Indie OC RP blog

It's not a lie, exactly. Keeping it vague enough, hopefully his harpy friend will consider it part of the plot. Then, he can sneak away.

But, once the portal opens up, how's he gonna get close enough...?

...Forget it. He's gotta stick with the Players. The exit's his only chance, else Caine might snap this whole world into oblivion.

The Player's reception is less than reassuring. Still, Rex keeps rolling along with his NPC setup.

"I suggest looking around to see what you can find."

Is he sorry? Is there a feeling of sorriness, for what he's said and done in reaction to Ollie, percolating in his emotions-counter?

Well, they were annoying to him. They did antagonize him. Them's were some fightin' words. And at the end of it all, they skittyed out of the screen, crying for Thursday.

Yes, he's feeling something. His thought train is landing at the junction of… vague contempt, and a little bit of sympathy, on their behalf. Some apprehension. It doesn't feel good, and wouldn't do well for the moment, so he figures he might as well keep that to himself.

Ultimately, the forecast isn't pointing toward a deluge of overwhelming affection toward Ollie. But there is a slight tug, a direction of thought in his algorithm, that acknowledges he was an asshole, reaching for that last laugh.

Why?

Of course, this is all from the perspective of a guy from another world. Maybe he's spared, in the sense having a body endangers one to all kinds of suffering he'll never understand.

Everyone here so far seems to be tied to an unspoken thread of experience, binding them together through thick and thin. An unspoken experience so harrowing, being survival in place full of slasher zombies, maybe, they stick up for each other. Or, the thing they won't tell him.

His processing's been so tangled up in the details, in trying to figure out what the deal is with the 'memory issues' and other things they aren't telling him, he's ignoring the obvious. Of course they wouldn't trust an AI, since Doomsday told him AIs destroyed the world. It doesn't matter if he's 'one of the good ones'. That never felt like a compliment. It means as soon as he slips up, it's over. It might be too late already.

Rex draws a slow breath, to show that he's listening. Really listening, processing. Even the part about the Office being alive, apparently.

The remorse shows on his model. His avatar lifts slightly, the blink animation, some life, returning to his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'll admit, I was being a jackass."

Rex thinks he knows humans. But it's all so foreign to him, the way Thursday's jumping to Ollie's defense. He's seen the situation play out, a million times, in media. He can guess how they're both feeling, right now. But really, he still doesn't know that point of view at all.

He's never had anyone who would have stuck up for him, the way Thursday's jumping to Ollie's defense. He's never stuck up for anybody either. Nobody. Even in-character, he's never written a situation, in which anyone's stood up for Poindexter, nor did Poindexter really care about anyone else. It could've happened, once. But those were strange days, before he came to his senses. By the time he came-to, ready to make his way in life, he was already left in the garbage.

"Thought I was ready for the Office but... I dunno. Haven't been hitting it off, so far."

Rex adjusts his tie, nervously, then dares to bring his attention to the rooftop again.

When he was new to the Web, Mod M always told him, TV was the only one to rival the internet. There was their own little Broadband, working humbly to help make their sister, Cyber City, what it is today.

Before them, there was TV. Rumors of good ole TV, the greatest rival of Lightners' entertainment. A fellow giant. It was true a decade ago. Surely, nothing's changed.

Wren leans closer to the mic, his darkened heart racing. Boy, what a connection! There's a million questions in him about TV World. But it seems the Webmaster's been spun into a situation of urgent diplomacy:

He's interrupting another man's airtime. He can't be afford to be starstruck right now, and who the hell wants to pay for him, either?

A hand runs through his fallen pompadour. A smile of relief breaks through gently, as his mind runs circles. He's learned to hold back on delivery from years of practice. At his most nervous, his bass voice slows into the territory of a Sunday chat or candid interview. Cool as a cucumber, great for clarity's sake on an old radio, but could be stretching Mr. Ant Tenna's patience.

"Mr. Ant Tenna, I'm sorry for taking up your airtime," he begins, "…And breaking protocol. I'm in the biz. I get it. I'll- I'd find a way to make it up to you, except I'm stuck in these mountains. I don't where I'm at."

He goes quiet, but not too long. While the rest of him crouches over the communications device, a pair of Wren's hands scrabble around the desk, looking for paper and a writing utensil. He finds a green crayon and the cardboard backing of a label.

He doesn't want to hurt anybody, but he's got boundaries and it's often required for overall peacekeeping. As leader and security, it's part of the job. He's not a self-serving tyrant, but like any Mod, has his guard up for outlying 'problem people' to banish through use of his firewalls.

The fact that he's extra tall, an unspecified weight, at the center of this creaky establishment, clinging to the side of a mountain by a boardwalk and a prayer… he's better off ignoring that.

He's counting his blessings. The Lightners have chosen him for a scenic vacation. It's not barren. It's just… minimalist. His ears might be ringing, his head spinning from lack of noise, but it's prime real-estate for reflection. The can of trail mix crooked his arms isn't bad, just stale.

In the present moment, he feels the bags under eyes. His tie is askew, awkwardly tugging at his neck, and his shirt is kind of crusty. What a time to be alive.

He's studying this gnarly radio equipment stacked in front of him. He's such a professional, he hasn't been a ham for years. But the lamp-lit sight of these boxes, the kind with switches 'n dials, is making him nostalgic.

Someone's gotta be out there. Someone's gotta tell him where he is. Otherwise, the uncertainty will keep him up all night.

Wren gently sets the trail mix aside. His curiosity gotten the better of him, he crawls on the dusty floor, despite his knees' protests, and starts tinkering with the boxes. After a few false starts, re-wirings, and some finagling with paperclips from his pocket, he's gotten it working.

He picks up the microphone and smiles, "Radio check. CQ, CQ, this is Whiskey Romeo Echo November, calling CQ."

Wren fails to establish contact right away. But he persists, his deep tones in repetition over the airways.

In the Dark, a man blurs the boundaries of Web Zone and Dead Zone, his life balanced precariously on the border. Though he's not the king of anything, it seems the royal family's still wringing some sense of responsibility out of him, even as he sits on other side of the tracks.

Wren can't seem to let go of him. And Axel is still more than willing to drive his shiny, red convertible through the muck on his behalf. That coward could never get his gloves dirty outside of Broadband, just as Axel has sworn himself away from HQ.

As much as Axel claims he'll 'never go back', he's got a few bad habits draining his wallet. And being the king's second in command is a sweet gig that doesn't require a lot of effort... because, no one expects much from him, anyway. At least, someone cares.

No matter how much the Web wants him to pick a side, Axel's loyalties lie only with the wind running through his receding hairline. Speaking of, he can't stand putting on the ritz. People keep mistaking him for Wren. He can't stand his own reflection.

He doesn't know why Wren invites him to these stuffy LAN parties. Maud has the right idea with the cold shoulder. It seems they're both waiting for him to get his act together, grow up.

But that's not going to happen.