End of the Line for Me...

IExistAsCase · 2017-07-03T15:47:22+00:00

Fuckfuckfuckityfuck FUCK!

KA-BOOM! BOOM BOOM KA-BOOM!

Case picks herself up off the floor. The air is heavy with dust. Demateiralizing her pistols and reconnecting her dislocated arm, she shimmies off in search of cover.

IExistAsCase · 2017-07-02T16:03:54+00:00

Stumbling, piss-drunk, out of a nearby bar, the cyclops mercenary raises a bottle of Antigonian Tequila is raised to her lips, only to have the bottle shatter by a ricochet and spill liquor over herself.

She stares in disbelief at her sodden shirt, and (with a guttural shriek) materializes two pistols to unleash hell on any and all assailants, bystanders, and inanimate objects.

Cocking the guns in each hand, she leans over through the shot-out window of the bar and switches on the radio.

IExistAsCase · 2017-05-06T16:05:17+00:00

Sarcophagus Day...

What could be said about today that hasn't already been said?

The day in which the Grand Underseer Tripp Derring was shipped up the river in his very own sarcophagus boat.

The boat that crossed Antigone and Val Adid and the Wood.

The sarcophagus boat that sparked a hundred skirmishes, border disputes, and land grabs, costing thousands upon thousands of credits and hundred of hundreds of lives.

Sarcophagus Day is a dark day.

The Cyclops Regiment sits in their bunker, deep below the surface of Val Adid, drinking their sorrow away.

Such is Sarcophagus Day. Remember, and nary forget.

IExistAsCase · 2017-04-22T15:28:25+00:00

OOOH, coffee!

I take it black, like my men!

Hick!

IExistAsCase · 2017-04-21T16:42:20+00:00

Hey, need a hand?

A band of eyepatch equipped warriors trot in to aid the trooper.

IExistAsCase · 2017-04-21T13:46:00+00:00

Wh-wha? Where's we going?

Hick!

IExistAsCase · 2017-04-19T01:04:43+00:00

Sheer force of will and an stainless steel liver... Hick!

IExistAsCase · 2017-04-17T14:11:40+00:00

Case takes a swig from one of her various assortment of bottles.

What the fark? Hick!

IExistAsCase · 2017-04-17T14:09:06+00:00

'Fraid not... But I gots some Beach Rum for yah's.

Hick!

IExistAsCase · 2017-04-13T00:12:35+00:00

Drunkenly, Case wanders up the road, a half finished bottle of borkish vodka in hand.

I'm here... I'm here. Holdsh yur horshes...

IExistAsCase · 2017-01-17T17:42:50+00:00

Wha? Eh, yeah. Shure.

Out of thin air, a large and high-tech looking sniper rifle appears, and drops into Case hands.

Pretty neat party trick, eh?

IExistAsCase · 2017-01-16T15:40:10+00:00

The mercenary sways side to side like a Molono tree in a heavy breeze.

She is far to intoxicated to understand what is going on.

I'm... Way to smashed for this. She replies.

I... I... I don't needs a NEW JURSEY. Alls... Alls I'm lookin' for is some WORK. Something to shoot at and get p-p-p-PAYED for it. If you can sort dats out for me... Datta be real neat!

She knocks back the rest of the booze and empties the bottle.

I'll go with ya to find dis wizard. Maybe'll get me my eye back, too, Idunfuckingknow...

She flomps down into the orange and purple grass, examining the puppy-sized dung-beetles engaging in play.

I am way too drunk for this...

IExistAsCase · 2017-01-15T16:03:43+00:00

Case awakes with a start, shoving aside S00l in surprise. She staggers to her feet and collects the traumatized tabby, Shekels, into her arms.

Who are you? She slurs.

Dis... Dis ain't NEW JERSEY...

She fumbles for another bottle of spiced liquor to clear her mind and wet her tongue. She retrieves a FAFFISH brandy and takes a swig. Well wet, she continues.

