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Model 002 -- ALICE

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The sun had just kissed the horizon and Alice, she loved this time of day. The whole sky was painted red now, a macabre in the twilight. Polluted until it gagged and choked, it flushed to some breathtaking shade of purple over billions of smiles and pointing fingers.

The Earth turns,
but we don't feel it.

Alice sat on the edge of a skyscraper, the city thrumming below her. One leg dangled while the other remained tucked under her ivory thigh, and her toes curled and wiggled against the soft breeze. It whipped her silky mane like a white flag; we surrender. Her head lulled back and she watched the sky with synthetic orbs that burned albescence. It was good to be free.

The doll leaned forward slowly and down she came, tumbling off the building, free falling towards a concrete tomb. Fingers reached out to either side and let the wind snake between them, suspending her in time for just a moment.

And they said she'd never live.

Legs pulled up into her chest, arms hugged until she turned fully, a falling star. A sharp motion and she braced herself for impact, like frosted porcelain crashing to the earth. Constructed limbs with impossible dexterity connected, bent, and straightened without harm, and Alice did not miss a beat before strolling away, ivory waves bellowing and relaxing down her back.

And here she was at another Tavern for another game, with or without Fetch. She pushed the doors open and peeked past them like a child at hide and seek, purely pale orbs making a calculative sweep over the room. Leather shorts creaked as her legs carried her in under a sleeveless purple top that clung to her lithe form. Seams glided along her limbs, just thick enough to be detected; her curse. Black, lacquered nails combed through her hair, avoiding the doves wing tied in with lace and crusted in blood.

Hangars sitting dripped in oil,

Another had walked in just before her, and Alice noticed something that could only bring her such childish pleasure. His feet. She sped her stride and walked past him only to turn and abstract his path, looking him over like a hungry, circling lioness. But somehow, this doll still had the eyes of a lamb. Wide, innocent, this was her game.

You don't like them either?

She nodded towards his bare feet, then wiggled her own toes, an excellent smile splitting her face.

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As soon as Perch had entered he'd noticed something: The bar. It was so well-kept. It was an object built to support the shattered masses that rode upon its back on their long journey through the night. He liked it. He knew that somewhere, someone, whether they knew it or not, looked at that bar as one of their best friends. They lamented to it; they laughed with it; they pissed on it. That bar was the teenage whore whose father never quite gave her enough attention; supporting, caring, beautiful and infinitely willing. He wanted to forge a bond with that bar. Perch did that often; some of his best friends were inanimate objects. His favorites were street lamps. Tall, slender watchman that could always guide him home. Or away from it.

His gaze was interrupted by what at first seemed like a tear in reality. Almost robotically one of the palest creatures he'd ever seen stepped in front of him. She had a massive smile on her face; a smile that accentuated her misplacement. Everything in the bar was scenery; it all perfectly fit together, all of it was so easy to take it and process until this doll-like animal had trotted in front of him with a smile fit to burn the scene to the ground.

Perch didn't like the smile. It was obviously directed towards him and he could even sense pieces of arrogance, even contempt flitting through it. Then he'd remembered one of the many dogmas he'd instilled within himself: "You can't be so sensitive about everything. Over-analyzing everything is how you become miserable. Don't be miserable. Don't be your mother." That was his train of thought. In the same train of thought he remarked at how interesting it was that he was conscious of his train of thought.

So Perch took the high rode with his natural, dreary, yet poly-tonal voice

"How's it goin'"

Without inflection, without a question mark. To him it was simply a greeting, he'd never actually cared how people were doing because he'd known nobody was about to really tell him how they were doing, a fact he'd also spent many hours thinking about.
Model 002 -- ALICE

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Format and better ref art to be made later

A laugh bubbled up from Alice's throat and she tsked, shaking her head slowly in mock disappointment.

Then she leaned forward, much too close, perhaps he'd hear the whurr of gears tumbling, turning, greasing, churning.

One.... She held up her finger for him to see, a straight seam inlaid all the way down it's underside. I asked you a question, and you answered with another.

Her voice was unnaturally smooth, too delicate for an alloy frame. Two.... She held up another finger, staring at him through the gap they formed. My question was genuine, yours was a farce.

She stared through him, wide moons in a falling sky.

You can't fool me

Now, where are your shoes?

