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The World of Tomorrow?

Welcome to the 22nd century, where nothing is what it seems. Vampires stalk the earth with the little nanobots in their blood. Humans can become anything they wish with the help of technology. It has come to a point where machinery and magic are one and the same, for one can accomplish the other. This future is far from pleasant, for though much is available for the rich, the poor still suffer.

Welcome to Earth, year 2151.

((Because Nyla insisted: "Hez guys! Howz aboot's swingin' some booty my way, yarr?"))

Schwoooooom. Quothe the big-a** starship that was really just joyriding, skimming the tops of the taller buildings just to piss people off. But hey, who complains to a melodramatic supervillian, the Dread Lord Mouthwash, bristling proverbially with all sorts of nasty weapons? Certainly not a normal man.

But, this was the story of Limeman. (And Lemonlad, should you be nitpicky.)

He moseyed on down the North side of town derelict building looming on the left and right, completely aware of why it had been abandoned. Alas, it was a hero's job to patrol the city's asscrack in the vain hope of encountering someone in peril. Which, he bemused, happened more often than not. Ever since the Dread Lord Mouthwash unleashed the nuklear vampires, even harmless garden slugs became horrid, repulsive, and downright unsightly little buggers. Then, all of a sudden:

"Oh forsooth, I beg of a hero!" quothe the damsel.

"Golly gee Limeman! I wonder if she's in distress?" Quote the energetic, young, and blue-furred companion of Limeman, further known as Lemonlad. 'Companion'... maybe that was a poor choice of words. Insinuate as you will.

"Yes, quickethly as well, for I am in distress!" quote the damsel. "Well, that just about clinches it. Onward!

She was wearing a dress apparently on loan from the twelve-hundreds, arm across forehead in atypical fashion. She reclined on a rock, woozy with the crushing burden of danger, slug monster raising itself in an arc to strike. The horrid creature had but one gaping maw, toothless and vast, like a wretched gaping va-*Cough* the size of a hallway. A thick stream of viscous saliva dripped from the top lip to the bottom, swaying to and fro in the gasping breaths of this godforsaken abomination. (I know what you are thinking Gentlemen, a creature as poorly anatomically designed as so it's only source of life-giving oxygen is also the orifice it must paradoxically consume it's nourishment? Nuklear Power is to blame. DOWN WITH ZEE EET BEET THEATRE!) Through it's bulging varicose vein pumped not blood like you or I, not liquefied cholesterol like Micheal Moore, not sheer mouth-refreshing evil like the DL Mouthwash, no, but nanomachines. Also, should it even occur to one to search for this creature's eye so as they could greet the monster face-to-face, they would find them perpetually slanted in an eternal eye-frown, glowering red with sheer Vampirism.

Then, when all looked grim and the weaker stomachs look away lest the giblets upset their frail psyche, and once the dramatic music reached an instrumental crescendo, the soundtrack immediately cut to alternative country rock, and all of a sudden *Chick-chick, Kabloomers*, the sweet melody of a shotgun rang out, like silver bells afore Christmas. The slug thing (ran out of monster synonyms) jerked its head back, already dissolving into harmless tap-water, damsel gleeful with relief.

Yes, dramatically pan camera up from feet to face, among currents of mysteriously well-placed fog we see LimeMan re-entering the scene, and flashy, sexy, fashionable, and downright snazzy superhero suit (of Doom, beeyotches) walking forward dramatically, weapon in hand. The 12-gauge double-barreled Remington. S-Mart's top of the line. You can find this in the sporting goods department. That's right, this sweet baby was made in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Retails for about $109.95. It's got a walnut stock, cobalt blue steel, and a hair trigger. (That's right. Shop smart.)

Limeman then proceeds to give the completely helpless and submissive damsel a hand up, and winks at the camera suggestively. Such is the power of Limeman. Then, up came Lemonlad, who had hung back in the distance, lest his comic shenanigans detract from all the badassery in the other scene. He carried a rather large pack, for it was his job to remove all that nasty, dangerous buckshot from the shells and put in the ever so lethal -yet nature friendly- rocksalt.

"Golly geeze whipperz dayam, LimeMan, that was completly awesome!!" quote the energetic young lad. Limeman embraced the boy 'round the lads shoulders with a single arm, looking at the sunset. "Yes, yes it was." quote the hero. After a minute or two it became apparent there was pressure being applied to the young Ronso's back, the reason more apparent as the lad was forced to his knees, gaining a far-off, glazed look in his eyes, knowing and resigned to his fate.

