Sheo Darren stories

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Sheo Darren stories

Post by Sheo Darren on Sun 10 Aug 2008 - 3:07

Some stories featuring my OCs.

Page 1

1. Dark Phoenix (Black Phoenix Ch. 1 draft)
2. Sales Pitch (omake)
3. Black Whirlwind (Life Goes On draft)

4. The Commander (cancelled crossover story)
5. Tea Time (Life Goes On)
6. The Juniper Tree (Black Phoenix Ch. 2 draft) [3 May 2015]


Last edited by Sheo Darren on Wed 3 Jun 2015 - 1:36; edited 2 times in total
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Re: Sheo Darren stories

Post by Sheo Darren on Sun 10 Aug 2008 - 4:50

Black Phoenix



The child awoke hugging herself against the chill air seeping through the flimsy fabric of her sleeping gown.


Sister?


Automatically her hands sought her scalp. Her fingers ran into a thick mass of what could only be long hair that shone silver under the pale light.


I’m sister.


Brother?


But she lay alone upon a bunk barely big enough for her tiny body. Bone white walls boxed her in. Air conditioners set into the ceiling blew cold air over her body. A lone fluorescent bulb provided meager light.


The girl sat up slowly. I feel so heavy. She started shrugging out the kinks seemingly sunk deep in
her joints. So slow…


A sigh spilled from her lips.


Brother.


Sharp clicks directed her attention toward a metal door her earlier scan somehow missed. Hot air blasted her face.


“O-ha-yo-u!”


The woman striding out of that bright tear across her tiny world beamed at her. “That’s ‘Good morning’ in Japanese,” came the English explanation.


The girl noted a slight slur on the ‘r’ that made the consonant sound somewhat like ‘l’. She decided to return the smile and the “Good morning,” adding a “Who are you?”


“Atsuko Aoko. You can call me Ao-chan, Aoko-chan, Aoka and you crazy bitch.”


The girl blinked at that last title.


The obviously crazy… woman kept smiling. “Miss Aoko will do, too,” Aoko added. “Yoroshiku onegaishimasu. I’m very pleased to meet you.”


“Me, too, Miss Aoko,” the girl politely replied. “I’m–”


Words failed her.


Who am I?


I am sister.


What is my name?


“Jessica.”


The puzzled girl looked to Aoko for an explanation.


“Jessica will be your name,” the woman explained. “Jess for short.”


“That’s a nice name.”


“I know. I got it from an old friend. He’d kill me if he heard me using it, though.”


It’s not my name, the girl thought, and said so aloud.


“Of course it’s not.”


She focused on Aoko. The woman seemed irrepressible, a shoulder-length crop of black hair bobbing, her eyes glowing like a cat prowling the night…


The smell of blood. Sweet blood spilt from just-slaughtered meat. Human blood.


She is a killer, the girl realized.


Just like me.


“Now, I’ve got something for you, Jess-chan…”


She watched Aoko rummage through a voluminous duffel bag that could have easily fit her inside it. The stink that issued from the open zipper was familiar. Hard. Sharp. Metallic.


Gun oil.


She is giving me a gun?


“Mitsuketta!”


The girl stared at an axe.


Noting like the woodcutting implements heroic woodsmen bore. The battle axe before her was steel from eye to knob, wicked deadly steel, its sharp bit broad-faced and thin, the better to lop off arms and necks.


It called to her. Its edge gleamed bright with recognition.


It’s mine.


What?


Aoko proffered it to her haft first. She held the weapon’s handle using one hand. Her youthful face showed no outward sign of strain. “Here you go,” she sang.


Despite the urge of woman and weapon, the girl hesitated.


The axe is for brother. I’m sister.


“Truly?” she finally asked.


“It’s certainly not mine,” Aoko assured her. “I like knives more.” Her free hand twisted at mid-wrist to materialize a fine example between her pinched thumb and forefinger. “They’re lighter. Plus, I’m stabby-happy, not choppy-suey.”


The girl stared at the knife. Like how a stage magician does it. But, her gaze traveled down Aoko’s arms, she doesn’t have sleeves. How does she do it?


Aoko made the knife vanish. She was still grinning. “Dou?”


Hold it for brother.


She took the weapon using both hands to give off the impression of physical weakness. The weapon’s lightness surprised her.


So light. Too light.


Am I strong?


“Thank you,” she murmured.


“Dozo. I’ve got one more thing for you.” Again Aoko dug into the bag.


The girl considered the busy woman’s back.


Obviously Aoko was pretending to be looking. She was up to something.


She is a killer.


She knows I am a killer.


She will try to kill me.


Kill or be killed.


Kill her first.


Her fingers lightly gripped the axe handle.


The axe is for brother. I’m sister.


I need to become brother.


The girl grasped the top of her hair. Gently drew it–


She froze.


It didn’t come off.


It’s not a wig?


Again she tugged at her hair. Again it resisted. A sharper pull made her wince.


It won’t come off… it won’t come off… it hurts…


I have to be brother!


Desperate fury set her jaw tight. Gritting her teeth, she yanked sharply with all her strength.


Her scalp burned. Fighting down reflexive tears, she glanced at her prize.


The soft bundle clutched tight within her fingers dripped blood at one end. The silver strands were easily as long as her arm.


My hair…


I can’t become brother.


Brother is gone.


But…


The girl whimpered.


Aoko remained busy with her bag.


She is pretending. Why?


She is waiting.


She will kill me.


I must kill her first.


But…


The frightened girl’s gaze fell again upon the axe she held.


I can’t use this. This is for brother. I’m sister. I can’t become brother.


But I am brother.


No, I’m not. My hair–


–is not a wig.


I’m sister.


I’m brother.


I…


The leaden mountains of her arms moved. Sweaty, shaking, she lifted the axe two-handed over Aoko’s head all too easily.


Kill her. Kill her. Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill…


“Mitsuketta!”


The girl stared into the black maw of the light machine gun now slanted upon Aoko’s shoulder.


She knew it was a Browning Automatic Rifle.


It looks like mine.


Something dangled from the muzzle. The plush toy was a small teddy bear.


It is mine.


No.


It’s for sister.


Aoko looked over her shoulder, over the BAR, at the girl poised to split her in half. She was still smiling. “So,” she drawled, “Which one is yours?”


