Radikal Noise

Sunday, July 5, 2009

The King of England Is No Longer Able to Walk About Your House

July playlist omgeese omgander omgoose.

FOR YOU NERDS NOT ON IRC WATCHING KOREAN NAMED S2 WITH ME:

http://app.gomtv.com/gompack/GOMPACKSETUP.EXE <<=== DOWNLOAD

1) Install and ignore all language pack shit, you need everything but gomaudio I think
2) Load up gomplayer dealie, use the >> arrows at the bottom, scroll 4ish screens till you see The Named S2 (it's a UD)
3) Click on the vids to watch, use the blue text for LQ so sound actually works

FIESTA

Friday, July 3, 2009

I Love IRC (And Why Kach Is a NERD)

Thursday, June 25, 2009

You may be more gay than you think

So I'm off to Cali for the weekend for some gay sex. Actually I'm not, but I will be in SF for gay pride weekend so it should be a weekend abound with dicks. (Probably not pretty ones though)

Michael Jackson died. =(

If you're under 18, touch yourself in his honor 2nite. (2soon?)

There was some "Are you racist?" test on CNN today that told me I had a strong preference for European Americans over African Americans. It also contains this passage:

The scenarios began when the black role-player bumped the white role-player's knee when leaving the room.

In the first scenario, the white person did not comment afterwards. In the "moderate" case, the white person said, "Typical, I hate it when black people do that," after the black person left the room. In the "extreme" case, the white person remarked, "Clumsy n****r."

I think the responses are ludicrous. If some black guy copped a feel on my leg, I'd be calling him a figgernaggot not remarking on how I rather dislike the continued advances of gay black men.

Do people actually take this shit seriously? The story is called "You may be more racist than you think." WTF does that even mean. INSIDE OF YOU, BURIED DEEP, LURKING, IS A RACIST. OMG ITS IN ME. WELL FUCK YOU CNN I LIKE IT. YOU CALLING ME SEKRET RACIST, HOW ABOUT YOUR SEKRET GAY. THATS RIGHT. FUCKING MANLIKERS.

Race is a fucking joke. People need to get over themselves. I hate reblogging fucking CNN stories because it feels like I'm some faggot tweeter, but well, dicks.

For those who care, kach and I are prob xferring to Warsong (EU) and require a baller priest for 3s, find me on irc.

I'm really emo/sad that I'll miss Regionals due to fagging it up in Cali all weekend. And no, I don't have shit to say about 3.2 except welcome to tbc double healer rogue/lock.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

TR IS UP?

Who wants to get ripped in duelz ^^ (this weekend?)

Baddy/Baddi/Raddi/Raddy I think are my chars across TR1/TR2

I have some amazingly gay teams I want to try out too including mandickloving comps such as:

protp/combat
protp/destro

protp/destro/disc
disc/combat/dru (nerdy combat poisonz build)
feral/disc/destro
protp/disc/feral

HOPEFULLY I WONT GET ANY ACCOUNTS PERMA'D FOR OFFENSIVE TEAM NAMES ON TR THIS TIME (17 YR LO DESTROYED DP INTERNAL)

Profession Revamp

Time to start picking flowers, nerds.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Chapter IX (Part I)

The smell of gym and leather felt oddly nostalgic despite never having really spent much time around either. I had decided a workout would keep my mind distracted from the day's events and needed something to do while the boys slept. Jet had joked that Mania wouldn't come out till night and suggested that we all relax till then. I enjoyed surprising him by demanding he let me use one of his gyms. Jess, never to be shown up athletically by me, was happy to keep me company for a workout.

The smell of leather was the old heavy bag in front of me, my hands stinging the bag with weak thuds, more effective at straining my wrists than moving the 70kg bag noticeably. I didn't care. I continued striking the bag dully, Jess watching with an amused smirk as if I had totally lost my mind. Catching the reflection of my reddened face in the mirror, I had to agree. After my hands transitioned from simply throbbing to utterly numb, I stopped, again catching my reflection, this time of the possessed scowl I wore, and couldn't help but laugh with her.

"Okay Jess, your turn."

What she lacked in scowling and crazy, she made up for in athleticism and skill, her punches driving the bag visibly with each impact. I need less athletic people in my life. Still, despite her skill, and my total lack of it, I think the bagwork gave us both the same cathartic release.

I had watched Jet train down here many times before mustering the courage to ask him to show me how to use the heavy bags. Jet explained that they taught you how to strike with follow through, that they demonstrated the feeling of striking a real opponent. He preferred a heavier bag than this one, but the bag he liked scratched up my bare hands too much. I liked this smooth, scarred leather one.

