What's new

Welcome to Kingdom Hearts Insider

Join us now to get access to all our features. Once registered and logged in, you will be able to create topics, post replies to existing threads, give reputation to your fellow members, get your own private messenger, and so, so much more. It's also quick and totally free, so what are you waiting for?

Ask question

Ask Questions and Get Answers from Our Community

Ask a Mod

Ask Questions from your staff

Contact Staff

If you need additional information or have a concern please contact us.

  • Hello everybody! We have tons of new awards for the new year that can be requested through our Awards System thanks to Antifa Lockhart! Some are limited-time awards so go claim them before they are gone forever...

    CLICK HERE FOR AWARDS

[R3-B8] LongLiveLife v. Piercing Light



REGISTER TO REMOVE ADS
Status
Not open for further replies.

Lord of Chaos

Once more 'round the room we waltz.
Joined
Nov 29, 2004
Messages
5,623
Reaction score
0
Points
0
Location
Within the Masquerade
"Welcome Racing Fans! In today's Race of Doom we have two up-and-coming battlers vying for a spot in the Grand Tournament! This is sure to be full of mayhem, violence, and ALL OUT SPEED! Let's get down to it! On your mark! Get Set! BOOM!"


Setting: The Station Abomination--A race track set in space, complete with land mines, lasers, traps, and all sorts of stuff the mind can come up with. It leads into a giant arena, circular in shape, with six pillars spaced evenly around the arena. Every 10 seconds, heat seeking missiles are launched. Crowds are watching from behind safe barriers. It is here you do battle.

Rules: This is a vehicular battle. Each opponent will design their own vehicles (nothing futuristic, the more realistic the vehicle idea, the better) complete with their own customizations: lasers, grenade launchers, etc. You are to:

1.) Race into the Arena (your first post will consist of you completing the track and will demonstrate ALL weapons that your vehicle has, in order to keep people from suddenly bullshitting something. Neither of you are allowed more than 4 weapons).

2.) Battle it out in the Arena. Ram each other, blast each other, etc. Last working vehicle wins.

3.) Other than that, standard rules apply--god moding, power-playing, etc.

4.) BONUS STAGE: TIMER!!! You both have the course of 10 minutes to kill each other. What that boils down to is 5 posts APIECE, not counting your introductory post. At the end of which, if a winner is not decided, the arena blows up, and you both die. The victor will be decided by myself and Orion at that point.

EDIT: Other Rules...

-- One Driver Per Car
-- No Non-Car weapons either
-- No super-powered weapons like atomic missiles or the like.
 
Last edited:

LongLiveLife

Bronze Member
Joined
Aug 11, 2010
Messages
2,102
Reaction score
0
Points
0
And so it came to this, a race to the death. If this didn’t get the adrenaline flowing, Cale Rivera, driver of the chrome-finish Bugatti Veyron revving at the start line, did not know what could. And he loved every second of it. The feel of his gloved hands wrapped around the steering wheel. The unique scent of the terracotta leather interior. The muted echoes of the cheering crowd that penetrated the cabin, whetting his bloodlust. It all reinforced his burning need to come out of the other end alive, to take down anything that hindered his success. Or anyone.

He pushed down once more on the accelerator, and behind him the smooth whir of the eight-liter W16, twin-cam quad-turbocharged engine came alive, roaring under his command. There is a certain bestial satisfaction in the knowledge that the Veyron is the fastest road-legal vehicle to date that only men with big cars and bigger egos appreciate. Cale Rivera was one of these men. His mechanic maestro, Deirdre Samuels, had been tremendously useful at every stage of the car’s reengineering. Months ago she had taken it apart piece by piece, injected her magic upgrades, then stitched it back to pristine perfection.

So perfect were her modifications that the reactive armor plates fitted over the carbon fiber body were invisible to the lay observer. This armor is made from twin Dyneema layers, high-modulus polyethylene fiber composites with a strength-to-weight ratio up to one hundred times greater than steel, sandwiching a middle explosive liner. Upon penetration, a local region of explosive detonates, adding resistance to the oncoming projectile, propelling it away from the site of impact, and raising its effective jet velocity. Injected into the carbon fiber body is a custom-made D3O gel filling, a soft, pliable polymer that instantly hardens on impact, absorbing kinetic energy and protecting the inner body from the explosive force of the outer armor and any shrapnel that succeeds in penetrating the armor. And all still keeping with the car’s sleek and smooth veneer.

