Wild Arms PCV

[LaenVulpix]

{{OOC -

I tend to do this quite a majority of the time nowadays, what with the new tide of n00bs that have frequented Pokécharms as of late, but this RP will be Permission-Only. PM me or Katie to ask, plzkthx! Maybe we'll get a lotta Goodly RPers.

If we get any. Hopefully.

-innocent Firefox-eyes-


-spaz explodes-

Current RPers
-Fire Fox (yay?)

-Linkachu (yay!)

-Gardevoir Master (w00t~)
​

/OOC}}

BIC-


The day was as blisteringly hot as ever the man, perched dazedly on the splintered frame of an ancient wooden fence, could recall. Admittedly his mind was known to blur several days into a maze of memories, but his parched throat begged for anything - the smallest droplet of water - to rid it of the fishhooks each time he swallowed. Every bit of him was as dry and bleached-white by the sun as his surroundings, and he held the inevitable squint of any longtime rancher. His clothes were dusty and faded versions of their former selves, complimented vaguely by his straw-colored hair, stuck to his head by sweat, and hidden under a leather cowboy hat he'd owned since he was a young boy. He would've summoned up the moisture in his mouth to spit, for good luck one might say, but his mouth knew of this pending betrayal, and remained as lacking in saliva as the land before him was lacking in...

...well, anything, really.

Stretched out before him was league upon league of rugged dirt, baked to a stony consistency by the searing, unrelenting sun. Every few yards a speck of exhausted green would mark the lonely existence of a cactus, selfishly holding its water supply to itself until the next series of short storms swept by, and trails of marching insects weaved in and out of the broken earth in perfect awareness of their meaningless lives. The occasional vulture would make its way out here, only to be devoured by the packs of bloodlusting monsters the rancher knew lived only a short ways away. He had kept them away for a long while; it was only a matter of time before his old hands wouldn't be able to steady his single rifle at them in threat. They knew it too, and were waiting. After all, the only way they survived out here, that he knew, was by ambushing the rare passerby.

He wouldn't know. He hadn't left his ranch in nearly a year, since they arrived. His death loomed before him, a haughty knowledge that danced across his awareness with each day's departure. It was something he accepted, although he still enjoyed his days of gazing silently out across the wastelands he had known. His animals were all gone now, frightened into braking his fence and charging, blind with fear, out towards the horizon. The rancher imagined this was the monsters' doing as well, and if it wasn't, they could at least definitely be charged with taking care of the unprotected farm animals. His old rifle was rusted, and nothing but a bludgeoning tool at best. His last bullet had been fired to ward off the monsters' first attempts at him. Their own uncertainty of how dangerous he was - that was all that let him live nowadays.

For a moment the overpowering heat of the sun seemed to create a far-off shape in the distance - a wavering blur that was dark against the starched brown ground underfoot. Then it flickered out of sight, only to return moments later in a more solid state. And it was growing larger in the old rancher's eyes, no longer letting the sunlight question its tenability; accompanying it was a far-off hum, like a motor of sorts.

The weathered old man slowly stood up, quavering hands trembling as he recognized the shape for what it was - a piece of technology he hadn't seen in years. As it grew closer, with a speed that was startling and unnerving, the machine loomed far overhead - a dark navy-blue airship, glinting in the blinding rays of unfiltered sunlight, waxy and clean. It lacked any dust or accumulative battle markings, meaning one of two things, as far as the old man remembered. Either some sort of royalty was inside the whirring craft, or it was a new model, yet to be scarred by Filgaia's poor conditions. As slowly as it approached, the single second that it was overhead, blocking the rancher and his deserted farm from the sun and casting dark shadows over the sweeping wastelands, was gone before the man could lock his mind onto what had happened.

Another second passed, and he flinched as a powerful gust of tailwind flung his cowboy hat from his head, to settle in the dust behind him.