Which won't ever be discussed ever. Alas, it's as far as LimeMan ever gets. He glanced down at the strapping young boy approvingly, and for more than one reason. He saw the potential in the (Unf!) boy. He knew that one day, once LemonLad matured into LemonMan, he would proceed farther and (Oh! My...) deeper into the renown path of lechery than Limeman could ever dream. It was his duty to stroke and caress this (Mmm...) potential into a glorius blossom of a soul, fit to pursue (OH GOD YES) his duty.

Yes. Dread Lord Mouthwash shall fall. The henious Tropical punch shall be eraticated. The giant caniverous slugs shall either be exterminated, or go the more politically correct route and never mention their fate, ever, so as to avoid reprocusions from Greenpeace and the like. Nuklear power and weaponry shall be abolished once MGS is spread around, and everyone shall live happily ever after. And, once LimeMan has grown old and been juiced and sold for a dollar in a humorusly lime-shaped squeezy bottle, it will pass to LemonMan to uphold their legacy.

And lo, the damsel did lift one of her dainty fingers, capped by the most exquisitely filed nail one ever did see, and didth truely point upon Limeman, her fine, almost impercepably thin eyebrow raised in alarm. "Dearest rescuer, I do thanketh thyself from the very depths of the well that is my heart, but I must inquire, is *that* not a crime know as ped-" the damsel began to quothe, but she was interrupted by a most hasty "Hey, wanna join our posse?" from the impetous lad, whom was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, to which raised of her a shrug and "Meh." from the princess.

It was good enough for Limeman. "TO THE LIMEMOBILE!" he proclaimed, digging into his legendary repritoire for his amulet of all caps. And lo, the group came upon the fabled limemobile. Imangine if you will, a limosine. Now, crossbreed it with a Ferrari. The long, slick, narrow mule of a result would begin to describe the limemobile. It was a glossy light green, but alas, trunkspace was virtually nill. Therefore, in the name of carrying all the thousands of rounds any hero can be expected to expend, he had two sidecars attached to either end of the rear of the vehicle. Quite snazzy. All three of them made eye-contact, began humming a very lound and simple looping theme, and took of running, jumping in their respective seats throught the lowered windows.

Fortunatly, the Colossus of Chaotic Cretins was just down the street, on the South side of the city. Sure, he could have stormed the citadel anytime in the past seven years he'd lived here, but he'd had no female lead, and he wasn't about to take his chances with whomever was waiting around to be rescued inside that dreary place. Things went rather smoothly, actually. Traffic was pretty good, considering the whole 'Wreckage strewn everywhere in post-apocylptic world ravaged by supervillan Vampires" thing. He wasn't even worried when the starship swung around for another pass, (Tropical Punch had most likely been schmoking zee reefer at the helm again, and if that was the case then she was undoubtedly refering to herself as Grand Kaiser-Protector Warlord of the Most Noble Kindgom of Revelry, Third Fated Daughter of the Cosmic Rays, and Eternal Imperial Leige and Soverign (May She live Forever) again.

Was not bothered by it, that is, until a huge crimson bean lanced out from behind him to strike the ship. He twisted around competly in slow motion, and saw an AT-AT of all things. And then as a rather lare fireball shot towards the mis-continuitied vessel, he recognized the starship as well, it was a SC Battlecruiser! HoNoes! Still driving one handed, he reached back and asked of his female lead, "Shotgun, bizatch!" and clasped his hand around the firm, cool object that was handed forward. Only once he cradled it in his lap did he notice it was now a walkie-talkie. He shot a glance at the flippant lass behind him, attempting to divine wether or not it was a joke.

Her icy gaze met his before she shifted it to the At-At once more, and as Limeman joined her regarding the machine, his heart nearly froze.

That was no model. It was a fully-operational CG!

Well, at least it was, anyway. Both battle machines were wrecked, the At-At tripping and partially obscuring the road on the right, Battlecruiser losing altitude and crashing into it's foe, partially obscuring the left. A rapidly closing convex triangle between the two masses of metal was the only exit, buildings on either side preventing swerving off, going to fast to stop. There was only one way out. Limelad saw this two, and excitedly exclaimed "Ramming speed, Captian!"

He lost valuable time when he took his hand off the gearshift to punch Lemonlad, but should they survive it's imperative he learn never to say that again.

