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+--- Thread: Legends, Forgotten (/showthread.php?tid=166111)
Legends, Forgotten - Neonzumi - 11-27-2018
"This whole experience is ah, so unsurprisingly gloomy and depressing." Said Lightshow to himself, sporting a wide and joyful smile despite the nature of his words as he took another creaking step down the underground stone passage which lead to the ruined colosseum, somewhere underneath planet Malta's surface. Witch each few steps, the bandaged up, jittery man would extend his arm, touching the tunnel's walls with his hand, running his fingers along the centuries old blood stains, crimson works of art left behind by struggling explorers and lustful warriors.
"I wonder if anyone cleaned up the mess we left last time? The hall is probably filled with rotting corpses, again. Ahh, I doubt it. The last time we had the chance to go slaughtering was oh so long ago that the only thing remaining by now would be bare, dry, crumbling bones of our opponents." The man exclaimed, the slight raising of his tone mixed in with the surprise of noticing a light at the end of this mystical tunnel instigating a very hard cough. For a moment, he was forced to stop and support himself by holding both of his arms up against the wall as he spat out a hefty amount of blood and yellow sludge. But soon enough, he'd recover, somewhat, and be back on his way towards the entrance he finally reached. The man paid no attention to his alarming symptoms, instead he went on with his mumbling: "Oh, I'm talking to myself again. I wonder if this level of isolation can develop into schizophrenia? Huh."
Within two minutes of wobbling about, trying to regain footing after getting slightly lightheaded from the immense coughing, a bit slow, but Lightshow finally reached his destination. The centuries old ruins of what was once a mighty colosseum, now looked like an attempted sand dune. Most of the seating places surrounding the fighting pit were covered in sand and dust created by earthly tremors, yet somehow, the most important aspect which the man was seeking had been left intact. That aspect is the giant Nighthawk chiseled into the ground by master craftsmen, its wings spread out in a demonstration of the creatures superiority and glory. "Well, its seems that Lesser and Pika do tend to our old home sometimes. What a pleasant surprise, we have ghosts haunting us now. Ahhh, but I get them."
Instead of moving into the wider area, instead, Lightshow kept walking next to the edges, with his fingers pressed and running up against the wall, this time within the colosseum's circle. It wasn't too long before an audible click made him cease movement, and this simple sound was soon followed by loud tremors, the ground beneath Lightshow shaking in an apocalyptic manner as the very center of the stage where the large chiseled nighthawk stood began to open up. "At least I haven't forgotten where I placed mine." The man mumbled through a bright, yet somehow depressing, very saddening smile.
The newly found hole in the ground proved to be a hangar bay, as the characteristic large top profile of a Sabre along with its cockpit peaked their heads out, the tremors still being invoked by the painfully slow raising platform. Given how old the mechanism is, it took about 5 full minutes for the Sabre to appear in its full glory, the mini-earthquake finally ceasing to shake up Lightshow's barely functioning internal organs which was marked by the same man promptly bending over, throwing up a volley of half-digested low-quality instant ramen and cream pancakes.
It was painful, but Lightshow managed to stand straight after a good minute of struggle, and once again disregarding his terrible state, the man would immediately begin walking towards the fighter ship, holding himself by the ribcage due to immense pain, moving at his own insecure pace. And once he was face to face with the hulk of metal, he'd place his palm upon its side, looking up at its underpart where the cruise disruptor was mounted. No matter how dead inside his expressions were for the most part up until now, a few tears formed in his eyes as he spoke in a very monotone voice... "I've missed you, old friend."
"I wonder if anyone cleaned up the mess we left last time? The hall is probably filled with rotting corpses, again. Ahh, I doubt it. The last time we had the chance to go slaughtering was oh so long ago that the only thing remaining by now would be bare, dry, crumbling bones of our opponents." The man exclaimed, the slight raising of his tone mixed in with the surprise of noticing a light at the end of this mystical tunnel instigating a very hard cough. For a moment, he was forced to stop and support himself by holding both of his arms up against the wall as he spat out a hefty amount of blood and yellow sludge. But soon enough, he'd recover, somewhat, and be back on his way towards the entrance he finally reached. The man paid no attention to his alarming symptoms, instead he went on with his mumbling: "Oh, I'm talking to myself again. I wonder if this level of isolation can develop into schizophrenia? Huh."