--Aboard the Royal Airship, Lir Stigma--​

The boy did not, in any form of the word, appear to be royalty. Despite his status, the youth's hair was untamed, steel-blue spikes flaring outwards, although it was cut at a reasonable length. He wore a plain black turtleneck shirt, although the cloth it was made of was more expensive than any common material, with no sleeves. His arms weren't bare, as he had thrown a mottled-grey jacket over it, with a wide turned-down collar of black, and his hands were cloaked by a pair of black, leather no-finger gloves. A pair of faded blue jeans hung on his hips, accented by the low-slung belt he wore for decorative purposes. A pair of pliable leather black boots covered his feet, covered for the most part by his pants' legs. A pair of loosely-tied scarfs hung were slung his neck, distinctly torn and weather-beaten but bearing their colors (one a dark navy-blue and the other a snow-white shade) flauntingly.

In fact, the only 'royal' part of him was the aura he emitted, calm and in control of his emotions, even in the heat of the current situation. His eyes, the left a unique dazzling silver and the right a contradictory deep royal-blue color that the majority of his family possessed, were expressionless - bored, even.

"Are you able to fully comprehend what I have just told you, boy?"

The character to whom this voice belonged possessed the same quiet, powerful aura, as well as the position to back him. Sporting dangerous cobalt eyes and short, styled hair of the same color, the head of the famous - or infamous - Lirvestigne family glowered solemnly down at his son - the one who had he had meant to succeed him in time, and the one he was now anxious to shed himself of. Kyoudai Lirvestigne was a name that was unrivaled in popularity, in good or bad spirits, throughout Filgaia.

It was him, after all, who was in control over what few, preciously-rare ARMs there were left in this dead, forsaken land. Taken them and kept them for himself, only allowing those with a certain level of trust see if they were even compatible with the demon-technology from another world. Cursed, they called it. Lived in fear of it. It seemed everyone was afraid of anything that offered power anymore. This impudent excuse for an heir didn't even qualify as a human anymore.

"Yeah, every word. When?" the collected youth replied, eyes settled firmly on his father's own.

"Early tomorrow, before we reach the next town - might you find your way from there."

The boy allowed himself a minute smirk. The expression did not travel to his eyes. "Generations of Drifters have before me, I will too."

"What?" The fancily dressed figure that was his father stiffened, if he wasn't already rigid enough. "Where have you heard of Dr- of those people? It was never in any of your lessons, that is certain."

"Books cannot be altered to suit your pompous tastes, father. I read about it in my spare time. I can do that, you understand."

The man flung out one gnarled hand, eyes flashing with suppressed rage.

"Enough of this! You are no more my blood than the guards standing on either side of that door, Kyure! You stripped yourself of the name 'Lirvestigne' and the lineage that goes with it when you continually attempted to thief from me. You are not worthy of an ARM, nor would I be foolish enough to offer you one. I'd soon enough find one of its bullets in the back of my skull!" he spat, bearing down on his son.

Kyure proffered him no signs of fear or frailty, narrowing his eyes slightly in disdain. "I see you know what you can expect of me, Sir Kyoudai Lirvestigne. And your punishment confirms your cowardice. Are you so unable to stomach killing me yourself that you would throw me out for the monsters that frequent this area to kill?"

"Do you want me to kill you, boy?"

"It would be a bad decision on my behalf to answer that question in the positive. No, I am fine with your punishment. I'd rely more on wild dogs than on you." the rogue-haired boy replied promptly.

"...then I shall see you tomorrow, boy, for the last time. Take him to his room, and ensure that he doesn't leave." The man twitched his head sharply to one side, and the blue-armored guards stationed wordlessly on either side of the large metal door took to Kyure's side like leeches.

He turned and fled the room in swift strides, allowing his pale hands to curl into fists only once he heard the smooth mechanics of the metallic door shut it with a click. He had no idea how he was going to survive in the desert wasteland his father meant for him to die in. And he was entirely lost unless he could get his hands on an ARM. And he had to find the right one, otherwise even that endeavor would be all for naught.

"Damnit..." he whispered to himself, turning his eyes upwards to study the florescent lights lining the ceiling overhead.

 

[Linkachu]

OOC: Sorry for the length XD

BIC:

"So I said to him, ‘Bill, if you keep running your mouth like that, I'm going to slap you so hard your dead mother will feel it!"

"Truly? To Bill? Then what happened?!"

"… Then… Then he looked me in the eye, stared me down for a few moments… And knocked me flat on my ass with one punch. My jaw has been paining ever since..."