*Crunch* quothe the metals of all three objects colliding. The limemobile was doing it's best to force it's way through, tires squelching as the craft deftly slid further and further into salvation. But, in an ungodly stroke of luck a coolant vessel broke along the hull of the starship, spraying the limemobile in bright red coolant. Now properly lubricated, the craft slipped through (sans sidecars, of course) and everyone sighed in relief as penetration was achieved.

Then, everyone took back their sigh of relief, making a very odd sound, for on the other side Dread Lord Mouthwash had marched out to meet them. He was flanked on either side by his cronies: the wry and deadly Madame Flossy, the pudgy and abrasive Sir Toothpase, and the nefariously skinny yet feared man known only as 'Pick'. Them, and the thousand or so cannon-fodder faceless men in helmets, but Limeman didn't worry, he was practically immune to them. Hero's lisence, and whatnot.

Things were grim. He had no pockets on his tights, a curse that had bitten him time and time again, but not until now did he truely regret being such a shining beacon of fashion. Lemonlad had naught but his powers of comic relief, combined with his 'Jailbait' aura, something not commonly found in Ronso youth, the very factor that hinged his acceptance into the Lime-cademy. Damsel had a very nice chest. So, she was guarenteed to come off scot-free, give or take the condition of her garment at the end of the battle.

Lemonlad was raged by an internal conflict. For you see, long ago had he turned to the bottle (of Listrine) to ease the oral woes of his tuition, and now a being composed of the very liquid he lavished in stood before him, one that all sense of duty said he should smite. He caressed the container in his pocket, eyes shut, trying to dertermine what to do. Who was his friend. Why Kimuri Elder had a beard. Why the limemobille vaugely reminded him of something, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what. The boy was encoumpassed by the feeling that what he was about to say was on the tip of his toung, but alas, he couldn't recall it.

All sound effects and inner monologue cut away. Only the dramatic music prevailed as the two groups advanced slowly upon one another. Thousands of Bristle-troopers cocking their tubes of toothpaste. Our heros readying their extensive repritoire of martial arts techniques for the fight.

Then, the first blow was struck by HO NOES I JUST RAN OUT OF WORDS GOD DAMN

Scarecrow rolled over on her cot, only to be faced with her lover. He wasn't the person she wanted to talk to at the moment, she just needed to relax. "Sorry Cam," she whispered into his ear, before brushing a strand of purple hair out of his eyes. She sighed deeply, and rolled off the cot, landing on all fours.

The FREAKS-girl was having some difficulty this morning adjusting. 'You'd think I'd be used to this after 50 years...' she thought grumpily to herself. But today especially she was having some racial difficulties. She swiftly got dressed, making no effort to fix her rumpled orange hair, which had been cut short only a week ago. Hair that once ran down her back, now rested comfortably at her shoulders. She ran through the general morning routine that controlled her at this time of the morning. To her it was little more than a dance: practiced, repeated, and now perfected. There were few mistakes made, and there was little room for change.

Coming down to the ship's mess, she looked around, knowing all the faces by heart. Those who awoke early were mostly that kind. But the five or so of her own race that lived on the ship were up. They waved to her jovially, even though they seemed surprised she was even up at this hour.

"Hey Crow," yelled one of them, snickering. "What happened to the Handmade? Usually you two come barreling into here at the same time."

"Ha hah. Very funny, Nikita." She scowled at the woman she'd come to call friend, and stuck her long tongue out. The girl moved on to the breakfast table, not that it didn't only contain one item. Blood was the only thing served on this ship, whether it is the nano-kind, or the original. She went straight for the nano-chip blood. If she drank the original, it could kill her.

She tugged uncomfortably at her worn out t-shirt and jeans, both of a plain black color that presented a style. It was one that had succeeded to remain unchanged since the millennia's start. She took a seat next to Nikita, whose baggy shirt revealed her marked shoulder. At the sign of the bite marks, her hand ran to scratch behind her ear for a moment, knowing she'd feel the scar from where the chip had been planted. Seeing this Nikita returned her earlier favor and scowled back at her. "Forget it Scarecrow. We were just kidding around. You're not a cyborg, and Cam is not a Handmade."

She opened the blood-bag, smiling at the woman. "Cam is a 'Handmade', and I am partially a cyborg. You don't have to say anything; I forgave you the moment after you said it." She sniffed the bag's contents, and wondered whose cell-phone had broken for it to be in her blood. She voiced the question aloud, taking a sip of it.