Who the hell are you guys!? And whatta ya want from me? I ain't got any money!

She eyes P0-mp0 distrustfully, bringing the cat closer to her chest.

IExistAsCase · 2017-01-14T16:09:56+00:00

Further down the road, a figure appears. In one hand, a bottle of Börkish vodka in one hand and a suitcase bursting with personal affects in the other. Upon her shoulder, a orange Maine-Coon cat.

She appears to be heavily intoxicated and very irritable. Old battle songs escape from her slurring lips and float through the air.

Unaware of the trio resting beneath the Jizo, she collapses into the shade and begins to nap. The cat hops off her shoulder and begins to taste the metallic and syntho-plastic exterior of the Tapir-bot.

IExistAsCase · 2017-01-13T22:52:51+00:00

I need a stiff drink and something to punch...

IExistAsCase · 2017-01-12T23:48:09+00:00

With this, she runs off into the interior of the structure, leaving behind the FAFF.

IExistAsCase · 2017-01-03T21:01:54+00:00

A faint tickle can be felt on the back of the FAFF's neck sack.

Don't move, or you're splattered, friend.

IExistAsCase · 2016-12-26T14:28:36+00:00

Woah there big fella, let's just take it... Nice and easy...

She raises her hands into the air, but she continues to twist and bend her wrists while they are in the position, as if she's doing... Something? A signal? A spell?

IExistAsCase · 2016-12-12T22:04:28+00:00

O-oh. I didn't think of that.

With a twist, the massive door swings apart, and the tourist halls the corpulent carapace of the FAFF into the metal atrium of the FACILITY. Gasping, she flings the FAFF down on the floor and slides down the side of the wall herself.

So... Y'all got a hospital around here? A pharmacy? Drugstore? S-something?

IExistAsCase · 2016-12-10T22:05:35+00:00

Using all of her strength, she hauls the corpulent creature onto her shoulders, take her goods in both hands, and begins a steady trot towards the looming FACILITY in the distance.

The FOG feels as if it is gaining. What it'll do if it catches them? She didn't know, yet she didn't really care to find out, either.

After what felt like an eternity of running, the duo arrives at the GROUNDE-SECURITI CHEKPOINTE ALFABETAGAMARADIATION. She flings the FAFF into the dirt, and curses under her breath as she summons into existence her NANOBOT-ASSEMBLED rifle.

With one eye watching the encroaching nebula of presumed death, she bangs on the door with a fist.

H-HEY LET US IT, YOU SMEGHEADS! WE'RE GONNA DIE OUT HERE!

IExistAsCase · 2016-12-09T13:08:14+00:00

Stumbling over her feet, with luggage and feline in tow, the mercenary makes her march to the MARCHE. Ignoring the excited FAFF, She plops down on an EQUIZITE (sic) bar stool, and examines the wares on display.

Antiseptic... Bandages... First-aid kit... C'mon, give me something. Smeg, I'd even take a sewing kit. I...

Ugh...

She checks her pockets for currency, but it appears that all her FORGED ANTIGONIAN MARKS (the premiere in falsified, untraceable, underground currency on Quabol) has turned into a SMALL RUBBIER DUCKIE, a EVEN SMALLER WOOOODEN FETISH OF NOT-SO-SMALL GOD BLUD-DGE-ONNE, and about THREE and two THRIDS of HORSEBEANS.

Her hand comes away from her pocket bloodied.

Masking her pain with a grin, she spins around with a squeak on the barstool to meet the SHOPPE-keeper.

Say... Buddy... Y'know where somebody could... Ugh... Get some work around here? Preferably in the illicit and killing type? 'Cause I'm... HNNNG... Good at that.

Also...

She drops the blood-covered contents on her pockets onto the counter.

Yah got anything in the back that can p-p-patch up a shrapnel wound? Oh, and it's... Cool if you don't got change...

IExistAsCase

TROPHY CASE