"HAHA! Marx, you're a moron, you know that? Gutsy, but a moron."

It was a bright, breezy afternoon as a group of individuals walked down the quiet, country path, nestled cozily between two rising, grassy hillsides. Quiet, aside from the noisy chatter of two men, both middle aged, very plain looking and dressed in faded pants and shirts, though one of the two was sporting a nice shiner on his right cheek. They walked out in front of their little group, armed only with a dagger and a pitch-fork.

Trailing shortly behind was a rickety-looking caravan being pulled by two horses and driven by an elderly man and woman, their straw hats pulled down over their eyes to protect against the beaming sunshine. Two young children, a boy and girl, ran up and down past the caravan, waving at the elderly couple and the horses gleefully; giggling to each other while they played a game of never-ending tag. Finally bringing up the rear was a pair of middle aged woman dressed in long dresses, each the wife of one of the males up front. None of the individuals looked particularly any more well-dressed than the men, their clothes tatter, dirtied, and frayed around the edges. If looks said anything, one would have summarized that they were a poor family on their way to the nearest town in search of a new life.

It was not an uncommon phenomenon in this day and age. People would cling to their lives and homes as long as the blood of the land would allow, yet ultimately be forced one day to pack up all their possessions (what little they had) and migrate to more promising locations; places the slowly withering environment of Filgaia had yet to render uninhabitable.

"Ahh… Good times, good times…" the man with the bruised face, Marx, sighed nostalgically. He clutched his pitch-fork tightly and gazed sadly at the trodden earth, not looking to his mate as he continued to say, "It's hard to think that we'll never see any of that again. The café. The town. Not even pig-faced Bill… Are we really doing the right thing, Cecil?"

"We're doing the only thing we can, brother…" the dagger-wielding fellow, Cecil, replied, his eyes resting quietly on his sibling and dearest friend. "It's what has to be done to ensure our families‘ futures. What life would your son and daughter have had back in that forsaken place anyway? This is for the best…"

"Yeah… For the best," Marx sighed again. Clearing his throat to regain his composure, he looked back up to the other male with a sheepish grin, running a hand through his short brown hair and chucking, "I hate you seeing me like this, little brother. I must sound like a broken record!"

"Well… Maybe just a wee bit," Cecil chuckled back. He smiled warmly at his companion, "We'll be okay, Marx. You'll see. Everything's going to be-"

What felt like eternity happened in the blink of an eye. An axe sliced viciously through the air to impact blade-first with Cecil's forehead, driving deep through his flesh and into his skull as if his bones were hot butter. Blood was already gushing from the wound as the man's eyes went blank and he lost his footing, tumbling backwards to lay in a heap upon the now blood-stained path. For a few fleeting moments all that could be heard was the heart-torn wailing of Marx as he dove to embrace the lifeless body of his brother.

The horses neighed shrilly as the caravan came to an abrupt haunt, the pale and bewildered expressions of the other travelers locked on the now sobbing and wailing Marx and the body grasped within his arms. Another scream pierced the world then - that of Cecil's wife, who rushed past the other woman and the dumb-struck children to join Marx at Cecil's side. She was forced to skid to a sharp halt mere feet from the men to narrowly avoid another flying axe, her tearful eyes jerking to the northern hillside. They grew wide with horror at the scene unfolding before them.

Gobs. At least ten of them filing over the hill and rushing straight towards the caravan. The short, sturdy creatures, dressed in tattered clothing and boots, could have been mistaken for small men if not for their gnarled, troll-like features and inhuman noises. Regardless of their looks, though, gobs were highly intelligent and cunning creatures with their own moral code and hierarchy. An example of this was the single gob who was dressed specifically in red clothing, signifying his dominance over the group. With a broad axe raised high to the sky, the red-clad leader ushered the others forward towards their latest prize.

Suddenly the leader gave a shrill shriek and skidded to a halt, the rest of his group doing the same only seconds before a powerful blast of air tore perpendicularly between them and the humans, ripping up chunks of loose earth as it went. Humans and Gobs alike looked frantically for a source, their eyes locking upon the lone figure who leapt from the southern hillside and somersaulted through the air towards them. With unremarkable grace, the figure landed dead-center between the two groups and faced the Gobs, posed for battle with a long, curving, shimmering sword clutched in her hands - for a ‘her' is exactly what she was. A human female, looking to be no older than 17 or 18 years old.

