars, returning fire as they rushed them. Now reunited, the two motorcyclists leapt into the fray, finishing off the last of the soldiers and securing the convoy. As IME reinforcements appeared in the distance, the pirates quickly liberated the prisoners, making as much space as possible for them in their cars and on their motorcycles. The confiscated music was recovered as well, and placed into the back of a truck that one of the pirates had brought. From there, the pirates quickly departed, all going their separate ways. Though some would inevitably be killed or captured by the large group of soldiers spilling onto the scene, by splitting up they made it next to impossible for the IME reinforcements to follow and catch all of them. The two motorcyclists departed as well, each with a freed prisoner sitting behind them, holding on tightly as they accelerated through the wave of soldiers.

Exiting the highway, the motorcyclists raced through the streets of the city’s busy downtown, weaving in and out of traffic as the soldiers behind them struggled to keep up. Eventually, one of the assault vehicles pulled up beside them, and a soldier rolled down the window and began to open fire. The motorcyclists reacted by slowing down to avoid the shots. As they did so, the woman pulled out her gun and fired back at the soldier, while the man pulled out a grenade and threw it into the open window. The soldiers within the assault vehicle began to panic, trying desperately to grab the grenade and toss it back out the window. The motorcyclists quickly turned left onto a small by-street, just as the assault vehicle exploded. Most of the assault vehicles behind it crashed into the wreckage, unable to slow down in time to avoid it. One of them managed to peel off to the side, and the driver took a moment to compose himself before attempting to follow the motorcylists down the by-street. However, by then, they were long gone.

Escaping the pursuit, the motorcyclists made their way back to the bar, dropping off the two freed prisoners at a safe location along the way. Stepping inside, the atmosphere had changed completely from the reckless energy that had earlier reigned supreme. The dance floor had been cleared to make an impromptu hospital for all of the pirates wounded in the attack, and the people who had earlier been concerned with nothing more than dancing were now helping in whatever manner they could. Drinking solemnly at the bar was one of the main technicians of the communications center, a bandage sloppily covering a laser burn on his face. He had been with the group that had gone to attack the officer’s entourage and save the leader of the bootleggers. The motorcyclists sat beside him, eager to hear how his mission had gone. Rather than answer them, however, the technician simply took a drink, before shaking his head.

The mission had failed. The leader of the bootleggers had been sent to a maximum security detention compound, where he would be subjected to torture until he inevitably betrayed the resistance. Though the chances of successfully freeing him were not in their favor, the pirates had no choice but to try. The resistance was already faltering, barely surviving against IME’s relentless onslaught, and if the leader of the bootleggers gave up his considerable network of contacts, it would be too damaging of a blow for them to ever hope of recovering. Using the communication center, they sent out a call for an emergency assemblage, gathering as many willing fighters as possible, and before nightfall they had come up with a plan.

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Oriphiel

On a hill outside of the city limits, the moon cast a pale light down on the detention compound as sentries walked around the perimeter, ever attentive. All at once, the silence was broken by a series of explosions, blasting holes through various sections of the wall around the compound. Pressing the advantage of surprise, the pirates quickly poured in, firing on the sentries as they scrambled for cover. Within moments, the alarm began to cut through the sounds of screams and gunfire, and a massive surge of IME soldiers appeared out of the various buildings scattered across the compound. High up in the watchtowers, turret gunners began to fire down on the pirates, the visors of their helmets allowing them to distinguish friend from foe in the darkness. However, though their weapons and position offered them a tremendous advantage, many of them were quite demoralized, for they knew that regardless of how well they performed in the battle, they would still likely be executed by their unreasonable commanding officer for not spotting the pirates as they had approached the compound. The pirates fired back at the gunners, and before long two of them had abandoned their turrets, deciding to take their chances and run rather than stay and face death regardless of the outcome of the fight.

Despite their early success in the battle, the pirates were still at a disadvantage. As even more IME soldiers exited the buildings and joined the mayhem, the rebels soon found themselves completely outnumbered and outgunned. At this rate, their chances of overpowering the compound’s garrison were slipping towards impossible. However, winning the fight had never been their intention. All they desired was to draw out all of the soldiers in the compound, distracting them long enough for a small team to slip in and liberate the leader of the bootleggers, as well as any other prisoners being held in the detainment facility. As the fight raged on, the extraction team made their way towards their goal, doing their best to avoid battle and to stay out of sight. At the head of the pack were the two motorcyclists, smiling through their tinted visors as they evaded grenades and gunfire, swiftly killing every soldier that had the misfortune of spotting them.

Making haste, they quickly approached their destination. Clearing out the guards in front of the detention facility with a hail of gunfire, the extraction team hurried inside. As they entered, they were set upon by a group of guards who had stayed behind, and both sides made a dash for whatever cover could be found as they exchanged fire. Both sides soon became dug in, and it seemed likely that it would be some time before the pirates could advance any further. The motorcyclists, however, had no intention of wasting time in a drawn out gunfight. Pulling out a grenade, the man primed it for a moment, before tossing it towards the soldiers. As it exploded, the motorcyclists leapt out from behind their cover and charged forward, firing on the soldiers that had abandoned their cover to escape the blast. The pirates followed their lead and pushed forward, finishing off the last of the guards. Together, they hurried down the hallway past the processing and records offices.