I'm in the business of games.

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He knew she wanted a response. He knew it. He knew she'd expected him to create a piece of key-frame information that the animators could use as a checkpoint for the whole story.

"Fair enough. I've never quite cared for wearing shoes. I like to wear as much as I can without wearing very much at all, if that makes sense. Getting as close to nudity as possible without anyone else noticing. The shocking thing is most people never really notice the shoes or the lack thereof. Now what's your excuse?"

Although his face never changed, he'd tuned out a few seconds after "Fair"

His train of thought went like this: Is that a seam on this girl's arm_probably_that's weird_there are a lot of weird things out there,Perch_yeah but that's all subjective, Perch_still there has to be some kind of international spectrum_what difference does it make, man? It's all pretty weird if you ask me_No one asked you._Who even are you?_You._Oh. Hm. Neat.
OOC: Meanwhile, EVERYONE else in the tavern stood completely still.
Model 002 -- ALICE

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Format and better ref art to be made later

The doll listened, fragmented encryptions fleeting across her gaze slowly, like crawling ants.

Never cared for wearing shoes. Wear as much without wearing much. Get close to nudity, unnoticed. Shocking. People. Notice.

"What's your excuse?"

She blinked, then looked down at her feet, rocking her weight back onto her heels loosely before coming forward on her toes.

I don't own any. The doll looked up, very as-a-matter-of-factly as she grinned again. Of course her reason was the same as his, if Alice wanted a pair of shoes she'd just gnaw off someone's ankles for them, but could being a little playful really hurt?

Her smile faded and she looked past him, something invisible catching her eye. Her lips parted and she held her breath just a moment, to hear something that was not there.

Oh good -- I was afraid he'd stood me up...

The freaks were closing in.

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It was funny what being in a conversation was like.

The rush, the overwhelming sensation that accented the overall feeling when you're hanging out with friends and having a fast and blurry exchange of thoughts, emotions, ideas, and interests in a rapid succession. It was amazing just how much activity went on when the brain was in a conversation with someone as the subconscious and conscious mind went into overdrive with all sorts of motives, questions, thought recollections, and ideas.

What happened, of course, was the sort of bubble effect that seemed to go on when you were in a conversation. You closed off your perceptions to the rest of the world and narrowed it on to one person, or a select amount of people, and have a sort of blind eye to the rest of the tavern. Indeed everyone else seemed to stand still.

Yet that wasn't obviously the case. Many great, and paranoid, rulers of this world understood all too well that when they were distracted-even with sleep- the world did not stop. There was all sorts of chaos happening and evil men who plotted to kill you, perhaps even in their dreams while you dream yourself. Isn't that a sort of queer thought? Imagining a dozen sleeping bodies all resting so silently yet dreaming of plotting and killing people they could just as easily be sleeping next to.

In Perch's case, drinking next to.

A man began to vomit uncontrollably as soon as Alice seemed to call out into thin air as if she herself was crazy. No, this wasn't a demon that was the product of a mind left too unfastened with reality but the actual real world demon that she welcomed into her every day life. Nothing but delight surely would come to her heart as she alone was able to view the spectral possession of the man who had began yacking but only a few seats away from Perch.

WHAT THE ******** IS THAT?!, a lady would shout out in pure disgust. That sort of sound which one would but to expect to hear when they pull out there pecker who they can't be proud of. Her eyes betrayed such tones as they were beginning to become overwhelmed with fear. The dark pupils of her eyes turning into larger abysses of anxiety.

His vomit was black in color, almost like a sludge one would expect from crude oil. His hands were white knuckling the tavern bar across the wood so tightly you could almost hear the bones crack against themselves. Heave after heave, another sludge would come out onto the counter top and create a nice wet slap across the puddle forming underneath him. He was speechless, dumb founded, and he could feel the mind of another being scratching at his consciousness like a vice grip adorn with nails.

I've never left you out to dry, my dear. Dear god, was the tar speaking?! It's amazing how foul the souls of people in such establishments are. Just.....scum The man spat out another heap of black tar onto the table...and it began to form a face.