The female's crimson colored eyes gazed over the blade at the gobs with the same exhilaration as her grinning expression. Her long, pale purple colored hair blew gently in breeze, as did her long, brown leather trench coat that reached down passed her knees, hanging open to reveal the off-white colored tank-top and dark green cargo pants beneath. On one side of her black and golden-buckled belt was the empty sheath for the weapon she drew now, held tightly within pale blue colored gloves, while on the other side hung a pouch that appeared to be stuffed full of items.

"Picking on helpless travelers again? You gobs never learn…" the female spoke with a mocking chuckle, smirking at the aggravated expression in the lead gob's eyes. Her expression shifted momentarily when she scanned the entire gob group. "Ten of you, eh? That could get messy with just a sword, and I think you ‘lot have already killed enough for one day."

"Are you… a Drifter?" the voice of Cecil's wife came then, making the purple-haired female adjust her footing slightly to stare over her shoulder at the woman yet keep the monsters insight. Marx's wife, his children, and the elderly couple now stood huddled together with Marx and the body, the remaining woman standing a few feet before them. Her face was streaked with tears, but it seemed that the fear had ceased her crying and turned her thoughts instead to survival. "Please," she started again, her knuckles white as she clutched her hands tightly together, "we don't have much to offer, but please… save my family from those monsters!"

"Way ahead of you, miss," the teenaged female replied with a smile. "We'll just consider this an IOU if our paths ever cross again. Drinks and dinner maybe?"

The older woman was almost taken aback by the young adult's peppy attitude under such extreme circumstances, but she chose not to continue the conversation and stepped back to rejoin her kin. There they watched in silence and prayer.

"Out of the way, girl, and we'll let you live!" the rather high-pitched voice of the gob leader piped up then, clutching his axe firmly and raising it slightly into the air.

The teenager simply smiled brightly, "It always amazes me how creatures like you can be intelligent enough to learn other languages yet still not realize when you‘re about to die. Guess it's the mistake of all creatures, eh?"

The cry by the gob leader then was clearly a word from their own language, the rest of the group breaking into a similar shriek and readying their weapons to rush the girl. There was no fear on the face of the Drifter, though, only an excited grin as she quickly sheathed her sword and leaped back, raising her right hand to the sky. It was difficult for the on-lookers to make sense of what was happening, but for a split second there was seen a sparkle of blue, followed by a small burst of light. It took all of a few seconds, but now a pistol-like firearm was grasped in the female's hand - a sleek black with a strip of red running down the center of the barrel on all sides. The red and black merged at the handle, and intrinsic golden designs could be noted on either side. While it was obviously a gun of some sort, the weapon itself had a very alien-like style to it.

"Here ends your days, monsters!" the Drifter cried, taking the weapon into two hands and concentrating on the 10 targets. Power rushed through her as the firearm whirled to life, almost as if it too were consciously taking note of each gob; locking onto their positions. "Split Shot!" the girl cried then, an enormous bright energy building up at the tip of the gun barrel. The sight dumbfounded all who watched. With a thundering blast the energy split, the fiery-charged bullets rushing outwards in multiple directions and striking each and every one of the gobs square in the forehead. Shrill cries of pain rang out as one by one the monsters fell to the ground, lifeless corpses of what they once were.

An eerie silence fell over the land then, the firearm wielder closing her eyes and taking a long, relaxing breath. "Heh. Guess that's that then. Job complete!" With that the girl spun around to smile at the travelers, the firearm resting quietly in her hand. "Everyone okay?"

The terrified expressions that congratulated her then were so predictable the Drifter felt like laughing. Each member of the travelers stared back at the teenager as if she herself were the monster, their bodies quivering; fearful eyes repeatedly moving from the face of the girl to the firearm and back again.

"That… that weapon. ARM!" Marx finally spoke up then, Cecil's dead body still embraced tightly to his chest. He brought the body even closer then, as if to protect it from the eyes of purple-haired female. "Who… Just who are you?!"

