Welcome Guest [Log In] [Register]
ZetaBoards - Free Forum Hosting
Join the millions that use us for their forum communities. Create your own forum today.
The General SOTF Discussion Thread
Also, I think we're underselling the kids a little, in that people in this thread are assuming they're all so colossally stupid as to try to fire a rifle like a pistol. Plus, assuming any weapon fired is instantly going to go flying across the room is just as unrealistic as perfect lack of recoil. :P

(I still think "everything happened as in the real world, except with SOTF jammed in" is a waste of an alternate world and not to mention really boring. It makes the game look kinda shoehorned.)

The General SOTF Discussion Thread
1) I know in the really early days there were implications/mentions that 9/11 and the War on Terror (aka, let's kill all the brown people and steal their stuff!) still happened, such as Kaishi stating the AT weren't Middle Eastern and had nothing to do with 9/11, and a memory thread in v3 actually concerns the Iraq War, but I don't know if that still stands since a lot has changed since then.

2) Similar to above, he did still exist in this universe last I knew, but I don't know if staff's changed it.

3) Politically, the equivalent to the killing of Bin Laden seems to've been Danya's death and the rescue of the v4 kids.

TT Reads V5!
Yeah, I meant the trading thing. Sorry about that!

TT Reads V5!
If you'd like to give me what you think of Max's start so far, I'd be willing to return the critiquing favour. :P

Rebel Diamonds
This trip had started so well, too. There he was with Joe and Travis, goofing off with the latter and trying to get the former to loosen up like always, already planning the parties that would, if he had his way, take up at least the nights they were in Disneyland. And why not? The hard part was over, and once they got back to Washington he'd never see most of the people who'd got on the plane again anyway, why not spend the end of his high school career with friends? Sure, they couldn't bring any booze or anything onto the plane, but that looked to be the only setback, and they could've probably got around that once they touched down. Everything was set.

So of course, a bunch of dead terrorists crawl back into the light, blow Mr. Davidge's head off and now Chuck Soileau was stuck on Death Island with a bomb around his neck, dynamite in his bag and orders to kill Trav, Joe and everyone else in the class or he'd be food for the worms. After he'd got done freaking out on waking up and riding the nausea from the gas, he found himself really, really wishing he'd been able to sneak a drink onto the plane.

This was the part where he'd be looking on the bright side, if there was one to be found. The closest thing to one was the last time this happened, so long ago he barely remembered it happening at all - failing to put an end to SOTF for so long had made President Bridges and his administration look like a band of complete incompetents, probably even lost him the election, so the government failing yet again to do anything about them coming back would be hell on the approval ratings. Nothing like hundreds of teenagers dying horrific deaths to make a president look bad, so hey, maybe, just maybe if they held out long enough the cavalry would arrive and they wouldn't have to butcher each other or all blow up.

Yeah. Maybe. And maybe if he pinched himself good and hard he'd wake up back on the plane.

Ow. Nope, shit. Back to Plan A - find Joe, Trav, maybe some people from the paper and whoever else was cool and not shooting each other, find somewhere to hole up until all the craziness blew over. Like hell he was going to blow up people he'd spent every day of the last four years around -

...Noooot even Miles Strickland, who appeared out of the blue - or standing over it, really, a bunch of glimmering blue water that almost dried the back of his throat just looking at it - as Chuck's feet led him through the foliage and dropped him at a lagoon of some kind, signed by good ol' Darren Fox. The guy wasn't alone either, getting talked at by the girls' basketball captain as Chuck came pushing through.

So, headcount. Chuck, the archetypical rich douchebag and a really, really hot basketball chick. Neither of whom might like having been dropped in on out of nowhere, but neither of whom looked ready for trouble right away. Good enough for now.

"Miles, Kat, hey! Funny running into you here..."

Not really. The opposite of that.

Was this really how it was all going to end?

The thought had crossed his mind before, it was likely to do so many more times until he was off this island, one way or another. After everything they'd done, how hard he'd worked, all he'd accomplished battling through high school, every day spent making something of himself, and it ended like this? With them all herded off a plane and forced into the abbatoir?

He shouldn't've gone aboard, should've tried to talk Amy out of the flight. He knew she was scared of heights, he'd taken the window seat next to her to calm her down, but why hadn't he given just driving more than a half-hearted mention? Sure, it was seventeen hours from Seattle to Disneyland, but the drive could've been nice, just the two of them. Instead, at least one of them was going to die here, broken and bloody, their bodies to become food for the birds and insects.

He really, really could have done without imagining her like that, a scream on her lips as she lay shattered and drowning in her own blood. The thought turned his blood to ice for a moment, until a shake of the head finally dispelled it. The trees had at some point melted away into an endless field of wheat, strand upon strand flanking him at the shoulders, bending to let him pass but never breaking. The wheat went on for what looked like for ever, and still he had no idea what he was doing, the hacksaw they'd given him still in his pack in case it proved useful in a way that didn't involve maiming and murder.

