Current Residence: Immediately behind you.|
Shell of choice: Electron
Personal Quote: "Ha! No."
New Houston: The Morning StarNew Houston is a broken city in its soul; it gives the indistinct sensation of past disaster. A visitor has the itching notion that if they could shut out the noise and neon, look past the walls, they would see evidence of cataclysmic ruin. As if they could see the streets from far enough away, from enough height, they would see the bowl of a volcanic caldera in the geography. Or perhaps that the flagstones of the shops, crowded so tight the walls scream, conceal the bones of a city razed to dust. It's geography doesn't do the tourist industry any favors, a few too many bayous that run black, too little foliage of the non-plastic variety.New Houston: The Morning Star by Isengim
The port-side half of the city was every bad dream Vegas had ever had, and everything Revolutionary Paris proved to be. Daylight there is a rumor, a cultural myth alongside mermaids and the Chupacabra. Vietnamese is the lingua franca, shot through with fragments of pure Texan. Xuống y'all.
The dockside visitor has much to contend with: the stenc
Phoenicia I It wasn't that violence made him itchy, but his muscles did ache afterwards. Adrenaline crash, someone had once told him, a grinding of chemical gears. No issue, but he did feel odd, rubbing a kink out of his neck while pointing the pistol with the other. He certainly felt he was losing traction with the hostages, and that annoyed him. He hadn't counted on the local police dragging their heels, or certain federal agencies pecking over the situation like competitive vultures.Phoenicia I by Isengim
All that was left for him was the wait, and the furtive glares of hostages. In truth, he regretted much of what was happening. The last few years had been good ones. He'd had a good job, and dependable friends. But if all went well, Mickey Kincaid would be another dead alias, obsolete. Mickey, who had recently come over from Ireland with certain connections and a reputation in small circles. Mickey, with the shy smile, who popped his knuckles compulsively, and could sing the Irish nation
The WallIt was when we lost contact with Voyager 1 that it began. We lost Voyager 2 and the Pioneers sometime later. They’d been streaming anemic flows of data for decades, barely above background solar radiation. Then they just stopped. We had ways of tracking what happened, of course, a legion of eyes, parabolic dishes to point towards the heavens. They had quite literally, just stopped. As if they’d hit something, the satellites had rebounded in pieces from their paths. We were of course, aghast. Decades of work, and mankind’s farthest flung achievements had become bugs on a windscreen, solar dust. There was despair at legacies crushed, rage at imagined incompetence, and above all else: wonder. What had happened? How could this be explained, multiple satellites on different courses all being destroyed? What in God’s name could have happened?The Wall by Isengim
We had our first clue when some brilliant number-cruncher proved that all the satellites had stopped, crashed, at the same rang