"Kaylee. Sorry, but I don‘t have a last name to give," the Drifter replied casually, though she couldn't help but feel a pang of hurt from the man's cold, threatening glare.

"You… bringing that demonic weapon here. Around my family…! Who do you think you are, wielding that thing like a toy? Do you even have any idea what it IS?! Of the plague of destruction caused by them!?" Marx's voice shook with rage.

"Yeah… Sorry for helping to save your lives," Kaylee merely grunted, ignoring his words as she gazed back at the trembling man blankly. She heaved a sigh and released her grasp on the firearm, the ARM suddenly vanishing back into a sparkle of blue and disappearing from existence. "I'd advise you folks to leave the body behind and get moving again. The smell of blood from it may help distract the monsters long enough for you to make it to town. Shouldn‘t be much further now."

Both Marx's and Cecil's wife's expressions twisted with horror and disgust at the very idea, but before they could retort the Drifter had turned her back to them and started off in the opposite direction. The travelers gazed after the teenager, a torrent of emotions filling them as they silently took in what had just happened. It'd been an event that would ultimately change their lives forever.

For Kaylee, it was all too familiar.

 

[LaenVulpix]

Kyure adjusted his lithe body on the mattress beneath him, although his movements offered no respite for the fear plaguing his complex thoughts. The sheets beneath him were scratchy, and askew from where he had fled the bed early that morning, jaw set and eyes flaring with defiance, to meet with his father. He had abandoned his dual scarfs, and they were draped over the straight metal back of his desk chair, lonely in the pale moonlight drifting through his room's porthole window. His broad-sleeved jacket lay were he had shrugged it off in the floor, and he could see its thin outline in the darkness with hawk-like eyes. One bare hand mauled through his vibrant silver-blue hair with the distracted motion of a deeply anxious person.

He hadn't missed the sound of clattering, booted footsteps pausing outside his door earlier, and what was more important was that he had not caught them leaving. His father had taken no precautions in ensuring his own plans were not skewered by Kyure's own determination to survive in the wastelands of Filgaia. He had stationed a guard outside his son's door, efficiently sealing him inside. And, as his dark, skeptical temper slowly boiled, the small youth could feel the urge to take action became harder to control.

"Damnit!" he growled fiercely, lacing his fingers together behind his head. "If he stationed some underpaid guard here all night, maybe he'll underestimate me and fall asleep. But knowing my father, he probably made it sound like the world hinged on me staying inside here..."

His voice, a low whisper in the silver-accented darkness, trailed off as he realized there was someone arguing with someone else outside his small cabin's door.

"...his brother, after all. You know our father, he won't mind if I see him. I won't even ask why someone is guarding him." a polite, timid voice was pleading, and Kyure could almost visualize the expression on this new arrival's face.

"...I...but your father insisted, Lionel...he made it sound very important..." another voice inserted, middle-aged but uncertain.

"What will I do, help him escape? I'm not a fighting person, Hugh." the first voice, slightly younger and carrying a strangely different pitch than Kyure's own, sighed. "Please?"

The lounging boy tilted his head lazily to one side, eyebrows raised. When no more quarreling ensued after a brief intermission, he felt a bemused smirk touching his face; it came as no surprise when the faint blips of sound, indicating that someone was punching in the combination of numbers encoded to keep Kyure's room just that - his room, greeted his ears soon afterwards. A whimper arose from the mechanisms inside the navy-blue steel, and then it opened with a muted whir.

Framed in the doorway with ever the exasperated glare, was a boy that could have been a clone of his father. Even with his pale skin and eyes filled with innocence, the blue-haired character's resemblance was striking. And very unlike Kyure's.

The younger of Kyoudai's sons did not, as he had pointed out, appear a fighter in the least. His skin had the ghostly complexion of his brother, minus what muscles Kyure had seemed to develop naturally. His own hair was tidily brushed, long bangs framing his face and standing out from the rest of his average-length locks of delicate, dusty blue. His dark blue eyes seemed soft, somehow, and untouched by the harsh skepticism and negativity found in either his brother or his father. A tall-necked, loose white shirt hung to his mid-thighs, accented in navy-blue along the sides and outlining the sleeves. His slacks were the same, although a pair of soft-leather black boots covered his feet. No matter his timid demeanor, the boy was struggling to express his anger the best he could.