The girl opened her mouth.





That’s mine.


The gun goes to sister.


I’m sister.


The axe is mine.


The axe is for brother.


I’m not brother.


My hair is stuck. I can’t be brother.


Brother is gone?


I’m alone?





She bawled. Tears dripped down her cheeks. The axe dropped behind her. Her face she buried in her freed hands. She shuddered.


Hands and arms drew her upon soft warmth. Warm breath washed upon her aching silver-topped scalp.


“It will be all right,” she was told. “It will be all right.”


Warm… she is warm…


She smells of blood.


But I like that smell. That is my smell. That is my brother’s smell.


I’m happy.





“Who am I?” she asked the murderer who held her.


“Whoever you want to be,” Aoko whispered.


“I want to know who I am.”


“Once upon a time, there were twin brother and sister. Their names were Hansel and Gretel…”



ITUTULOY



Author's Note: The more-or-less done pilot chapter for a Black Lagoon/Gunslinger Girl fan fic I am plotting in the near future. Yes, BL fans, it's who you think s/he is.


Last edited by Sheo Darren on Wed 20 Aug 2008 - 9:34; edited 2 times in total
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Re: Sheo Darren stories

Post by ElfenMagix on Sun 10 Aug 2008 - 21:50

That is a very nice beginning. I would like to see the rest of it when it comes.

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Re: Sheo Darren stories

Post by Sheo Darren on Wed 20 Aug 2008 - 9:43

Sales Pitch


The rather small man in the impeccable black suit smiled at the assembled Dutch Dead Six commanders. “Gentlemen,” he greeted. “My name is Antonio Venice. I represent Armo Fighter Corporation.”

His grin was bright and genial.

“And have I got the deal for you.”

The group stood in the middle of the DD6’s Amsterdam HQ’s outdoor combat testing range. The AFC salesman had asked for a large, open area for his demonstration. He got it.

“My company, AFC, is a brand new player in the arms industry. Think of us as an infusion of new blood in an increasingly conservative league.” Antonio chuckled. “Or, as our company leadership prefer to describe ourselves, a shot in the arm.

“We offer you the deal of the decade. Give us a budget and your support, and we will make your army the best in the world.

“Everyone knows a Dutch Dead Six trooper is equal to any three in the business. But AFC can make that trooper the equal of an entire platoon. Let me show you.”

Antonio activated the holographic projector he brought with him. “Dating back to forever–” he pressed a button on his remote “–your typical ground pounder still slogs it on foot.”

The three-dimensional figure of a caveman armed with a stone axe got the chuckles he wanted.

“Sadly, over the years, the poor bugger finds himself having to carry more and more.” The caveman gave way to a classical Greek hoplite, then a Western knight, a heavily-laden US Marine from World War II, and finally a modern soldier. “Your typical soldier today carries a minimum fifty kilos of gear. That’s food, armor, weapons and ammo.

“Note that while a healthy human can carry about two-thirds of his weight max, no one said anything about carrying all that shit while hiking through the shittiest terrain you can find in a country whose name you can’t pronounce while gomers are popping out of the woodwork to throw everything but the kitchen sink at you.”

Pictures of the bloody Omaha landing during World War II played. American soldiers weighed down by their gear drowned by the dozen under intense German fire. The assembled Dutch soldiers watched wordlessly.

“A soldier can only carry so much before he slows down.” An animated Jesus Christ, who looked suspiciously like Jim Caviezel, dragged his cross across the screen. “And you well know that a slow soldier is a dead soldier.”

Ahead of the animated Jesus loomed Golgotha.

“At the same time, the soldier absolutely needs their equipment. So, what to do with needed dead weight?

“The solution is, of course, to give the soldier transport.”

A burly African– Bible readers would have ID’d him as Simon of Cyrene– helpfully assisted Jesus with his burden. Antonio smiled wryly at the imagery. He anticipated accusations of racism. None came. The DD6 were a hard lot. He continued:

“But vehicular transports are big.” Various vehicles, ground and airborne, ancient to modern, appeared. The APC at the end of the electronic parade found itself squeezed in between the electronic brackets of a ground-attack aircraft. “And limited cross-country.” The APC sank in mud. “Not to mention expensive.” An animated taxi meter clicked noisily even as the gas tank gauge dropped like a rock.

“And in the end,” as the rear of said virtual APC disgorged a soldier who got shot in the head right as he cleared the clamshell door, “Your trooper has to jump out the door to fight on foot.

“Well, bugger that.”

Despite the briefly British intonation, Antonio was Asian, brown-skinned and dark-haired. A short man, he appeared even smaller compared to the six-foot-or-more Dutch he regaled.

“AFC aims to give the individual soldier the mobility, protection and firepower of a full-sized armored fighting vehicle any time, anywhere, in the battlefield or inside a building. Hence, our Project Personal Ride.”

Antonio gestured to a waiting armored figure and its accompanying motorcycle.

The figure’s head was fully enclosed by a spherical helmet rather resembling an astronaut’s headgear. The opaque visor was flipped up to reveal the face of a rather striking woman with blue eyes and a bright smile. She wore a formfitting black bodysuit, to which clung a breastplate with attached shoulder guards, forearm guards, a groin harness, thigh armor plates, and heavy metal boots.

“This is my lovely assistant Kuwatani Natsuko,” Antonio introduced. “And this,” his hand swept towards the bike. The motorcycle was green and looked surprisingly militaristic due to the bulky gun and missile launcher tubes on either side of the front wheel.

“Gentlemen,” Antonio bid the DD6 generals, “Meet the future of the mobile infantry. This is the Cyclone personal ride variable form combat motorcycle.”

He allowed his audience to study Natsuko’s armor and the Cyclone to their satisfaction. Then he began rattling off details.

“Our lightest model weighs 72 kilograms. The heaviest weighs 132 kg. Your AIFV APC weighs at least ten tons.

“A standard Cyclone can reach 220kph on paved roads and has a typical cruise speed of 128kph. Your AIFV tracked APC reaches sixty. Your planned Boxer wheeled AFV does a hundred. Your AH-64 Apache attack helicopter is rated at 293kph.

“The Cyclone has full cross-country capability. Range 380 kilometers in the baseline models.