Through the aluminum oxynitride glass windscreen Cale saw the red lights flash yellow; in another second the race would begin, and all hell would rain loose when the combatants flaunted their weapons for the crowd’s gawking pleasure. He, too, was eager to see what the competition brought. Whatever the case, one thing was certain: not even .50 caliber bullets – ammunition that could cut right through an airplane, given it succeeded in hitting in the first place – were going to find their way through the glass.

The lights flared green. Even before he consciously registered the change, his foot had rammed the accelerator into the car. The Veyron shot from zero to sixty in 3.43 seconds, scorching the auxiliary-supported run-flat tires on the tarmac and slamming Cale’s body into the seat with the mounting g-force. Spectators would only remember a silver bullet searing through the racetrack.

The first turn was fast approaching. Perfect. An opportunity to flaunt the car’s hidden artillery. The crowd would go wild when they saw it, and it was for their unanimous roar of approval that Cale thirsted. For as effective defensive mechanisms all aspects of the armor were, they were invisible to onlookers, at least until they saw them repel even 7.92 mm anti-tank ammunition. Spectators in their testosterone-doped bloodlust only engaged with the armory, and Cale always aimed to please the masses. From the front, in between the headlights, the grill retracted. Inching slowly out of the space was a black, metallic tube. The Bugatti swerved to the right. Suddenly two flashes burst from the tube, the second roughly half a second after the first, and two masses shot out, trails of smoke chasing after them, like comet tails. The spheres bounced on the floor once, twice – the leftmost one managed a third – before both exploded in a brilliant flare of light, heat and sound in front of the barrier that shielded the spectators. Over the screech of the tires on the tarmac and the purr of the engine from behind, Cale heard the stadium erupt with life. He’d had a similar reaction himself when he installed the modified, fully automated XM307 grenade launcher in the front boot.

White movement in both side mirrors. The walls all along the straight were closing in, and Cale had an idea the hydraulics that powered them would crumple his precious like paper. Not today, he thought. Grinning, he slammed the accelerator. His fist flew to the large circular button in front of the hand brake in one swift bang. The centercaps on all four wheels popped out, and a point protruded from where each had been. It was spinning (at a rate of two thousand four hundred revolutions per minute), lengthening and widening at the base. These were polycrystalline diamond drill bits that borrowed the wheels’ movement as their own and were very, very sharp.

The Veyron was fast; most of its body had cleared the closing walls. Still, part of the rear was within the ‘clamping zone’, as it were. A force rammed Cale’s body forward, and for a shuddering second Cale felt his heart drop; the drill bits had clipped, clean, through the final inch of the closing metal walls, and he had felt it.

Heart racing. Pupils dilating. Ventilation accelerating. The adrenaline was kicking into high gear, and so was he. The exit was now in plain sight. It was a ramp pointing to the ceiling of a wide, open space. The crowd cheered him on, on, ever faster. At the last moment, he activated the fuel release. A black discharge from the Bugatti’s rear smeared over the ground. And in the space of a second, he emptied about ten percent of his tank. More than enough left for the battle, and plenty for his current plan. And then he was airborne.

To the audience, there was no difference between when the front wheels hit the ramp and when the rear wheels left it. The silver bullet was in the air before they registered the pool of black sludge it left in its wake, sliding downward like a grotesque waterfall with gravity’s pull.

The Veyron landed with a powerful thud that propelled the audience into another wave of excitement. Cale pulled the handbrake, swung the steering wheel as far right as it could go, and forced down on the accelerator. In a fraction of a second, the car’s rear completed a full one-eighty degree arc, front wheels pivots. In a perfect semicircle, red dust from the arena exploded in angry columns, swirling in a vortex above the car. The headlights flared alive with full, blinding white light, facing the ramp from which the car had come. And then as quickly as they came, they vanished, replaced instead by twin emerald beams ascended the wall, leaving two clean, converging trails of cleaved metal. These were neodymium-YAG lasers – industrial strength cutting lasers, rated at two kilowatts each – powered by a separate, dedicated power generator housed beside the engine, and controlled manually by a simple control panel on the steering wheel. They had converged to one point by the time they reached the top of the ramp. The oil slick burst into flames when they did.

Cale deactivated the lasers. Sitting, facing the only entrance into the arena, he waited for his opponent’s arrival, thumb hovering over the grenade launcher activator. He was grinning – it was a smile more scary than humorous. Even if his opponent succeeded in clearing the ramp without the oil slick causing a sudden loss of traction, making a reverse landing on the car’s roof more probable than not; even if the heat of the fire didn’t quite reach the fuel tank, and a one-hit K.O. explosion that he oh so strongly hoped for didn’t happen; even if by some stroke of a miracle his only competition made it into the arena unscathed, its wheels would still be coated with burning petrol, melting the rubber to useless puddles, and he would be waiting. Waiting for the kill.
 