Kyure maintained his detached smile, not shifting from his position on the uncomfortable bed.

"Don't grin at me like that, Kyu!" Lionel's voice was strained. "What all the guards are saying - that you're going to be executed tomorrow - isn't true, is it? It's not, right...?"

Kyure let the faux smile slide from his face, replaced with nothing but a serious stare. "Of course not. You know how rumors tend to transform as they are exchanged, don't you? Father isn't cruel enough to execute me, you know that. I told him I'm going to be a Drifter, and asked him to let me off the airship sometime tomorrow."

He sat up and swung his long legs over the edge of the bed in a fluid motion, unlacing his fingers and instead extending his arms to support his weight as he leaned back. After all, it wasn't worth seeing the anger on his brother's face, even if he disliked the idea of having Lionel feel abandoned. Unlike himself, Lionel maintained the trust and love for his father that children are meant to possess, and Kyure wasn't interested in stripping him of it.

"...a...Drifter? Those people in that old, dog-eared book you wanted me to read? You're going to expect me to believe that those rumors that you're going to be killed - they stemmed from you telling dad that you're going to leave?" commented Lionel after a pause for consideration. "That's the reason you have a guard in front of your door?"

Kyure remained silent for a few moments, his face inscrutable, studying his younger sibling with irritated eyes. The ship rattled quietly in the background, its low drone was one of those sound you can only notice if it's not there anymore, and the low-slung full moon subtly slipped out of view from the room's small window. After a moment that became increasingly awkward, Lionel opened his mouth, only to shut it abruptly when Kyure spoke out.


"Perhaps the guard outside my room was to prevent you and me from having this very discussion - or one similar to it," the silver-haired boy sighed condescendingly. His eyes were transfixed upon Lionel's own, challenging him as he continued, "And that same guard could be the spawning point for all these dramatized rumors. Or hasn't that thought occurred to you?...because that's all they are kid, exaggerations made by people so bored that they have to imagine something exciting is happening around them."

Lionel's eyes widened momentarily, as if he'd been mentally slapped, then he bristled. "Why is it that you always have that stupid arrogant tone to your voice, no matter what kind of circumstance you're in? Do you do it on purpose, or is it really second-nature to you? Of course the thought occurred to me - along with several others. That's why I came to see you and get the record straight! You don't honestly think of others, do you? You wanna shoulder the world, but you're so obsessed with putting yourself first, there's no room for it...that's what this Drifter business is about, isn't it?"

He broke off, hands balled into fists, and as he absorbed the idea he relaxed, as was his nature.

"You can't save the world, Kyure. If it needed saving someone else would have noticed - as it is, there's nothing we can do but move on. I honestly don't want to leave you behind." Lionel shook his head, mostly to himself, and cast his eyes downwards. "I don't suppose you're going to do anything but dismiss my ideas as a 'kid' on a rant, despite the fact that I'm thirteen - and you're only two years more than that. If I see you again, then maybe I'll know I was wrong..."

Kyure watched without speaking - without feeling the need to speak - until his brother was halfway out the door. And even as his mind already murmured how wise Lionel's words were, his heart acted on impulse. He was tugging on his boots while he mulled over how far yet close his sibling had ventured towards his true nature, tucking them into his pants to protect from the ever-shifting sands that blew across Filgaia's surface. His arms shrugged into his wide-sleeved, mantle-like jacket, and his fingers spread while he pulled his thick, element-resistant gloves. After a moment wherein he felt an instant of jerking listlessness, Kyure shook his head fiercely, like a dog ridding itself of water. His hands closed over the two scarves slung, one on top of the other, over the thin metallic back of the desk chair, and he tucked them loosely around his neck with the precise movements of a practiced hand.

I do hope I see you again, Lionel...

He let out a nostalgic sigh for his one true confidant for all his year; one who was now yet another he had ensnared in his lies. His eyes drifted to the closed metallic door and narrowed, dispelling the whimsical thoughts from his immediate attention as he focused on what he needed to do.