“Advanced ultra lightweight alloys give it unmatched toughness. May I borrow your gun?” Antonio asked a DD6 trooper standing guard. The salesman’s eye was on the man’s G36.

The soldier looked to his commanders for orders. “Give it to him,” an admiral said.

The DD6 soldier reluctantly but snappily gave his carbine to Antonio. The salesman checked it with a surprisingly trained eye while holding it in a tac team carry. “Five five six em em,” Antonio pronounced. “Thank you, Remington.”

Then he aimed the G36 at the Cyclone, which had been pushed by Natsuko twenty feet away in the short time he took to procure his weapon.

“Safety off!” Antonio warned. “Range is hot!”

Astonishingly, Natsuko didn’t move away from her vehicle. Her helmet’s visor was flipped down, hiding her pretty face.

Antonio emptied the thirty-round magazine into the Cyclone, firing controlled and accurate three-round-bursts. The last nine C79-type ball bullets, he deliberately put into Natsuko.

Natsuko staggered some as the bullets hit her breastplate. But she remained standing and apparently unharmed.

Antonio safed the G36. “All in all,” he apologized while returning the still-smoking carbine to its shocked owner, “I prefer the G3K.”

Natsuko pushed the Cyclone back towards the DD6 generals for inspection. She looked like she had enjoyed being used as target practice.

Both she and the Cyclone were unmarked.

“Each Cyclone,” Antonio explained, “Comes with a CVR-3 hard armor bodysuit like the one worn by my charming colleague here. The CVR-3 is a combination of a flexible bodysuit and an external armor set. The bodysuit is composed of kinetic reactive fibers that harden instantly when sharply hit. The armor is composed of a light but tough ceramic alloy material. It is proof against anything short of a hi-velocity armor-piercing round. That includes shrapnel.

“The base armor weighs 7.5kg. It is also self-sealed with an internal air supply and other life support systems, and can thus operate in hostile environments such as underwater, vacuum or NBC-contaminated battlefields.

“Please direct your attention to the boots.” Natsuko's boots were bulky and looked to be completely mechanical. “Those boots have telescoping servos to increase the rider’s stride and help carry the armor’s weight,” Antonio pointed out. “They weigh four kilos. They grant the Cyclone its most unique capability. Please step back.”

Soon as they did, Natsuko sat upon the Cyclone. She pressed a button.
The Cyclone fairly leapt into the air. It flew apart–

“What the!”

–and latched onto its airborne rider.

“She’s wearing the bike!” a general exclaimed.

“As armor!” an admiral noted.

“And she’s hovering in mid-air!”

Thrusters flared. The up-armored Natsuko set herself down for inspection.

“Armor Mode,” Antonio explained to the DD6 generals. “The Cyclone can become powered armor. It moves, runs, jumps and crouches as one with its user, and adds short-range flight and sustained hover to the infantryman’s penchant for taking cover.”

The Cyclone-armored Natsuko, looking more machine than man, walked over to Antonio and picked him up with one hand easily.

“Servos connecting the arm guards to the armor enhance the wearer’s strength. For the record,” and Antonio looked quite comfortable sitting in the crook of an armored arm, “I weight seventy-five kilos. And a Cyclone rider can wield crew-served weapons as handheld weapons.

“Of course,” he added, “It also has internal weapons. Range is hot!”

On cue, Natsuko aimed her free arm at a tree about two hundred feet downrange. One of the two tubes on her armored forearm spat out a missile with a surprisingly quiet thump. Seconds later, a bright flash that was surprisingly noiseless vaporized the tree.

Antonio grinned at his audience. “Any questions?”


For the remainder of the afternoon, Natsuko tirelessly demonstrated the Cyclone’s stated capabilities in mock combat against various vehicles. She rode rings around a Hummer, a Leopard II main battle tank, a CV-90 IFV and even an agile Apache helicopter. None of her opponents could track her. “It’s like dogfighting with the Brits’ Harrier,” the Apache pilot later explained to his superiors. “You have her going one way the first second, and then she changes into that robot, jumps into the air and stays in the air.”

In contrast, Natsuko could see them all too easily with her Cyclone’s helmet-mounted sensors, and was quick to take them down with simulated firing of the RPGs –Antonio called them “Scorpion grenade rockets”, miniature radar-guided missiles– on her left arm and the formidable energy gun –the EP-40– in her right hand.

About the Cyclone’s only flaw was the rather long delay in changing the Cyclone back into motorcycle mode. “We’re working on it,” Antonio assured his customers. “We’ll upgrade your Cyclones for free once we get it down pat.”

And then he dropped the bomb.

“You’re offering us examples of these machines to test operationally?” the general repeated.

“Three platoons– a dozen Bartley recon units, the same number of Brough Superior commando units and seventy-two MOSPEADA line units–, five units of fire worth of ordnance for each unit, and a full team of technicians to repair and refit them.” Antonio looked quite the cunning fox inside the henhouse. “We want to see how you integrate them into your regular forces, or employ them on their own.”

“For a salesman, you’re quite interested and versed in military strategy and tactics.”

“I study military history as a hobby. It helps a lot in my job. You can say I have a vested interest in how you employ a brand new and unique weapons system I sold you.”

“You have developed tactics for these machines?”

“Oh, yes. We’ll send that data to you after you’ve tested our machines. But unbiased input from people trying something out for the first time is always useful. A fresh perspective can spot things a jaded eye would miss.”

“That is wise.” The general considered the armored Natsuko guiding a DD6 trooper on how to drive her Cyclone. His eyes grew distant as his mind fought an old, old war. “It’s a good machine for guerrilla warfare.”

“Yes,” Antonio agreed. “That, it most certainly is.”


They rode the Cyclone back to the Horizont troop ship that brought them to Amsterdam. Natsuko drove. Antonio wrapped his arms around her waist. The salesman looked somewhat tense.

“They took it,” Natsuko noted.

“Of course,” Antonio returned. “They know the old saying about the gift horse.”

They didn’t talk so much as he generated telepathic messages and she sent back electromagnetic equivalents.

“Your move to let them pay for the fuel expenditures was brilliant.”

“It was a way out of their moral dilemma and paranoia. They’d have found us suspicious if we gave away an entire company of Cyclones for free.”

“Ara, but you sound nervous.”