Jet showed me how to make a fist by folding first at the fingers, how to halfway lock one's wrists, how to keep my eyes forward, and how to strike the middle of the bag, always just below shoulder height. I laughed at this last instruction, "But don't you sometimes want to strike at other heights?"

He had laughed, "Not if it has this much resistance, you're strongest at that height. And you won't get injured."

Not that I was terribly interested in striking real live targets. Being able to defend myself would be nice, but no amount of training was ever going to save me from the Mania's and Crow's of the world. Or probably any of those other names from today...

Donovan Cross. Of Cross Industry. Alex's father had worked for that boy's father. Donovan had also lost his father. That night in October, while Mania slaughtered a houseful of police officers, terrorists had attacked the Cross headquarters across town. Part of me assumed Mania was involved in that, but --

Jess, huffing and out of breath, "You're back up."

I began again with renewed focus, only pausing to blow a stray lock of hair from my eyes, continuing until totally exhausted.

Why not ask Donovan what he knows?

Because he's creepy. Because even Mania seems afraid of him. Because he is one of the mentioned names.

My eyes flashed to the doorway catching a hint of movement. Jet framed the entrance in dark jeans and layers of gauze thin knits, his physique hidden but subtly still present beneath the layered folds. His hands absently fingered a large pair of headphones. He spoke, solemn in tone, but his grinning eyes betrayed him, and revealed his excitement, "Gonna head out soon."

"Jet"

"Hmn?"

"What do you think about maybe contacting that Donovan guy?"

Jet shrugged, "Whatever. The brother, right?"

Jess chimed in, "You trust that guy?"

"Not really, but he was mentioned too." That wasn't really all that I meant. "I don't know. I get the feeling he'd know something."

Jet, now struggling to untangle a cord he had fished from his pocket, distractedly replied, "Maybe we should split up. Alex can talk to this Cross guy."

"I thought Alex was going with you."

"Nah, Mania hates Lex."

So? "Yeah, doesn't she hate you too?"

Jet grinned. "Probably, but, she might listen to me. At least for a little while."

Mania had rammed a knife through Jet's hands last they met. Jet replied by sticking that knife between her ribs. I couldn't really picture the two having much of a conversation.

My tone accusatory, "You are going to try talking to her about today, right? Not just fight?"

Jet's sheepish grin and hand in his hair gave him up instantly.

"Jet!"

"Fine!" he sulked.

Jess rolled her eyes thoroughly unimpressed by my idiot boyfriend's, well, idiocy. She turned to ask me something but I was fixated on watching Jet use the long cord to tie knot after knot, securing the gigantic earphones to his head. His voice, now inapproriately loud drowned out Jess, "Allie, come with, make sure I don't fight."

"What about Alex and Jess?"

"WHAT?"

Jess scowled, I inwardly smiled, and nodded. It would be amazing if we survived this night.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Chapter VIII (Part II END)

A few minutes after the news, the professor dismissed us, though not long before the whole school had canceled all classes for the day, and the four of us made our way to Jet's in lack of a better option. My mind was a mess of nerves to the point where the thirty foot trek out the classroom may as well have been a trip to another planet.

We had scarcely made out of the door of the classroom before Jess was firing questions at the boys. I was alone in my spaced reaction to the events. Jess and the boys were angry.

"How did you know of the attacks first?" she demanded, her tone accusatory.

Jet shrugged indifference. Alex ignored her.

She steamed, "You can't go off being all mysterious about this anymore. This is affecting everyone now." We continued down the hall, her continuing to rant, Jet flickering between bored, confused, and aggravated, Alex cold and distracted. I stuck initially to being simply shaken, but curiosity took hold of me as well. She was certainly right that whatever the boys were caught up in was spreading into the wide world at a quickening pace.

I had told Jess almost everything, but not everything I knew. To be fair, most of what I knew of Jet and Alex's history was fairly recent knowledge from a single conversation with Alex.

Alex had explained to me that Jet, Mania, and he had all known each other as children. More than knew either, they were friends, close friends. Alex's father, was a researcher at Cross. Not just any research scientist, he was generally credited with discovering Stutter, and was accorded, initially, a lot of power and responsibility in hopes that Stutter could be put into application.

Of course, Stutter ended up being a catastrophic failure; a drug that had fantastic, almost supernatural effects on the body and mind, but when metabolized, broke down into toxins quickly killing any and every test subject. This I knew without Alex's aid.

