A multi-sim science-fiction espionage roleplay adventure within Second Life®
Arriving after a Hurried Departure
Dusk had fallen over Winterfell, and a slow evening breeze brought the smell of Middlesea rolling over the gentle hills. The tips of late-summer grain tilted and waved in the field as a deep purple sky rose in the east.
A crack louder than thunder and a bright flash of light interrupted the calm summer eve, snapping the air with an electric whip of lightning and an instant smell of ozone. The ground and a nearby tree seemed to bulge for a second, distorted in a shimmering ball, and then then flash and buzz revealed the arrival of some kind of machine. Once the disruption and distortion cleared, small trails of smoke drifted off the machine into the night air.
The machine was both dark metal and bright metal. A dark metal disk-shaped base with four copper-wound arms extending up to hold a glowing half dome formed the main structure of the machine. In the center was some kind of metal chair and control console. A belch of steam issued from the machine's base, and a figure stumbled from out of the chair and into the field, looking about as if for attackers. Finding none, the figure collapsed at the base of the tree.
The figure was broad-shouldered with muscular arms, dressed in thick-cloth black pants, a dirty and torn ivory long-sleeved shirt, and a black leather vest. Though the figure was short - barely over 5' - his face was lined with experience and his green eyes held an intensity of spirit and fire. His short red hair - what of it the receding hairline had left behind, anyway - was smoking every so slightly.
The figure coughed and laid back for a few moments, his breathing going from huffing to a more normal pace. The silence of the night was reassuring. No one had coming running in alarm, no one was shooting at him, and there were no planes searching or dropping charges from overhead.
He had escaped.
He rose up as if his legs were sore and his back was stiff, muttering to himself something about getting too old for this kind of thing. Rolling his head around and cracking his neck, he pulled from his vest some papers that held diagrams and blueprints and walked over to the machine.
He opened a panel under the main console to reveal a set of tools neatly clipped into place on the panel door and inside the metal cabinet. He selected a screwdriver and went to work removing the floor panel nearest the front of metal chair.
As he poked around inside the base of the machine, he referred to the blueprints and diagrams. Once in a while he'd lift head and look around for people or animals, and then return to tinkering.
Had you been standing there, you'd have heard him say in an Irish accent, "Blast, the chronomatic field regular is blown. Not only do I need to fix that, " and he grunted a bit as he stood up. He pulled a cigar from his vest and lit it, puffing several times.
"But I also have to figure when in the hell I am."
A crack louder than thunder and a bright flash of light interrupted the calm summer eve, snapping the air with an electric whip of lightning and an instant smell of ozone. The ground and a nearby tree seemed to bulge for a second, distorted in a shimmering ball, and then then flash and buzz revealed the arrival of some kind of machine. Once the disruption and distortion cleared, small trails of smoke drifted off the machine into the night air.
The machine was both dark metal and bright metal. A dark metal disk-shaped base with four copper-wound arms extending up to hold a glowing half dome formed the main structure of the machine. In the center was some kind of metal chair and control console. A belch of steam issued from the machine's base, and a figure stumbled from out of the chair and into the field, looking about as if for attackers. Finding none, the figure collapsed at the base of the tree.
The figure was broad-shouldered with muscular arms, dressed in thick-cloth black pants, a dirty and torn ivory long-sleeved shirt, and a black leather vest. Though the figure was short - barely over 5' - his face was lined with experience and his green eyes held an intensity of spirit and fire. His short red hair - what of it the receding hairline had left behind, anyway - was smoking every so slightly.
The figure coughed and laid back for a few moments, his breathing going from huffing to a more normal pace. The silence of the night was reassuring. No one had coming running in alarm, no one was shooting at him, and there were no planes searching or dropping charges from overhead.
He had escaped.
He rose up as if his legs were sore and his back was stiff, muttering to himself something about getting too old for this kind of thing. Rolling his head around and cracking his neck, he pulled from his vest some papers that held diagrams and blueprints and walked over to the machine.
He opened a panel under the main console to reveal a set of tools neatly clipped into place on the panel door and inside the metal cabinet. He selected a screwdriver and went to work removing the floor panel nearest the front of metal chair.
As he poked around inside the base of the machine, he referred to the blueprints and diagrams. Once in a while he'd lift head and look around for people or animals, and then return to tinkering.
Had you been standing there, you'd have heard him say in an Irish accent, "Blast, the chronomatic field regular is blown. Not only do I need to fix that, " and he grunted a bit as he stood up. He pulled a cigar from his vest and lit it, puffing several times.
"But I also have to figure when in the hell I am."
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1 Comment
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Comment by Zoe Connolly on June 11, 2009 at 11:22pm
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All I can say is: please keep these post coming, sir!
This is great stuff!
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