“You know I hate riding motorcycles this way.”

“Not being in control scares you, huh?”

“Riding with a woman driver scares me.”

“Oh, you will so pay for that remark, ‘Antonio’-kun.”

“I’m sure I will, Nat-chan.”

She got her cover ID from a Japanese VA. He got his from an infamous Shakespeare play. Both were nothing like what they seemed.

Natsuko’s CVR armor disappeared. Now she wore a Japanese serafuku. Her now-unrestrained mane of blue flew freely into the wind, and into her passenger’s face.

“Hey!”

“I told you I’ll make you pay,” was the sweet reply.

He laughed. “Good job, Ryoko.”

“Why, thank you, Rolito-kun.”

Asakura Ryoko drove with Rolito Miranda into the sunset.



KATAPUSAN


Author's Note: A short story I came up based on the time line of both the defunct RP forum The War and Tommy's ongoing The Legend of the Swordsman.

Asakura Ryoko is from the Suzumiya Haruhi series. Dutch Dead Six courtesy Tommygunner70.

Kuwatani Natsuko is the name of Ryoko's VA.

Antonio is the name of the protagonist of Shakespeare's play The Merchant of Venice. I was tempted to name him Shylock a la Hilshire, but Shylock lost in the play, so I went with Antonio, who's pretty much a slick dealer himself.
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Re: Sheo Darren stories

Post by Tommygunner70 on Wed 20 Aug 2008 - 13:33

Though I have allready read it, this Chapters is awesome Very Happy

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Re: Sheo Darren stories

Post by Sheo Darren on Mon 1 Sep 2008 - 3:15

Black Whirlwind


The leader of the Covenant Reformation Group was not happy to see them.

Partly because Rolito and Giuseppe slipped past his guards and appeared unannounced before the man. Another reason was that Perrera had narrowly escaped capture or death at the hands of the NATO Sparrow Squad just a week ago. Then there were the grumbles within his organization, grumbles about his capacity and fitness to lead. It was enough to make anyone edgy. Especially of former associates who were the likeliest suspects of betrayal.

“You betrayed us to the authorities!” Spit sprayed out of Perrera’s mouth. “You led Section Two there!”

“No, we didn’t. It was your man– or, in this case, woman– who was the double agent. She infiltrated your ranks, not Amalgam’s. In fact, we forwarded you several warnings that you were penetrated by NATO. We even guessed correctly as to the identity of the infiltrator. But you didn’t pay attention to them.”

Not that his argument mattered. Perrera wasn’t listening. Political leaders are all alike.

“Good soldiers died because of that treacherous act. There will be justice for them, God willing!”

“We also lost some of our men there. And as to revenge, that’s why I’m here.”

“You want our help? You expect us to believe you?”

“That’s your problem, not ours.” Okay, maybe not. “Or do you really want revenge?”

Giuseppe shifted his stance so slightly. Only his sensei noticed.

“Hmm?”

Sensei, guards are approaching.”

“Oh? Ah, well.”

Incredibly, but foolishly in Perrera’s opinion, the assassin stood there and waited.

Armed men flooded the room. Rifle muzzles leveled at Rolito and Giuseppe’s heads. Perrera allowed himself a vicious grin.

“So our situation is reversed now, eh? Even your cyborg boy cannot survive being shot in the head at point blank range now, can he?”

You’d be surprised, Rolito didn’t say, even as the half-mad man continued ranting. He didn’t need to visually survey his surroundings to know he was in deep trouble– or a golden opportunity.

Targets. All targets. All within reach. Lives practically begging to be snuffed out. Warm blood asking to be spilled. Fresh meat for the chopping block.

He felt his kindness slipping away. He let it flee. He knew it would return in due time. In its place he welcomed a darker being, heartless, bloodthirsty by accident but loving it, the being he’d inherited from a friend long dead, an invaluable Trojan horse. His smile turned evil.

“I was hoping to discuss things rationally.” He almost mewled, like a cat playing with a mouse. “Ah, well.” Rolito shrugged.

In his mind, a pool of absolute black rippled.

“Dispose of–”

The guards should have brought handguns, or at least submachine guns. Compact weapons better for close quarters combat. It probably wouldn’t have mattered, but the thought counted. As it was, the heavier assault rifles couldn’t follow the whirlwind of black that exploded so close, too close, to them.

Close enough for the sword.

His katana hid in plain sight. Somehow it never caught the attention of people who should have known better. Rolito expertly used himself as a decoy. Made people focus on him, his face and voice and opinion, sticking out like a sore thumb, while the real killer was tucked flush between his right arm and body, the hilt pointing down, awaiting release from the shackles of morality and rationality.

It had a name. Masakari.The name of a killer worse than him, far darker. His rival. His friend.

He was right-handed. But also ambidextrous by necessity. Yet another affected
deception. Even he was no longer completely sure what was real and what wasn’t.

Am I real?

Real is this moment. Real is me. Real is the death I dish out.

Finely tempered steel hissed out of its sheath and into flesh. Masakari flashed silver. Blood and gore spattered the wall, the guards, Perrera, the killer in their midst and the boy who watched.

Perrera bore grim witness to Rolito shredding every one of his picked bodyguards. His denial was rhetorical, his horror absolute. Impossible! No man can move that fast! No swordsman can beat a platoon of riflemen! Was that a blade sticking out of his right hand?

Giuseppe remained perfectly still. Even as the man who held a rifle to his head turned, attempting to bring it to bear on approaching death, even as that same man died, cut down emotionlessly. Only his eyes moved. Watching his sensei, recording the slaughter before him, learning everything he could from the example.

And it was over. All the guards were dead. A snickt sound; the blade disappeared from his right hand. Rolito turned towards Perrera, who took a step back. A blur, then the razor killing edge was at his throat, stopping just at his jugular. One gulp or swallow on his part– he froze in place.

The orbs that focused on him were black and blank and merciless. “I could kill you here and now. It’s that easy. Always has been.”

Perrera felt dampness in his crotch. He had peed in his pants.

“But I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to give you a chance to get back at the people who attacked you. At Section Two and their dolls. That makes me a friend. Are you listening?”

“Y-Yes!”

“Good. Don’t worry. All expenses are on my organization’s part. Almost all the work and risk is ours. And all I’m asking from you is ten men.”