Sorry I got a little carried away
]Ya know, you're probably one of my best friends, and I'm not even sure if it's healthy to be aware of you!_Healthy schmealthy, Perch, no one knows the dif-who's 'at guy?dif-dif-no one knows the differencenooneknowsthedifference

One of the taverns patrons let loose his wonderful little love note to the whore of a bar he was currently straddling. The love note was in the shape of a daftly shaped man. That guys pretty cool. That set off an entirely new chain of thought

Jesus, d'joo see that?_Of course I saw that._I wonder if that guy's mom knows he throws up on bars in taverns._Write her a letter._I bet I could kill that guy._I bet you could too. A man with a bush crawling out of his a** just evaded the police by hiding behind a Hum-V_I bet I could kill that guy, and rape this lady walking in front of the tavern. All these people are trusting me. They left their houses today subconsciously trusting that I wouldn't rape and kill them. Their mothers woke up trusting that their children wouldn't vomit onto bars while I look at them wondering what it'd feel like to kill them.
It is only when one has the power to end life do they realize they have the power to create it.
"It is only when one has the power to end life do they realize they have the power to create it."

Perch did that. He'd think something then voice it in order to solidify it. It was like giving birth to an idea just like that man had given birth to that other man. And it all happened because he hadn't noticed a little hole in the wall for so long.
Model 002 -- ALICE

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Format and better ref art to be made later

The doll seemed to have some sort of sick release when the man at the bar began vomiting, a release that drove a giggle from her throat. She looked at Perch, amused, and pretended to shove her own finger down her throat, then make a gagging motion before she burst into laughter once more.

"I've never left you out to dry, my dear."

A synthetic heart went pitter-patter, sending blood, oil, coolant, all manners of toxicity up through her body. She took a few steps forward, towards the vomiting man, and glided her cool fingertips along his forehead, brushing the hair from his trembling eyes.

You can't bend your crooked arms or fold your punctured proof.
The air is growing cold and there's nothing you can do

You hear that? You're scum.

How could such a mockery of nature have a mothers smile, the way Alice did?

He lurched forward and vomited again, and Alice heard Perch mumble something, but it was lost as she reached forward to the fast-forming face on the bar top. The sick, glistening onyx muck was almost reflective enough to bother her. She dipped the tips of her slender digits in and let them splay before lifting her hand and feeling the muck string down, clinging to her milky flesh. Like ink splattered across a blank canvas.

Soon there'll be no gauze, inside the confessional.
Only rows of crows, defrocking every breath.

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The girl Perch had been talking to was gone now; engrossed in the vomit/person that had just crawled out of the performer's mouth. Perch liked this vomiting man. Not only did he wretch up a human being, or what appeared to be a human being, but he also managed to change the color of the entire tavern. It was like being on an amusement park ride; it wasn't like spinning around or getting whipped in every direction at once, it was an entirely new experience; a state of mind; an entirely new dynamic. And this man was doing that for everyone. Creating another key-frame.

She went over and dipped her fingers in the bile. She could do that. She was in control of herself.

That's so amazing._What about it?_She can just do that. She has the will to do that. She can do whatever she wants._No one has to do anything

"No one has to do anything."

No...it is not until you've lost that you can value creating...., the ooze would begin to speak once again but now at Perch. The fact that it was speaking without any vocal chords gave indication to the greater power of what kind of monster it was that was on the table. He was an entity, a being who was capable of projecting itself and it's thoughts out across the room to be heard. The power to end the life you created....but only comes instantly after.

The ooze was dipped and dabbed by the ever eager Alice. Her King had arrived and she was all too excited to play with him and receive all the new commands he would beckon to give. There would be a warm touch to the goop, a vibration that felt not too unlike the throat of screaming women as you choke them. It was something that could only be felt as a welcoming motion to someone as sick as Fetch.

The man? Through out this he was dry heaving, his eyes fixated in horror at how some people were taking this as normal. At least he was alive, right?

Wrong. It was as if Fetch had heard the man's thoughts before the goop would come upwards towards the mans face. The black tar sizzled at his skin, eating it by the touch and it looked just about how painful as one would expect if Venom from The Amazing Spiderman tried to latch onto your heart and soul. It was a sad metaphor, even a little lame for Fetch himself, to have your sins purged out of your soul and used to devour you.

Yet, Fetch's darker side indulged itself in such disgusting traits.