Despite nearly two decades of failed efforts to transform Stutter into something applicable, Cross forged onwards with research, until Alex's father suddenly not only refused to continue the research but destroyed all of the accumulated data on Stutter. Apparently, he alone knew the trick to combining the precursors of Stutter, and his refusal to cooperate along with his destruction of most of the data on the project were potentially a multi-decade setback.

It was a week after his father's refusal that a wide-eyed ten year old Alex found himself frozen in the doorway of his parent's bedroom. Before him, and above his recently decapitated mother and father, crouched his friend, an eleven year old Mania, kitchen knife in hand, smeared in blood, fingers to toes.

Alex screamed and fled with Mania in pursuit, gaining distance as she slipped with blood-slick bare feet on the downstairs kitchen tiles, running till he could feel his heart ready to explode in his chest, eventually making it to Jet's. Mania was seconds, not minutes, behind and before he could explain much of anything to Jet, she arrived, panting and furious.

Alex didn't give me much to work with concerning what happened next. I'll do my best to recall it as he did to me.

Jet and Mania trained together religiously, both fascinated by combat. Jet's excuse was being the prodigy in a long line of competitive fighters and martial artists. For Mania, it was apparently different. She was naturally gifted without much training. Strong. Quick. For her, it was more about expressing that which lay otherwise dormant and unused. As children, compared to Jet, she was always stronger, faster, but she lacked his stamina and technique, and was typically the loser whenever the two sparred.

Not on that day.

The two fought with Jet becoming horrifically cut and slashed almost immediately. Alex had managed to break off and alert the police with his phone only to return as one of his best friends was in the motion of slitting the throat of his other. He screamed her name, her real name, Charisma, and she spun to look at the boy with whom she used to laugh and play, and now wanted to kill.

Her once cute face now bore a sick grin, porcelain white teeth in full display between thin ruby lips drawn languidly back. She claimed that she was not Charisma and that her name was Bia. She didn't respond when asked why she was hurting them, why she killed his parents, but she did let Jet out from trapped underneath her. She sat frozen, covered in fresh blood, some hers, most of it Jet's, for only a few moments before three police officers tore through the front door, shouts flooding Jet's demolished living room.

Their threats and shouts to disarm unfortunately did the officers little good. Mania, Bia, stood facing the men, slick with red, knife gripped firm in hand. Tires screeched outside in the driveway. The first shot tore through Mania's left shoulder sending the young girl to the floor screaming. The officers inched closer, encircling the wounded girl. A mistake.

She was up in a flicker, the knife claiming the weapon arm of the officer who fired, before finding the throats of the other two. Three bodies hit the carpet floor with a soft thud, two coughing garbled wheezes, one screeching in agony.

Despite his injuries, Jet was quick to spring into action as well, prying the gun from the amputated arm and spinning to fire at young Mania as she turned away from the three men. Four shots rang out, all four missing their mark. Behind Mania, framed in the doorway, and now silently slumping towards the same carpeted floor were Jet's panic-stricken mother and father.

Mania kicked the weapon away from the horrified Jet, and bent down to restrain him from rushing to the side of his wounded, dying parents. Sirens blazed in the distance, each second drawing nearer. She spoke tranquilly, her fury gone, transformed back into the girl they knew, "I'll be leaving for a long time. I'll miss you."

"And what exactly is the point of that," Jess harped. I had absolutely no idea what they were arguing about. I could have sworn Jet mentioned something about a nap.

Jet yawned as he spoke, "Need rest if we're going looking for Mania."

"Why? Even if she didn't do it, why would she help? This sort of thing sounds like something she'd probably enjoy."

Jet grinned at Jess, "Because she's being called out."

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Chapter VIII (Part I)

The blackboard flickered.

"There will also be a review session next Thursday to go over the practice midterm. I strongly recommend you go through it by then."

The professor went on, but my interest was long gone. My heavy eyes glared at the mechanical wall clock, a clunky last-century piece obviously out of place in the white, modern lecture hall.

Two minutes.

After this, I was off to International Relations, which thankfully would reunite me with my friends. And Jet.

Calculus was the one class where I was totally alone. Despite it being a core course for most freshman, Jess, Lex, and even Jet had tested out of it. Those of us stuck taking the class were rewarded with the world's most soporific professor, and although many others have probably made the same claim, I was, at this moment, positive of my correctness.

90 seconds.

My resentment at being stuck in the class engendered a fierce determination to excel despite my abhorring all aspects of Calculus. Right now, however, my A in the course proved to be little consolation. I could stand to trade a little achievement for a bit of enjoyment. My friends would definitely blow off a class like this. I don't think Jess cracked fifty percent attendance in any of her classes. Alex and Jet were much the same. Skipping a class with them was one thing, but I wasn't yet to the point where I was blowing off classes without their bad influence.