Joined
Jul 21, 2008
Messages
7,136
Reaction score
19
Points
40
Awards
4
Age
28
"Always in a rush..." Leon, The driver behind a black modified Lamborghini muttered to himself as he pushed his right foot down on the gas. He eased down the track, getting to about fifty-three miles per hour in five seconds. Turning the first corner he could feel the weight of the tempered armor, made of shimmering steel. Already a car passed him, pressing a button on the steering wheel the front hood popped open, splitting from the middle so it did not get in the way. The engine was in the back, so he made full use of the space in the front trunk. Inside was one of his cars weapons, one he was about to use right now. Pushing another button a cannon popped out. It looked like a simple grenade launcher, but it didn't shoot 'simple grenades.' A glass canister was shot out, sent flying with a spring. Making contact with the car in front of him it exploded in a thermite reaction.

The molten metal sparked and melted through the car like it was butter. It wasn't long before it reached the car's gas tank, resulting in an explosion. Steering clear of the burning wreck he spotted another car approaching from behind, with the flip of a switch a panel on the right side of his car flipped open. A cylinder shaped stick of C4 dropped onto the race track. Holding his thumb over the detonator he waited for the right moment. It was a crude weapon, but still damn effective. 'click' In the next moment the car behind him was lifted from the ground, landing on it's hood. Continuing down the track at a steady pace he was alarmed to see the pavement ablaze ahead of him. Stopping suddenly would make him an easy target, so instead he activated a second spring loaded grenade launcher. Firing the weapon another glass container holding a white substance shattered on the track, this was repeated with two more. It was liquid nitrogen, enough of it that it cleared a path for him to the ramp as it applied a thin layer of ice. Stepping on the gas the car hit the ramp and went air-born for a good two seconds before hitting the ground again.

The suspension held up, and he evened out the car and kept going at 40 MPH. It was then that he noticed the car that had sped ahead at the start of this 'death race.' He just knew this guy was about to pull something, so Leon flipped another switch on his dashboard. A panel on the left side of the car slid open, and what looked like a missile came forth from it. It shot off, locking onto the heat signature of Cale's prized Veyron. It had a limited tracking ability, not being able to make sharp turns, however it made up for it with speed. The missile was designed to not explode right away on contact, but to stick to whatever it hits with a high grade adhesive. Once it does, it splits open and leaks a foam that rapidly spreads around it's target. It could easily disrupt a drivers vision.
 

LongLiveLife

Bronze Member
Joined
Aug 11, 2010
Messages
2,102
Reaction score
0
Points
0
OOC: Sorry for the delayed post; I've been busy preparing for my exam today. Now it's over, I rushed this to give you at least some time to reply, Piercing Light!

[EDIT] Oh whoops, I just checked the Tournament thread and the end of the round is 5th
June, not 5th April. My bad. Ignore my babble.


All but the tip of the Lamborghini’s bumper had emerged from the ramp, but already the Veyron was rushing in reverse. Blue smoke gushed freely from the wheels. Cale had anticipated his opponent’s effortless bypass of the fire trap. Later he would revel at the ingenuity of the liquid nitrogen cassette – wondering how in the world it had been constructed to withstand the phenomenal positive pressure of sufficient compressed gas to extinguish ten good square feet of burning petrol, without causing a premature explosion in storage, or how indeed a simple spring loaded grenade launcher could have launched the resultant gargantuan mass. Now his mind was set on one thing: evading the white fleck growing in size and speed with each passing nanosecond. No doubt it was a projectile from the Lamborghini’s mobile armory. What it would do on impact, however, Cale had no interest of finding out.

That the flow of time is purely perceptual and completely mutable, given proper circumstances, is a common motif in works of science fiction. In The Matrix Keanu Reeves dodged bullets simply by altering his perception of time; James McAvoy learned the same trick in Wanted. How entertaining both movies had been! Most things were when they were more fiction than science. Until today, Cale Rivera regarded writers of the genre with the sympathetic patience one gives the mentally challenged – There, there, it’s okay, at least you tried – dismissing the crockpot of physical and biological absurdities the genre espoused as absolute impossibility. Until, that was, he too experienced the adrenaline-charged surge in his neural circuitry, grounding all movement to a state of almost perfect stillness. His thoughts were racing at two thousand miles per hour and the rest of the world was standing at zero. He could see the thin, grey wisps trailing after the oncoming missile, like the phantom tendrils of an invisible plant. He could see the black Lamborghini behind it, a sleek metal puma prowling the dirt track, coming fast (slow?) at him. In the rear view mirror he saw five more missiles blazing in his direction. He immediately recognized them as the arena’s inbuilt death assurance – the heat-seeking missiles that rained Armageddon in neatly defined ten second intervals.