Entering the cell block, the team quickly began to open all of the cells, freeing all of the prisoners in the detention facility as they searched for the leader of the bootleggers. However, instead of expressing thanks, the prisoners backed away from the pirates, shouting in panicked voices about an ambush. In a flash, soldiers hidden throughout the room fired on the rebels, killing most of them before they could return fire. The survivors took cover, making a desperate stand as they fired back at their attackers. The motorcyclists fearlessly leapt into the fray, lasers ricocheting off of their helmets and piercing their jackets as they sprayed lasers at their enemies. Though both suffered numerous laser burns, in a matter of seconds they had somehow managed to slay all of their enemies. However, save for two other rebels, the rest of their team had been slaughtered in the ambush. Undaunted, they returned to their search, and the freed prisoners picked up the weapons of the fallen soldiers and assisted them.

Before long, they had found their target, and opened his cell. They tossed him a pistol and urged for him to follow them, however he remained sitting on his bed, ignoring the pistol as it fell to the ground. He looked up at the motorcyclists with an empty gaze, confiding in them without having to say a word. His face was bruised and bloody, and his fingers had been broken and stripped of nails. The IME forces had tortured him as soon as he had arrived, set on extracting information from him quickly so that they could act upon it before his contacts had a chance to disappear. As the motorcyclists looked back at him, they saw pained tears welling in his eyes, and they understood. He had given them up. He had given them all up. For a moment, the motorcyclists felt a hot wave of hatred and disgust wash over them. However, as he continued to stare at them through his broken expression, their anger faded into cold pity and sorrow. They both soon realized that this was hardly the time for neither emotional interludes nor judgement. Stepping inside the cell, they approached his bed and began to help him to his feet. Though he struggled at first, he eventually relented, and together they headed for the exit.

Leaving the detention facility, the motorcyclists returned to the battlefield, the freed prisoners following closely behind them. Suddenly, an explosion blew a hole through a nearby building. As smoke and dust floated through the air, a group of enemy soldiers backed out of the hole, firing at a rebel grenadier that had forced his way into the garrison. At the head of the group was the officer that had captured the leader of the bootleggers. Laughing about how the explosion from the rebel grenade had almost killed him, he fired his laser submachine gun through the hole, before pulling back to reload. As he did so, he caught sight of the motorcyclists and the freed prisoners. They stared at each other for a moment, somewhat shocked by the chance encounter. The officer smiled, and opened fire on them. At the same time, the motorcyclists lifted their pistols and sprayed lasers towards the soldiers, however they were somewhat hindered by the leader of the bootleggers, who they tried to shield as best they could as they supported him with their shoulders. Despite their efforts, however, he was quickly torn apart by the storm of gunfire.

The soldiers shielded the officer as they fired at the prisoners, allowing him and his bodyguards to escape back into the hole. Raising their submachine guns, he and his entourage charged forward fearlessly, killing the rebel grenadier at the far side of the building and clearing an escape route. Looking back over his shoulder through the hole, the officer could see that all of his soldiers had been slain, as well as all of the prisoners. The motorcyclists, however, were still alive, albeit injured. Smiling, he fired at them as they tried to follow him through the hole, forcing them to take cover in a supply closet. The motorcyclists took a moment to let their guns cool down, before leaving their cover and continuing their pursuit. However, by then, the officer had disappeared into the chaos of the surrounding battle.

Having failed their mission, there was little left for the motorcyclists to do other than make an escape. Leaving the garrison, they joined the fight outside. By this time, however, the majority of the rebel forces had either been killed or fallen back, and IME reinforcements were surrounding the compound, determined on capturing or slaying every pirate that still remained. Nevertheless, the motorcyclists and their few surviving allies refused to surrender, fighting desperately in an attempt to escape the compound. An IME helicopter soon arrived on the scene, and unleashed a barrage of heavy laser fire as it passed over the rebels. The few that weren’t instantly killed made a mad dash for cover, and the helicopter ceased it’s fire as a large group of IME soldiers pressed the attack and charged forward. The motorcyclists tried to stay close to one another, however an explosion from a grenade forced them to split up. The man dashed into a nearby watchtower, narrowly avoiding the explosion of another grenade that collapsed the doorway behind him, and the woman ducked into a small alley-space between two buildings, eventually maneuvering her way to the other side and ducking into a large hangar. As she scanned the interior for enemies, her eyes soon fell upon something both glorious and familiar, and she couldn’t help but smile.

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Kunkel

That would be hilarious...

Oriphiel

Welp, I sure as hell wasn't expecting this to get bumped when I woke up this morning.

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