45 seconds. Please hell, open up, and swallow me.

I thumbed the exam study notes, perusing them absentmindedly, not really taking in anything on the pages. Attached at the end was the practice mid term. Polar coordinates problems. My eyes flickered across the pages without comprehension.

What was the point of all this?

I had recently watched a crazy girl butcher a roomful of people and the only people with either the interest or capability of doing a thing about it were my boyfriend and his best friend, and also, the girl's brother, a boy who gave me the same creepy sadist vibes as his sister. And somehow still worse was that this was all connected potentially to the nightmare of a man that was Vincent Crow, who despite being dead, and me having watched his death, continued to haunt me with increasing frequency these days.

Oh, and I've been singing a pretty annoying Clash song to my roommate every night, constantly disappointed that my singing doesn't trigger in her some sort of supernatural temporary blindness.

"... and we'll pick up on Monday. Enjoy your weekends, but not too much, and don't forget the TA session on Saturday."

My peers and I groggily stumbled out of our seats transforming from Lethargians back into boys and girls. I shook my head as if to shake out the sleepiness. It seemed to work and I found myself quickly across campus and seated in IR, excited to reunite with my friends.

Jess waved as she entered, her face fixed in a bored scowl as she plopped down first her books and bag, and then herself next to me.

Pointing to the thick pile of textbooks between us now busy scattering the empty floor into tiny pockets of exposed carpet, she whined, "Remind me why we still use these?"

I chirped, "Tradition," and she surrendered her bitterness without much of a fight. She offered me a small smile, before giving the distant doorway a not-so furtive longing glance.

"You're kind of flush, Jess."

She turned two shades redder. Her hair was still damp from a recent shower. She must had gone running without me.

She sighed, "Yeah, you missed another run." Damn.

"I had class." Did I care? No. Would I still guilt Jess? Yes.

"I know, sorry. I wanted to do a fast run today."

I mocked indignation, "Woah, are you insinuating that I slow you down?"

She grinned. "Minus the insinuating and pretty much just flat-out without any subtlety whatsoever telling. To your face."

The professor dove right into his lecture. "We left off discussing the European Union's recently passed Prosperity Act. In last night's reading, the Clover piece argued such legislation would inevitably proliferate relatively more lower income births. Just as --"

Where were Jet and Alex? It was like them to be late, but not this late. The seats the pair typically occupied had been claimed by two overachiever girls whispering heatedly to one another, arguing about the day's lecture. After four years of bickering, the Prosperity Act, a redefinition of the age of adulthood in Europe to sixteen, along with a ton of educational reforms to leave graduating high school seniors two years younger, finally passed. Despite the population drought being less severe relatively in Europe than Africa or Asia, the anxiety seemed highest in Europe. Anyways, the general idea was to get women out of school at an earlier age and thus have more "adult" years for potential childbearing. Politics really aren't my thing.

Finally!

Alex first, with Jet lagging a few steps behind, stumbled sleepily into class, the heavy classroom door slamming like a thunderclap behind them. Heads turned and the professor paused, I winced in embarrassment on Jet's behalf, but the status quo quickly resumed as the two groggily found seats. Sadly, seats not close to me. They looked dead exhausted.

Jess also noticed, "Your idiot boyfriend has finally sleptwalk his way here."

"Yeah, I wonder what's up." I paused, shrugged, and continued with, "Well, Alex also looks about as dead tired as my idiot boyfriend."

Jess laughed. "After another half hour on this Prosperity Act nonsense, I'll look the same. Just you wait."

"Getting political on me?"

"Just ready for a new topic."

Jess was right. I used to love this class, but we'd spent the whole week debating the potential downstream economic effects of the Act. Truthfully, it didn't seem like any of the "experts" had a clue what the long term effects would be. Not that I was terribly cynical about it, but ever since the night where I first was introduced to Mania, it felt like there was a lot to the world that we didn't cover in our university classes.

It was more than that though. I had said to Alex that it felt like the world was changing. Sterility around the globe, the hype and disappointment surrounding Stutter, patterns that could sicken you, songs that could blind you, monsters like Crow and Mania -- why did we go along with --

"Allie," Jess nudged me impatiently. "You're spacing."

I growled back stupidly, "Shut up, you're spacing."

Ignoring my reply completely, "When did you get back in yesterday? I thought it was early."

"Yeah, like midnight."

I assumed she was trying to puzzle out the boys' exhaustion, but I was certainly not the culprit. I looked over at the two. Alex stared at the professor vacantly, head propped up on his arm, eyes glazed. Jet slept upon folded arms across his desk. I couldn't see actual drool from across the room.