Somehow Perrera found his voice. “Ten men are not enough. A hundred are not enough to take on those robot monsters!”

“Who said I’ll be taking them on with ten men?”

Perrera suddenly remembered that Giuseppe stood just a few feet away. And had not moved at all to defend his master. Unneeded.

“So, Mister Perrera? What do you say?”

He noticed something. Rolito’s left eye. Its movements were not quite right.

Wait– did that eye just glow?

“Hmm? I didn’t catch your reply, Mister Perrera?”

“Yes. I’ll– send the men to you immediately.”

“Good. I was hoping you’d see the light before this was over.” With a fluid movement, Rolito withdrew Masakari from Perrera’s throat, sheathed it and made it disappear once more. “By the way, you might want to change your pants.” He smiled genially.



Author's Note: CRG owned by Colonel Marksman.

This was a cancelled scenario from Life Goes On dating back several years ago. You can tell its age by the way it is written in comparison to how I write now.

Notably, I had originally conceived Rolito as a cyborg, the true prototype for Amalgam’s Project Child. His left eye and right side were supposed to be cybernetic. Hence, in LGO Chapter 13, his wondering when he last took his medicine (a scenario that survived into posting) implied conditioning of sorts. He was also more short-tempered and eager for violence.

Then I decided to just make him a Bad-Ass Norm, toned down his fighting abilities and gave him a flair for the dramatic, hence the Rolito of now.


Last edited by Sheo Darren on Tue 2 Sep 2008 - 10:30; edited 1 time in total
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Re: Sheo Darren stories

Post by Guest on Mon 1 Sep 2008 - 11:26

hence the Rolito of now.

The Bad-ass commando who can turn the tide of WWII single-handedly?

Hey, he is a powerful character!

Guest
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Re: Sheo Darren stories

Post by Sheo Darren on Thu 9 Oct 2008 - 2:17

The Commander

“Zero’s really not going to watch the duel?”
“He did say he had complete confidence in Kirika and Amaril.”
“He’s pretty relaxed about putting the fate of the world in the hands of a catfight.”
“Maybe it’s scripted?”
“Tell me a better one...”
“Maybe his helmet has a small TV in it so he can watch without looking like a pervert.”
“He can probably hear you, you know.”
“I don’t think he’s that kind of person…”
“Better a closet pervert than an open one.”
“Hey!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did I hit a nerve?”
“So, where is he?”

A black-gloved hand cast a quartet of playing cards upon the floor. “(Four on the floor,)” Rolito Miranda declared to his trio of ten-year-old companions.
“Argh!”
“That was very quick…”
Higashihara Nonomi pushed a small pile of snacks towards Rolito. She smiled. “It’s four of a kind, Zero-san.”
“(Ah. I forgot that.)” The helmet tipped apologetically. “(I still have to get used to this game’s terminology…)”
“Usotsuki,” Tsuzaki Shizuka complained. “This is your fifth straight win…”
“(Beginner’s luck?)”
“You’re cheating, aren’t you?”
“Shizuka-chan,” Hino Hakuya pleaded.
“(How so?)” Rolito asked.
“You’re wearing a mask,” Shizuka pressed. “We can’t tell if you’re nervous or confident or anything. But you can see our faces just right.”
“(Ah. If you like, I can always remove this–)”
“But then you’d have to kill us,” was the cross reminder.
“(I never kill cuties. Also, I will settle for pinky swears to keep my identity secret.)”
“I’m not a kid anymore, you know!”
“Shizuka-chan…”
“Let’s play Old Maid instead?”


Author's Note: A light moment late into an original crossover war story sequel to Life Goes On when the latter does end. Enjoy.
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LGO 24: Ciro preview - Tea Time

Post by Sheo Darren on Wed 20 Feb 2013 - 9:02

A/N: Hi, guys. As you all no doubt know by now, I'm awful when it comes to maintaining correspondences. So don’t be surprised if I vanish again for months or years after this. Still, you deserve better, so here’s the latest segment I’ve written for Life Goes On. Enjoy. I wish you all the best.

*---*---*

Tea Time

It was the tensest tea party Mireille had ever witnessed. Even the one she and Kirika were forced to have with Chloe in Paris couldn't compare in terms of the potential for sheer violence.

Henrietta glowered at the person she considered to be an unwelcome guest in her room. The brunette cyborg was edging closer and closer to the hair-trigger fight-or-flight response that Mireille had come to know and rely upon in combat- and fear outside of battle.

Kirika returned the cold stare with change to spare. Due to some trick of the light, her brown eyes seemed to take on the terrifying hue of red that declared she was indeed Noir, Darkness, the black hand that protected the peace of newborns by killing all threats.

If you dare to hurt Mireille, the two girls silently told each other, I will kill you.

If the genre-savvy Danielle had been present, -and had she not been too busy joining her glare to that of Henrietta's- the American cyborg would have claimed Etta and Kirika were being totally 'yandere' over Mireille.

Their mutual object of affection sighed. Birds of the same feather may flock together, Mireille wryly thought, but they didn't automatically like each other.

It's so hard being popular... and where did that come from?

She had organized this tea party to try and bring together the two important girls in her life. On her insistence and example, they had deposited their guns at the armory. And though Mireille trusted Henrietta and Kirika with her life, she still thoroughly patted them down for any hidden weapons. Especially Kirika; her friend had been working with a certain Mithril sergeant, and the latter was infamous for hiding a bazooka (among other weapons) within his civilian clothes.

Though proven wrong by the body checks she performed (and how happy she had been to be mistaken for once!) Mireille remained worried about possible bloodshed. She vividly remembered Kirika's penchant for using impromptu weaponry. A fork? A shank made out of the steel axle of a toy school bus? An ID card? And Henrietta was a weapon from brown-topped head to cute toe.

She had no choice, then. She needed to use her ultimate weapon, an attack that even Jean feared.

Busy trading glares at an ever inflating rate, Henrietta and Kirika were both taken by surprise when Mireille flicked their noses at the same time.

“Ah! M-M-Miss Mireille!”

“...Mireille?”

Critical hits on both targets. Mireille smiled. “Now, now, Etta, Kirika-chan,” she scolded. “No fighting. We're here to get along and enjoy our tea. And Etta, call me Mireille.”