Hyperventilation, tachycardia, hypertension aside, all adrenaline-accelerated thought had brought him was the recognition that he was surrounded and Hell was fast approaching.

Unless…

Was it too far a cry to imagine that his opponent’s missile also ran on infrared homing? It was almost utopian, but it was better than nothing. He had not taken his eyes off of the missiles, hadn’t had the time. The cumulation of his thoughts had spanned the duration of a tenth of a second, maybe less. The car was still in reverse, gaining momentum and speed. Perfect. Cale pulled the handbrake up, rammed the steering wheel as far right as it would turn, then activated the fuel release.

Though his thoughts were faster than normal, everything around him was not, and the tortoise crawl spin of the car was agonizing for more reasons than one. Cale had never been a fan of high-g maneuvers. They were always something best left for spectating than performing. Now his brain registered every Newton of centrifugal force pushing his body into the leather lining of the door with stark clarity. But in the bigger scheme of things, this was but a mild consequence. The true torture was psychological: watching the missiles fly, converging at an imaginary center, on which his car stood like a neon signboard, while he willed with electrical fury for the car to turn, turn dammit, turn!

Petrol sprayed in a rough circle behind the back tires as they roused the dirt in malevolent dust devils; the front tires acted as a fulcrum for the Veyron. The missiles veered but stay remained true to their target. It was the only heat source detectable in a hundred meter radius. It was the four-point-two million-dollar Bugatti drawing circles in the soil.

At last, he made the full three-sixty. How long had it taken? How long did he have left? Didn’t matter, he wasn’t – oh my, resorting to clichés; if he wasn’t already, now was definitely the time to start panicking – out of the woods yet. He dropped the handbrake. Straightened the wheel. Drove the accelerator into the car. Exited the circle. And then launched a grenade. It landed perfectly in the center of a band of fuel, and for a moment there it rested, tranquil, calm. Then it swallowed Cale’s vision in a brilliant pyre. Twin columns of fire erupted from the explosion and raced on opposite sides on the petrol-doused path. The sudden bonfire bathed the arena with an infrared overload. Advanced as they were, the missile guidance systems were incapable of differentiating the blaze from the Veyron. They chose their targets on the basis of heat.

They were choiceless.

All six missiles collided into the circle of fire, and conflagrant soil flew from the crater in Hellish fireworks. An odd white foam sealed the flames before they could follow the tire trail of petrol leading to the Veyron. Shrapnel from the explosion flew everywhere. Pieces of earth the size of bricks struck the ALON windscreen, but they bounced off without so much as a scratch. Smaller pieces landed on the metal front. One succeeded in activating the car’s reactive armor; a small section of the car’s exterior exploded, and it was turned to powder before Cale even registered the bump. It seemed the adrenaline-driven time expansion had run its course and now it had run out. Fun while it lasted, Cale thought, the thrum of his heartbeat still loud in his ears.

Such an explosion would undoubtedly generate sufficient force to propel fragments far enough, and with enough strength, to strike and damage the Lamborghini, too; but Cale was not content. No, to win this, he would have to take the offensive, and the surest way to do it was with close range combat.

Back where he had come, in a quaint suburb in Iowa, he was a feared and revered driver. The police didn’t even try to catch him when they caught his car speeding on the roads – experience had taught them attempting the impossible was futile. He had a knack with tight corners and sharp twists that no police, man or woman, could replicate. The cost of repairing countless dented doors, broken front lights, punctured tires, paint scratches and fractured windows was far greater than the driver was worth. And it seemed to them that the psycho actually got a thrill from being chased. His skill was far beyond theirs, and he was simply not worth the liabilities.

Cale grinned. Try to outrun my J-turns, I just dare you. He sent the car racing forward at full throttle. From all four centercaps the polycrystalline diamond drill bits were spinning fast and fierce. Suddenly he swung the steering wheel and the Veyron was sent on a sharp lateral drift, body parallel to the Lamborghini. Its driver had less than a second before the drills penetrated not just the car but into the interior, into the driver's seat. Into the driver. There was blood to be shed tonight.
 
Last edited:
Joined
Jul 21, 2008
Messages
7,136
Reaction score
19
Points
40
Awards
4
Age
28
Well, honestly I'm finding it hard to think of anything. You win this one LLL.
 
Status
Not open for further replies.
shape1
shape2
shape3
shape4
shape5
shape6
Top