Nikita laughed, loudly at her. "Oh, so that's what they did with it. Mine broke the other day, and they asked me if I wanted it for anything. Glad to know that it's wires are being used for something interesting." Traditionally, nano-vamps, or FREAKS, drink blood with the wires of old electronics in them to keep them running. Literally and figuratively. The wires allowed their chip to keep them alive, and the blood kept their vital organs functioning.
The older woman's red eyes ran up to meet Scarecrows own green, and studied them for a moment. "What does F-R-E-A-K-S stand for again?"

She sighed, knowing the woman asked her this at least once a day. It was part of the dance, and it had even become a custom for her to sigh like that. "Functionally Recessive Early Afternoon Knight Suckers."

The woman's stare was blank, as it was everyday. Her hand scratched the head that was somewhere under that head of black hair. "Meaning...?"

"I'm an artificial vampire."

"Of course you are Crow. And why did you guys get such a complicated name?"

"The creators of the chip just thought that FREAKS sounded like a cool name, and filled in words to fit the letters. No matter how little sense they make."

As Nikita nodded, Cam plopped into the seat next to Scarecrow. He appeared to be still half asleep as he fiddled with the bag's opening. "Why didn't you..." he yawned loudly. "Wake me up before you came down?"

"Because I didn't want this to happen Cam. You're barely even awake." She downed the rest of her blood, and then started to stand, until the sirens began to blast, and white lights flashed. Nikita and the purple haired man did likewise, their eyes flinching in such bright light. "Don't worry. Something's wrong, but they just want to wake up the others."

"Vampires, all vampires. Report to your stations now! This time it's definitely not a drill," a voice called over the intercom. They chuckled, remembering what had happened last time, but continued to run to their stations.

Cam was wearing an outfit similar to Scarecrow's, and as they ran to their "battle stations", both were fishing key cards out of some obscure pants pocket. Scarecrow looked up at him, the man was about a foot taller than her, after all, and gave a fanged grin. He gave a likewise expression, and together they entered the doorways after giving their cards and passwords.

"You know what to do Vamps," called the human janitor. Cam gave her a helmet, jamming his own over his head so that only his red eyes were visible. She did likewise, and sat into one of the fighter seats.

"Why do we wear only helmets, but no other armor again," she asked dutifully.

"Dunno," he replied. All part of the routine of course. But only on days where they were called to battle stations.

"All gun-men," said the intercom voice. "Stay on guard. Our landing site has been obscured by a rogue civilization. I repeat, stay on guard while we get out of here. We don't know what could meet us up here."

Scarecrow turned to her left, and saw Nikita waving wildly through the window. It was two Vampires to a gun turret, disregarding whether they were an organic Vampire or not. Her green eyes ran from the woman who'd Turned at 30, to the man next to her, who'd been Turned at 27. He grinned down at her, giving a wave as though she were much younger than he. Even though it was true, she still resented it. She got different treatment by others for many reasons: because she was a FREAKS 'Pire, because she was a woman, and because she'd been turned at 15. She'd fought hard to get herself an alright job, know matter what the rules said.

"Ready... FIRE!"

She knew the call wasn't for her, but she was still surprised as something that was obviously combustible was dropped onto the city. "Alright," Cam yelled. He was excited, he did after all, love explosions.

"Pilots, let's get this ship out of here," the metallic voice called, as the ship rose higher.

Scarecrow and Cam pulled off their helmets, and put them back into their holders. Cam picked her up, bringing her to easily meet his lips as she was much shorter than him. The kiss lasted, momentarily, but the effects would last all day.

She knew they would. Her life on this ship was a dance with no particular order, and it hadn't ended for the moment by landing in three years.

[ Message temporarily off-line ]

crying I'll work on that. Stupid... symbol-y... thingies...

It's actually not a big deal that those symbols are there. They are a byproduct of how MSWord works handles fonts as opposed to Gaia. If you want to lessen the effect, copy and paste everything you type out of Word and into notepad. Save that in a plain fost, like Ariel or Gill Sans, or any other non formatted kind of font. Then copy onto Gaia. This gets rid of all the strange marks. smile

First Place: Flirtatious Flare
Second Place: KitsuneSam
Third Place: KypDuron

Thank you very much for everyone's participation. You all get cookies. Those of you getting prizes, the trades are on their way. smile

Thank you also to Nylamie for her opinion on this.

Jeremiah BrightWaters