“Yes, Mis- ah, I mean, yes, Mireille.”

“Yes, Mireille.”

The chastened girls pinned their gazes to their teacups, which Mireille filled with steaming hot black tea. Henrietta noted that her handler filled Kirika's cup first. That prompted the little girl to pout a little.

After her cup was filled, Henrietta reached for the sugar pot. But Mireille surprised her.

“Let me, Etta.”

The cyborg watched in near-awe as Mireille sweetened her tea just the way she had come to like it. Her rapt expression did not escape the attention of Kirika, who held her cup out expectantly.

“Mireille, I would like some sugar as well.”

“You shouldn't have to compete with Etta this way, Kirika-chan. You're only a few years younger than I am. Besides, I know you don't like adding anything to your tea.”

It was Kirika's turn to pout, though she did it with her soulful eyes instead of her small mouth.

“You two are so alike,” Mireille all but giggled.

“Eh?” Henrietta asked.

“We are?” Kirika murmured.

“You are both children,” she assured them.

“But I am a child,” Henrietta whined rather petulantly. “She isn't.”

Kirika frowned at the younger girl. Mireille hid her smile behind her mouth. Someone had obviously been taking lessons in sardonic wit from Triela and Claes.

“Kirika-chan wasn't able to enjoy her childhood the way you did, Etta, before you became a cyborg.”

Mireille had long forgiven her friend for killing her parents. But she could never forget the sight of an emotionless Kirika gunning down her mother and father before her very eyes.

Neither could Kirika, apparently. The girl immediately looked guilty despite having received Mireille's absolution. Henrietta noticed it as well, and despite her jealousy, she started feeling sympathetic for the other girl.

“And Kirika,” Mireille thoughtfully added for the benefit of her old friend, “you should know that Henrietta is like me. Etta is the only survivor of a brutal attack on her family. It was a miracle she survived.”

As part of her preparation to serve as Henrietta's handler, Mireille had read the classified report on her new ward's background. She was barely able to keep herself from reaching for her gun and going hunting right then and there. The only bright spot in that ugly affair was that Henrietta and Jose had already come upon those same serial killers and served them justice.

The looks Henrietta and Kirika traded were now of confusion mixed with a healthy dose of curiosity.

“Kirika-chan, why don't you tell Etta your story?” Mireille asked. “Then I can tell you two about Etta's story.”

“My story?” both girls asked.

“Yes,” they were told. “The story you and I share, Kirika-chan. In return, I will tell Etta's story for her because she doesn't remember her past. Her conditioning erased her memories before she became a cyborg.”

Henrietta thought it over. She had never given a moment of attention to her past. But if Mireille thought it was important for her, then she, too, wanted to hear about it.

Something nagged at her, though. Nagged. Who nagged a lot?

Stupid Hilshire... what would you do without me?

“Mireille?” Henrietta piped up. “Triela once said that our rooms are monitored.”

Only Mireille's intimate familiarity with Kirika and Henrietta's superhuman senses let them pick up the way the Asian girl went tense. Their gazes subtly followed hers when it briefly flickered towards an innocent-looking corner of the room, a corner Etta had never given any thought to until this moment.

Kirika had been an assassin. More so, she had been the world's greatest assassin, surpassing the Phantoms of Inferno or that Canaan woman or that mercenary Madlax. As an agent of Mithril, she not only retained all of her skills, but acquired new ones. She might not have her gun, but potential weapons surrounded her, including herself.

As was Henrietta, who entered her own state of hyper-aware battle reflex alert. Strangely enough, the junior operative didn't consider Kirika a threat. Etta disliked her, yes, because she was competing for Mireille's affection. But at the same time, Henrietta also knew she could trust Kirika to never hurt her handler. And Mireille certainly couldn't be the enemy. Then, who?

“I know,” Mireille told her cyborg partner. “I want the others to know. It's time for all of us to come clean, though. No more secrets. No more hiding in the darkness. Right, Kirika?”

“I believe you, Mireille.” And even if her friend was wrong, Kirika would do everything in her power to make it right.

Noir were surprised when Henrietta spoke up. “I also believe in you, Miss Mireille,” the little girl declared. “I'll protect you.” She reluctantly glanced at Kirika before adding, “And I'll protect Miss Kirika as well.”

And just like that, Etta had sworn her readiness to cut her ties with the SWA and doom herself to certain death, be it a slow one deprived of conditioning during a run from the law or a quick one in brutal battle with her cyborg sisters-in-arms. Just like that, Henrietta declared herself willing to fight for a girl she was jealous of, a girl she had been all too ready to kill just a minute ago, a girl capable of killing her in return.

Kirika could admire that. She, too, was capable of such loyalty.

“I do not remember my real name,” she began. “But you can call me Kirika Yuumura. I am Noir.”

to be continued
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Re: Sheo Darren stories

Post by Sheo Darren on Wed 3 Jun 2015 - 1:56

A/N: Chapter 2 of Black Phoenix as posted on ff.net.

X===X===X

Berlin, Germany


"Guten Abend, Herr Lange, Herr Klein," the portly gray-haired matron greeted the two men standing guard at the entrance of the posh penthouse.

"Guten Abend, Frau Steinar," replied the smaller, senior man. "You came earlier than we expected."

"Herr Pfeiffer asked for a fresh new lamb. And here he is."

Steinar planted her gnarled hands upon the shoulders of a thirteen year old boy. She pushed him forward none-too-gently for the guards' inspection.

The child had milky white skin and silvery hair. He dared not meet the guards' gaze. Instead he stared at his own shoes. His shy demeanor accentuated the doll-like delicacy of his appearance.

"This is Ion," Steinar grumped. "Greet the nice men, Ion."

"B-b-buna se-seara..."

"It's 'Guten Abend', you Romani brat." Steinar lightly rapped the boy on his head.

"G-gute Nacht," the tearful Ion squeaked.

Lange raised his bushy eyebrows. It was not every day that one saw an albino. "Where'd you find him?" he asked Steinar.

"Where else? Romania, of course," she clarified. "My friends there are very reliable."

That got Klein to bark in amusement. "Those inbred fuckers put rabbits to shame. They'll never run out of orphans," he agreed.