"Allie, you look furious."

Much more loudly than appropriate for a quiet lecture hall and mustering more repressed ire than I intended, "Why even come if he's going to sleep?!"

Jess giggled before giving me a quick, the professor is watching us be idiots, glance that transformed me back into studious good girl.

After a few minutes of pretending to listen to the lecture, my gaze flickered back to Alex just in time to witness his exhaustion replaced with shock and panic. He spun around in his seat to shake Jet, completely oblivious, or indifferent, to the scene he was starting to create.

Alex's phone lay open on his desk. Something he saw. Some news? The displays built into the desks were generally much better for web surfing -- I saw no news scrolling by.

Alex yanked on the arms supporting Jet's head sending skull to desk with a hollow thud. Jet barked curses at Alex but before he could get more than few choice words out, he was silenced by whatever he saw on Alex's screen. Something was very wrong.

The boys' faces were gray. Jess spun to me, but I shrugged cluelessness before she could ask.

Alex stood up and the gravity of his face silenced first the room and then the professor, "I'm sorry to interrupt sir. Something terrible has happened."

Our professor, along with all 140 students in the room, turned to Alex with rapt attention. Seconds passed with Alex's expression keeping the room in absolute silence. Jet stood and fidgeted. He was anxious to get out. To do something. What had happened?

Alex opened his mouth to explain, but it proved unnecessary. Alert messages flooded our tabletops. The blackboard faded, the scribblings of our professor replaced by a television news feed. The professor backed away from the board, stunned, equally as in shock as us by what he saw.

A cute, female anchor spoke, voice uneven as she narrated, her words, sadly imparting no additional understanding of the scene behind her.

Times Square, Broadway and Seventh.

Beneath the cobweb of billboards and monitors and beneath the towering retail sanctuaries, bodies littered the intersection, mangled and dismantled, recognizable as human more by what was once their clothing than what remained of their human flesh, their bodies splattered like bugs ground into the pavement. Young and old, ground to a thick uneven paste, smeared against the black asphalt.

I tried to listen to the anchor's words, "Our associates are confirming that this same carnage has been witnessed in seven other cities around the world. Tokyo, Tel Aviv, Rome, Edinburgh, Aix en Provence, Lima, and Victoria have all reported similar incidents. At this juncture, it's too early to say with authority that this list is exhaustive, but --"

I tuned out sensing the change in the air, the subdued heat and scent of Jet's proximity. I looked up at him, but couldn't really read his expression. Did the anchor really use the word 'carnage'?

I looked down to avoid the scene on the blackboard only to realize the same video flooded my desk's display. I started to feel sick. I was vaguely aware of gasps and exclamations around the room, but before worrying about them or my own stupid weak stomach, my hand stretched out to find Jess's as she turned to me.

Jess and I stared, transfixed, as the anchor continued, "... estimates are on the order of a few hundred at each site. At this time, it's believed --"

I felt Jet's hot breath on my ear, but it was Alex who spoke first, "We should get out of here."

Jess looked at me, shaking her head no. I had to agree with her. Where would we even go?

"-- all recording devices and remote imaging of the sites seems to have been somehow disabled. No group has, as of yet, claimed responsibility for the attacks, nor do we have--"

Jess, her face suddenly exasperated, frustrated by something in the report, tabbed over to a broadcast covering the massacre at Tel Aviv. The area looked like an upscale shopping district, maybe a park, a place called Kikar Hamedina. She panned out the display as much as she could and suddenly I saw what she saw.

The bodies were not littered about the park randomly -- they were arranged to spell a word. CROSS.

Alex and Jet's fascination mirrored our own own. They didn't need to ask. Jess was already tabbed to Tokyo, the incident at Shibuya Crossing, looking to see if she could get an aerial view.

SATSUMA.

The word, the name, meant nothing to any of us. We sat silently as Jess repeated looking for overhead shots of the other cities. After Tel Aviv's CROSS and Tokyo's SATSUMA, there was a large double question mark, ??, etched in blood and bodies in Edinburgh's Princes Square. In Rome, CIRCE. In Victoria, DEAD. Aix en Provence, FELL.

My body stiffened automatically as the shape in Victoria grew clear. CROW.

In Lima's Plaza de Armas, carved with bodies into the stone and earth, MANIA.

Jess' eyes and my own lit up on the mention of Mania, I turned to Jet, "Did she?"

Alex and Jet answered with a simultaneous no. Jet continued, "She's here in Chicago. We saw her last night."