He had no ideas, save one. He wasn't the animal Danya and his jackals wanted him to be. He wouldn't lower himself to become them, not until the last of his ability to resist. But he needed more than that, and the warm summer sun beat his shoulders, asking what then? with gentle winds that swayed the wheat to and fro. Escape? Find Amy, find the team, fight your way off the island? Hide out until no one else remained?

His father would know what to do. Thomas would know. Either of them would already have a strategy and be halfway done with it by now. Neither of them were here to snap their fingers and make this problem go away. It was just him, the son who was good at hitting things and his friends on the football team. What could he do against these people, with just his fists and a saw, when they'd done this four times over the years and always escaped back into the darkness?

They'd always escaped, and everyone who'd died had died for nothing. Was that going to happen to him? What else could?

You could fight, you could win.

And if he did that, would he really be himself any more, or the beast the terrorists thought lived in them all? He knew of the past winners, and what they'd had to do. At least one had turned himself into a monster just to fight off the horrors, and it didn't help him in the end. The wheat gave way to a farmhouse, old and worn but with voices coming from it, and still he hadn't answered his own questions. Find his team, find Amy, and then what?

The answer might be to just keep going. What else could a man do? His feet carried him past the house and to another building, which drew closer and closer unbidden. It was a shell of a thing, with greenery poking out shattered windows, and something sounded like it was happening. He pressed against the wall when he reached it, peering in.

...And stepping out into the open, compelled by the sight. He could at least duck back into cover, but Jesus, there was Cody fucking Patton holding someone at gunpoint. He had to have missed something, right?

"Cody? What's going on here?" Michael Eastmund hoped like hell he wasn't about to get himself shot.

We're Above It
(Mentions of Lahela Nakoa with permission from Keaka)

"Greatest". That's what his name meant, and Dad had never tired of reminding him. Good job, boy, live up to your name and all that. It was a name for captains of industry, military leaders, famous athletes, born winners. Not idiots slaving away at a desk job all their lives, their names never mattering to anyone, not people who fail, not some kid stuck on an island with a bomb on his neck. He hadn't cried or vomited or freaked out on waking up, nor when he remembered where he was or what he'd seen, nor when he'd dug through his pack and found a bloody cigar instead of something useful.

He didn't even smoke.

So it was that he spent several hours walking, a numbness settling into his gut as fear and realisation seeped in bit by bit. Everyone on that plane was dead, they just didn't know it yet. He'd heard the gunfire as tree after tree passed him by, hills and slopes flowing under his feet in the endless woods, automatic weapons going off in the distance while all he had was a cigar that looked like it belonged in Dad's office.

He needed a plan. Everyone had a plan until the screaming and blood started, until it was time to face the execs in the boardroom. Everyone had a plan, except him. This game had happened too many times to hope he could just flash a few Benjamins and they'd give him a boat, or that Dad would show up with an army after a week. No, he had to figure this out himself.

The ultimate pitch... 'why do you deserve to live'?

Like all pitches, he knew, but the trick was convincing a bunch of others of that. A bunch of others, among whom some had a vested interest in him not living. Some had already started culling the herd - could he really lower himself to that? To get the blood and grime on his hands like some common footman in days of old?

Who knew. The hill he was on went up and up and up, branches swiping at his face and stabbing at his sides while he passed, thick bush reaching for his feet and trying to trap and twist. He didn't let them, but kept walking, cigar in his breast pocket and hand in front of his face. Eventually the defences broke, and he found himself on even ground, a carpet of wildflowers under his feet that bobbed idly in the wind. A few scattered trees heavy with fruit and leaves stood watch over the clearing, the dark greens and browns stark against the bright petals from their smaller companions. He blinked once, twice, then turned in the field, looking over rank upon rank of oaks and pines that eventually opened into everywhere else. He could make out cliffs and amusement park rides, the vague shapes of buildings in the distance, an airstrip and... some kind of mall?

He wished he could enjoy this view in peace, on his own or with Zoe, or probably with that lovely Hawaiian he'd taken home from Prom instead, whose company he'd so "enjoyed" after the dancing. It had been an entirely different dance in his room, but that girl - what had her name been again? Laheela? - had known the steps so well. He should have talked her into coming along, so it wasn't just him at the end of the world, looking out over for ever like this.

Oh well. Max Sawyer stood there for a moment more, drawing out the cigar and twirling it idly between his fingers while the island of death unfolded in beauty and terror before his eyes.

"Well, isn't this a view to die for."

SOTF Death Battles
Bumping this to say that the winner is, obviously, Brook. Writeup will come in the near future, since those are really just for entertainment purposes.

Next fight is Kris Hartmann vs. Aislyn McCreery. I don't remember any special rules, so go nuts and if I recall them I'll just say.

Edit: Let's make this a little more fair and take away the grenade launcher.