Lange rolled his eyes at his companion's coarseness. "You can go in, Frau Steinar," he said with a wave of his hand that declared Alles in ordnung, 'all is in order'.

"Thanks, Herr Lange," Steinar bit out.

"Herr Pfeiffer's gonna love him," Klein said as he opened the door for the pimp and her prize.

.

Joachim Pfeiffer was indeed appreciative of Steinar's gift. Clad in just a terry bathrobe, the stern man did not take his hawk-like gaze off the fidgeting Ion since the boy and his handler stepped into his bedroom.

After exchanging the usual greetings with Steinar, Pfeiffer reached for Ion's chin. The boy flinched as his face was propped up for examination. His fearful eyes were like amethyst marbles and dripped salty tears.

"He will do," Pfeiffer judged with the eye of a connoisseur. "You have my thanks, Frau Steinar."

"Send your regards to my account, Herr Pfeiffer. I'll fetch Ion in a week's time." Steinar glared at Ion. "You behave yourself now, boy. You hear me?"

"D-d-da, Do-Doamnă Steinar."

"It's 'Ja, Frau Steinar'," she scowled. "Honestly, children nowadays have no respect for your elders."

The door had barely closed behind the grumbling Steinar when Pfeiffer placed his hands upon Ion's cheeks. "Don't worry," the older man coaxed his newest plaything. "You will love this."

"I'm not worried."

Pfeiffer's eyes went wide. Ion's lavender pupils were suddenly hard and piercing. The boy's pale pink lips had peeled back to reveal pearly white teeth.

"I do love this."

And Ion drove his foot in between the astonished Pfeiffer's legs.

.

Outside, Klein and Lange were just biding the irascible Steinar a "Guten Abend" when a blood-curdling scream came from the direction of the master bedroom.

Klein winced. "Already? The boss usually takes time to savor his toys."

"That doesn't sound like the kid," Lange hissed while drawing his pistol out of his shoulder holster. "That was Pfeiffer."

"What? Steinar, what the fuck is going on?" Klein demanded of the old hag.

Steinar's answering smile flashed bright and blinding like the light reflecting off the knives that her pudgy hands plunged through the gaps between their third and fourth ribs.
.
Pfeiffer writhed across the carpeted floor of his bedroom. "You little prick," he wheezed while clasping his shattered nuts.

Ion smiled at him. It was the exact same smile Steinar had flashed the guards outside.

"Isn't that you?" the boy asked while pointing to Pfeiffer's exposed groin.

"I'll kill you," Pfeiffer promised through gritted teeth. "You and that whore Steinar... I'll kill you!"
Ion's smile grew even wider. His eyes seemed to glow with an eerie light. His tone remained sunny, which made his next words all the more chilling.

"Sora mea Masakari is not a whore," he mewled.

Pfeiffer kept his mouth shut. The more time this psychopath took to finish him off, the more time he could recover. Although: 'Who the fuck is 'Sora mea Masakari'?'

"She is a crazy bitch."

Ion abruptly turned his back on Pfeiffer. The boy took dainty steps towards the lone chair in the bedroom.

Baffled by the unexpected reprieve but relieved for the distraction, Pfeiffer started a desperate crawl for his bedside, where he'd hidden a pistol for this exact kind of crisis.

"My mother has butchered me."

Pfeiffer froze like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car. He dared to look over his left shoulder.

"My father is devouring me," Ion sang to the patter-patter accompaniment of his feet flitting across the thick red carpet.

The paralyzed Pfeiffer recognized the song. It was part of an old German folktale called The Juniper Tree. It told the story of a strange but innocent boy, blood-red and snow-white, who was murdered by a hateful stepmother, cannibalized by his unwitting father, and brought back to life by his faithful sister to wreak bloody revenge.

Pfeiffer loathed that story. His bitch of a mother used to scare him with it to put him to sleep. It achieved the exact opposite. He never was able to sleep soundly after hearing it.

"My brothers and sisters huddle under the table, gathering up my bones."

'That's wrong,' was the increasingly irrational Pfeiffer's disjointed thoughts. 'The boy in the folktale only had one sister. Her name was Marlene.'

Ion rested his hands upon the backrest of the chair. "They will bury them under the cold," he murmured.

CRACK!

His small hands gripped two lengthy chunks of wood, which he'd effortlessly wrenched out of the now-wrecked backrest. He grinned at the horrified Pfeiffer, the latter only now realizing that he had been doomed from the beginning, that the pistol would not avail him against this monster wearing the guise of a boy.

"You're a mechanical body-"
.
My mother, she killed me
My father, he ate me
My sister Marlene
Gathered all my bones
Tied them in a silken scarf
Laid them beneath the juniper tree
Tweet, tweet
What a beautiful bird am I
.
'Steinar' was waiting in the living room. The previously grumpy grandmother lounged upon the sofa like a lioness. A huge man-eater smile, all canine fangs, hung from her flabby jowls.

"How was it, Jess-chan?" she asked the blood-drenched 'Ion' who'd only now emerged from the finally silent master bedroom.

"Pfeiffer wanted me to play his fife," Jess chirped. "But it was too tiny to be useful, so I beat him like a drum instead."

'Steinar' brought her right hand as demure cover for her mischievous smile. "Ara, ara," she giggled. "He can't please even a little girl, so he turns to little boys..."

"How about you, Masakari sora mare? Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Yup!" She gestured to what appeared to be a normal section of wall. "Did you know that there's a door in that wall? It leads to a restroom!"

"Why would they hide the restroom?" Jess wondered. "What if someone needed to go in a hurry?"

"Wakaranai." After shrugging her shoulders, which she'd padded to assume the guise of Madame Pfeiffer, Masakari grinned anew. "But the restroom could fit both Lange-kun and Klein-kun at the same time, so it gets an eight out of ten in my book!"

To her surprise, Jess pouted. "Sora mai mare!" the girl scolded her senior. "I was going to use that restroom!"

"Eh? You have to go now?"

Jess blushed. "No! I was just going to wash up first before we left."

"Gomen, gomen. But what's wrong with the one in the master bedroom?" Masakari wondered. "Why didn't you use that one?"

"It works, but then I have to cross Lake Pfeiffer to get to it," Jess muttered.