Within two minutes of wobbling about, trying to regain footing after getting slightly lightheaded from the immense coughing, a bit slow, but Lightshow finally reached his destination. The centuries old ruins of what was once a mighty colosseum, now looked like an attempted sand dune. Most of the seating places surrounding the fighting pit were covered in sand and dust created by earthly tremors, yet somehow, the most important aspect which the man was seeking had been left intact. That aspect is the giant Nighthawk chiseled into the ground by master craftsmen, its wings spread out in a demonstration of the creatures superiority and glory. "Well, its seems that Lesser and Pika do tend to our old home sometimes. What a pleasant surprise, we have ghosts haunting us now. Ahhh, but I get them."
Instead of moving into the wider area, instead, Lightshow kept walking next to the edges, with his fingers pressed and running up against the wall, this time within the colosseum's circle. It wasn't too long before an audible click made him cease movement, and this simple sound was soon followed by loud tremors, the ground beneath Lightshow shaking in an apocalyptic manner as the very center of the stage where the large chiseled nighthawk stood began to open up. "At least I haven't forgotten where I placed mine." The man mumbled through a bright, yet somehow depressing, very saddening smile.
The newly found hole in the ground proved to be a hangar bay, as the characteristic large top profile of a Sabre along with its cockpit peaked their heads out, the tremors still being invoked by the painfully slow raising platform. Given how old the mechanism is, it took about 5 full minutes for the Sabre to appear in its full glory, the mini-earthquake finally ceasing to shake up Lightshow's barely functioning internal organs which was marked by the same man promptly bending over, throwing up a volley of half-digested low-quality instant ramen and cream pancakes.
It was painful, but Lightshow managed to stand straight after a good minute of struggle, and once again disregarding his terrible state, the man would immediately begin walking towards the fighter ship, holding himself by the ribcage due to immense pain, moving at his own insecure pace. And once he was face to face with the hulk of metal, he'd place his palm upon its side, looking up at its underpart where the cruise disruptor was mounted. No matter how dead inside his expressions were for the most part up until now, a few tears formed in his eyes as he spoke in a very monotone voice... "I've missed you, old friend."
RE: Legends, Forgotten - Neonzumi - 04-27-2019
While Lightshow was in somewhat of a rush due to his relatively fast-decaying insides, he couldn't help but continue to gaze up at the used and abused fighter craft, as if he was captivated by its battle-scarred beauty. While the ship itself was pretty much just a stock Series Z, it had a Nighthawk painted onto its left wing, symbolically as the heart resides there. Minutes passed, the walking corpse of a man didn't even blink throughout the whole period, but a stabbing pain in his lower abdomen forced him out of his trance. "Ah fuck, I really should be on my way." Mumbling, he ended that statement with a very dry cough, before turning away to face the platform ladder which would lead into the Sabre's cockpit.
Reaching in for the first step, without warning Lightshow would suddenly begin to fall forward, managing to grab the rusty steel pole in front just in time to save himself from possible death, given his state. Letting out a loud gurgling noise, his body tried to make him puke, but there was nothing left to come out besides a few drops of throat burning stomach acid. "This is..." He'd pause for a short cough. "...getting out of hand."
With a bit of trouble, the man managed to push himself up in order to stand straight. While shirtless, Lightshow did wear a black leather belt around his shoulder with a small gas tank strapped into its holster along with the accompanying mask. Its contents varied, a cocktail of pain killers, anesthetics, and medicinal stimulants ready for ingestion. With his free hand, he'd reach in for the gas mask which was attached to the relatively small condenser tank by slightly oversized tubes that looped around his neck, rushing to put it on, surprisingly agile for his state. Click. "Breathe in... breathe out."
Once the chemicals began to fill Lightshows severely damaged lungs, he'd no longer have trouble standing up, more so its like someone pumped a full shot of adrenaline straight into his bloodstream. The flesh skeleton ran up the ladder like a mad max scrap ghoul, grabbing the very edge of the last step once he reached top, propelling himself into the air with his palm, jumping into the open cockpit with precision. If he wasn't so underweight, the old creaky pilots seat would've probably broke off. "Breathe in... Breathe out. Ahh, how I've missed these landings. What a double edged blade this canister is, letting me relive moments such as these at the cost of my body and organs, or at least whats left of them. How morbid, but aesthetic in a way? I'm rambling like a scitzo again, shit."