Usually, it had been the code to the door holding the ARMs that had kept him from entering, and the day he had gotten through (the same day his father officially disowned him) it was the earsplitting alarm the door emitted without proper authority. A key card held by members of Lir Stigma's Guard, specifically.

If he was fast enough, his father had set up everything to make the ARMs accessible...if he could just...

Kyure sketched out his movements in his mind, satisfied with the end result.

His mismatched eyes glittered with expressed determination. Because if he couldn't find the ARM...the object that had been calling out to him...leaving his father would have no meaning.

 

[Gardevoir Master]

A beat-up looking biplane clunked and shuttered through the air. One looking at it might marvel at the very idea that it could fly at all. It shook constantly from turbulence of its own design and smoked like it had been promising to quit next Tuesday for the past several years. The paint had long since faded, painted over with a color that matched it in concept only which has faded a little more recently, but not before being painted with yet another color that looked like it could have easily been mistaken for one of the first two if they weren't there for comparison. Its fuselage had patches in it that were in sore need of patching, and the propeller was spinning so slowly you could almost count the revolutions by hand.

And yet, still it flew, purely to spite logic. Its pilot/mechanic would often argue the plane's ability to fly was facilitated by its own bull-headed desire to prove it still could so it could rub it in the faces of everyone who said it can't. However, amazing a sight it is to see on its own, it was even more mind-numbing to see it tow what appeared to be a combination motor home and garbage scow behind it as if it were a banner advertising a sale at a local car dealership. The whole deal tugged cantankerously along, occasionally dropping the odd spare part or two from the scow.

At least, it was hoped that those were spare parts.

Fortunately, there was rather clever science behind the old jalopy's flight, conceived by the three greatest minds to ever haul scrap metal by plane. It was no coincidence that said three minds were in the plane at that very moment. Those three were George LaForce, his wife Tatiana, and their only daughter, Ninya. The science involved the cobbling together of technology and mechanical parts that were already older than Ninya, who by all appearances was nine years old, and due to near-constant wear and tear could probably break down at any moment.

Right now, for instance.

"Safest way to travel, my ass," George LaForce swore as he began to feel the drag of a stalling scow. He had a mustache you could sweep a floor with and a nose that looked like it could drive nails, and they were pretty much the only things you could see from behind his aviator goggles and leather flying helmet.

"Looks like nacelle number three has blown an actuator," Tatiana LaForce shouted forward after a quick look back. She was dressed similarly to her husband, but her face was hidden beneath an old scarf. "We'll have to stop and make repairs."

"I'll fix it!" Ninya piped up. Strands of red hair poked out from underneath her helmet and fluttered in the wind. "I can do it right now! I'll just climb over and..."

"Negative," George shouted back. "It's too dangerous! I shouldn't have to tell you what could happen if you try to fix a machine while its still in operation!"

"I'll be careful!" Ninya shouted forward as she stood up in the co-pilot's box. "If I can divert the power train from the nacelle's drive axle and remove the primary gear from the truncation module, I could safely..."

"No means no, little one!" Tatiana exclaimed, forcing Ninya back onto her lap. "Even if you could repair the nacelle in while it‘s functioning, the altitude and wind-speed alone make it too much of a risk. There are just too many factors involved to justify the risk."

"I'm not a little girl anymore, Mom," Ninya argued. After a moment of awkward relative silence, she said, "You know what I mean. I can do this!"

"Listen, Ninya, darling, we're not doubting your skill or talent," her father called back. "Hell, you have a better grasp of this stuff than we did at your age. But you have to know your limits! There's a big difference between theory and practice, and now is not the time to test theory."

"But this is Gob territory!" Ninya protested.

"I'd rather worry about Gobs than you," George argued. "We are landing. End of discussion."

"But Da-ad!" Ninya argued. She began to stand, but Tatiana pulled her back down and held her close. "Mo-om! Let me go!"

"There, there, baby," Tatiana cooed, stroking Ninya‘s head through her headgear. "Your Father and I love you very much. You know that. We couldn't bear to lose you if anything happened to you. We only want to keep you safe."

"But I'm not a baby," Ninya pouted into her mother's bosom as the biplane made its descent. "Neither of you can see that… Nobody can…"