"Lake Pfeiffer?" The older assassin waddled over to the still-open door of the bedroom and peered inside. "Ara... ara, ara," she murmured thoughtfully. "Just like Latveria..."

Jess stiffened. She didn't like to think of their stint in La- in That Country. It had been… messy, even for the likes of them.

"It's Latvia, sora Masakari," she softly corrected.

"Same thing." Masakari looked over her shoulder. "Did he make you really angry?"

"...Just a little," Jess reluctantly admitted. "He called you a whore."

Then she let out a squeak of surprise as Masakari drew her into an unexpected hug.

"Ah! Sora mai mare Masakari! You'll get blood all over your disguise!"

"It's okay to be angry, Gretel."

She went still. Her old name. It retained power over her. Even after she had died and been reborn as Jessica Dios.

"Smiling is still the best. I learned that from Okaa-san, who learned it from Obaa-san, and so on. But it's also okay to get angry," Masakari averred. "Because otherwise it will rip you apart from the inside. So if it feels too much for you, just let it all out."

Jess let herself sag into her adoptive sister. "I still don't like it," she mumbled. "It feels... it feels awful..."

She could only remember one time that she'd gotten angry. And it was-
.
I'm not going to die.
Never die!
I don't want to die!
.
"But that's what bad things are for," Masakari promised the shivering girl in her arms. "To make the good things better."

Jess thought back to the past, her past. The orphanage. The snuff films. The wild life on the run as a gunslinger girl & axe boy. And now this second chance. Not survival. Living.

"Sora Masakari? Did you ever get angry?"

The embrace tightened. "...Just once," Masakari confessed.

"Can you tell me?"

"It's a long story."

"Please?" Jess begged.

"...all right, but we'll wash up first."

"Thank you…"

In the midst of returning Masakari's hug, something occurred to Jess.

"Sora Masakari? Why do you like to tell stories while we bathe instead of after?"

Masakari grinned. "Fan service, my dear Jess," she revealed. "Fan service."
.
Later, still in the penthouse...

"There was a boy. I met him long ago. His name was Aldo Talon. He thought I killed his parents, so he tried to kill me."

The sopping wet murderess smiled fondly at the raptly-listening child seated between her raised knees as they shared a companionable soak in the scented water of the jacuzzi.

"And he succeeded," Masakari smiled at Gretel.
.
To Be Continued


Last edited by Sheo Darren on Tue 14 Jul 2015 - 3:45; edited 1 time in total
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Re: Sheo Darren stories

Post by Sheo Darren on Tue 14 Jul 2015 - 3:43

A/N: And here is HOW SPIDER ORCHID SHOULD HAVE ENDED (A Gunslinger Girl Carol).

X===X===X

"The snow glows white on the mountain tonight," enjoined the leader of the impromptu choir, her brown skin the perfect background for her paired golden ponytails and baby blue eyes. "Not a footprint to be seen."

"A kingdom of isolation-" continued another blonde girl, her much longer mane braided and her eyes a glittering green. "-and it looks like I'm the Queen."

"The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside," went the third blonde, a tomboyish girl with the shortest hair amongst the five.

"Couldn't keep it in," sang the fourth member, a brunette with shoulder-length mane and doe brown eyes. "Heaven knows I've tried."

Now it was the turn of the raven-haired girl who had requested this entire verse to herself as it struck a chord upon her heartstrings.

"Don't let them in. Don't let them see. Be the good girl you always have to be."

Her fingers found the black frame of her eyeglasses, the crystallization of her vow to her late mentor, memento of the promise of a devoted daughter to her fallen father: 'I will be a good girl.'

"Conceal, don't feel. Don't let them know."

With understated flourish she whipped off her spectacles and opened her eyes, physically and metaphorically baring the windows that lead to her brilliant mind and sheltered soul.

"Well now they know," she uttered.

"Let it go," all five girls sang together. "Let it go, can't hold it back anymore..."

.


Let it go, let it go.
Turn away and slam the door!
I don't care what they're going to say!
Let the storm rage on!
The cold never bothered me anyway.

.

By now the girls (who had just come back from watching the movie Frozen) had reached the final refrain of the viral earworm as vocalized by Idina Menzel.

"Let it go, let it go," Triela urged.

"-and I'll rise like the break of dawn," cheered Rico.

"Let it go, let it go," repeated Henrietta.

"That perfect girl is gone!" Claes vowed.

"Here I stand-" Elsa de Sica belted out.

And that was when Rolito Miranda walked right into the palpable wall of buoyant atmosphere erected by five pairs of little lungs.

Elsa went mute. She also turned red. Her friends hesitated.

Her handler cleared his throat with a gentle cough. Rolito took a deep breath.

"Here I stand in the light of day!"

Did Rolito ever mention he dabbled in musicals? He did. His favourite was Les Miserables and he considered Jean Valjean to be his hero.

"Let the storm rage on!"

And Rolito extended a prompting hand towards the just-arriving Hilshire, a gesture akin to passing the baton during a relay race.

Hilshire stared Schwerer Gustavs at his fellow handler. Nein, he silently refused.

Rolito flashed him a sappy grin. So did Elsa. Birds of the same feather, two crows made for a murder...

Henrietta was pouting like a lonely puppy. Rico was puzzled by the abrupt pause just before they hit the final crescendo, but after Elsa lightly elbowed her she decided to mimic her fellow Romans.

Claes had replaced her glasses. The resulting lens flare was ominous, to say the least.

But what decided Hilshire was the smile on Triela's face. His ward had donned a very inviting expression. In fact she looked downright alluring. One might even say she was being seductive.

The big German sighed. His broad shoulders (his ward jokingly nicknamed them 'Wetterstein' after the towering mountain group in Germany) shrugged.

"The cold never bothered me anyway," he grumbled.
Angelica applauded. Perro barked.

.

This was uploaded to Youtube, by the way. Half a million hits in just one day.

"PRISCILLA!"
.
THE END
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Re: Sheo Darren stories

Post by Thescarredman on Tue 14 Jul 2015 - 15:02

Saw and reviewed this on FFnet. Cute and funny, Sheo.
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Comments : .
Mario Bossi would make a better handler than Marco Toni. Come to think of it, so would Christiano.
.
Elizaveta didn't jump - she was pushed.
.
Sofia was pregnant. It would have been a boy.

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