Even his tone seemed healthy and excited, but the constant, feint choking noises and the regurgitating sound of Lightshows bowel gave him note that he didn't have as much time left as the drugs would lead him to believe. Left, right, the man cracked his neck, stretching his arms out forward, slim fingers entwined, soon cracking too. A sigh of relief is let out, before this biological miracle began pressing buttons and pulling levers. It required no thinking to get this soon to be flying coffin alive and running, Lightshow had the entire cockpit down by muscle memory after all. A stock Series Z usually doesn't have this many buttons and dashboards, the cockpit is slightly smaller than standard after all, and things such as balance and XYZ position are ran and monitored by an on-board AI, but its customary among these combat thirsty gladiators to have every possible option and parameter be controlled manually. Yes, it requires a lot of hard, borderline psychotic levels of training to be put into learning and mastering a stick shift Sabre, but once a brother does so, the combat styles which may emerge cannot be seen anywhere else in Sirius, as the very soul of each pilot is communed through their flying.
Sand dust rose, as the ground bellow began to shake, a signal that Lightshow's eternal partner is living once more. One last touch of the main dashboard, and a navigation map of the entire known Sirius sector would project itself, with red dots scattered across, marking various places all over. "Where do we start? The closest lil' marker, no? Breathe in... breathe out, Lightshow."
Reaching in for the first step, without warning Lightshow would suddenly begin to fall forward, managing to grab the rusty steel pole in front just in time to save himself from possible death, given his state. Letting out a loud gurgling noise, his body tried to make him puke, but there was nothing left to come out besides a few drops of throat burning stomach acid. "This is..." He'd pause for a short cough. "...getting out of hand."
With a bit of trouble, the man managed to push himself up in order to stand straight. While shirtless, Lightshow did wear a black leather belt around his shoulder with a small gas tank strapped into its holster along with the accompanying mask. Its contents varied, a cocktail of pain killers, anesthetics, and medicinal stimulants ready for ingestion. With his free hand, he'd reach in for the gas mask which was attached to the relatively small condenser tank by slightly oversized tubes that looped around his neck, rushing to put it on, surprisingly agile for his state. Click. "Breathe in... breathe out."
Once the chemicals began to fill Lightshows severely damaged lungs, he'd no longer have trouble standing up, more so its like someone pumped a full shot of adrenaline straight into his bloodstream. The flesh skeleton ran up the ladder like a mad max scrap ghoul, grabbing the very edge of the last step once he reached top, propelling himself into the air with his palm, jumping into the open cockpit with precision. If he wasn't so underweight, the old creaky pilots seat would've probably broke off. "Breathe in... Breathe out. Ahh, how I've missed these landings. What a double edged blade this canister is, letting me relive moments such as these at the cost of my body and organs, or at least whats left of them. How morbid, but aesthetic in a way? I'm rambling like a scitzo again, shit."
Even his tone seemed healthy and excited, but the constant, feint choking noises and the regurgitating sound of Lightshows bowel gave him note that he didn't have as much time left as the drugs would lead him to believe. Left, right, the man cracked his neck, stretching his arms out forward, slim fingers entwined, soon cracking too. A sigh of relief is let out, before this biological miracle began pressing buttons and pulling levers. It required no thinking to get this soon to be flying coffin alive and running, Lightshow had the entire cockpit down by muscle memory after all. A stock Series Z usually doesn't have this many buttons and dashboards, the cockpit is slightly smaller than standard after all, and things such as balance and XYZ position are ran and monitored by an on-board AI, but its customary among these combat thirsty gladiators to have every possible option and parameter be controlled manually. Yes, it requires a lot of hard, borderline psychotic levels of training to be put into learning and mastering a stick shift Sabre, but once a brother does so, the combat styles which may emerge cannot be seen anywhere else in Sirius, as the very soul of each pilot is communed through their flying.
Sand dust rose, as the ground bellow began to shake, a signal that Lightshow's eternal partner is living once more. One last touch of the main dashboard, and a navigation map of the entire known Sirius sector would project itself, with red dots scattered across, marking various places all over. "Where do we start? The closest lil' marker, no? Breathe in... breathe out, Lightshow."