There would be twisting noises, horrific screams and blood curdling cries as the mans fingers attacked his own face. At first he went for the goop, but then he just gave up at that and thought he was going to have to peel off his own face in order to get it off him. He pulled off chunks of flesh from the tar and threw them across the room, even on Perch's lap, before finally seizing and collapsing within his chair on a still writhing mess.

The left eye opened, a smile formed.

Have you lost enough to understand the values of your own soul? Fetch asked Perch with his face laid against the table. He was a horrible conglomerate of the now dead man and a black tar that was oozing atop his face. It held all the facial structures of Fetch yet was just simply not the mans face......it was a mask. ......or am I going to have to create another little monster?
Model 002 -- ALICE

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Format and better ref art to be made later

For them, this was just another day in the neighborhood. The man stumbled around, trying to rip the ink from the page.

Come, now. We all know you can't do that.

Alice rubbed her fingers together slowly, the vibration spreading through her with a pleasant thrum, and there was an intoxicated look in her eye as she turned, smiled back at Perch. Lost in a dream, this life she'd chosen.

Funny how the tar didn't seem to send her writhing and screaming the way this man now suffered.
Was it because she trusted her Shepard with her life?

[short post is short ): ]

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This man was writhing in pain. Perch noticed how big a deal this vomit was for him. This was an experience he'd remember. He left his home, his wife and kids, thinking he'd share a few stories with the dragon of a bar and call it a night. Wrong. He was wrong. He hadn't expected it and he was wrong. He was beautiful. He was the most beautiful thing in the world. He was an alpha to one thing and an omega to another. Perch wanted to be a part of this violent, spinning disaster. He loved it so much that it mad him sick.

I want to get closer to that._So do it._How?_You know how._I know how.

"I know how."

Use that free will you've been blabbering about so much.

That was what separated the sane from the lunatics. The sane never understood their potential. This man was a sacrifice. This man whatever had just come out of his mouth's work of art and Perch wanted to be a part of it. He wanted it to bleed. He wanted red.

Perch had always liked the idea of breaking something on someone. Something that was crafted. A chair or a vase. The stool broke on the man's head a lot easier than he'd expected. In that moment he'd had a lot more power over that man and everyone in that bar than they even knew. There was red and there was a yell. That felt very arousing.

Perch let out a sigh of relief. That was the most beautiful thing he'd ever done with his life.

If that was the back of my head I'd take offense...., the now mangled body has a pretty nice dent on the back of it's head. Blood poured out and down, trickling and mixing with the black tar that adorned it's face and created a small pool against its own face as it rested against the bar. It was but then that Fetch would beckon the body to obey his commands, regardless of how alive it was.

With a cracking and mangled twitch it would lift itself up onto the stool. The stiffness of the actions vaguely resembled that of the strings which tugged at him. It was impossible for the man to be alive. He had pulled at his own face, suffered severe burns, and you now could see his brain from the back of his head thanks to a bar stool gifted by Perch.

Now.....a Monster who never shares his thoughts is the worst kind....a boring one. The mask was moving, forcing the lips and the rest of the body to move beneath it. For Perch it was an unfamiliar face pushing against the tar, for Alice it was the face of God in the tar pit. Share with us more your thoughts or I'll be forced to have pretty little Alice...

His hand came up to her shoulders, a finger raising up towards her face and stroking it gently.

[******** your face in with a wrench strap-on. He didn't have one of those, he could make one if need be.
Model 002 -- ALICE

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Format and better ref art to be made later

The blissful look on Alice's face, caused by the tar, was quickly gone when Perch smacked Fetch [or the body Fetch currently occupied] with a stool. A deadly gaze rolled to him and locked on, targeting him like the war machine she was.

She likes games, but more than that she liked Fetch.

"If that was the back of my head I'd take offense...."

His reaction was favorable, and the doll rolled her neck slowly, alloy snaps rippling through the air. The symmetry of things was maintained by controlled chaos.

A system of checks...

"Share with us more of your thoughts or I'll be forced to have pretty little Alice..."

and balances.

[******** your face in with a wrench strap-on.

His fingers glided along the china dolls jaw and she kept her eyes on Perch, a gaze that didn't need to break for blinks, a gaze that never grew tired.

Make my face sparkle with fame
Master of the machines

Alice's fingers lifted to her parted lips and a pink tongue curled forward to collect the dripping pitch, the smile wiped clean from her maw.

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