Small devices flying around in the stormy and gray sky above, shining silver and glinting gold pires all surrounding a central location- The mid-city plaza, an area where both the workers of the south and the aristocrats of the north can congregate together and form great plans, this is where the true miracles of Edison happen. Speaking of miracles, how about miracles of modern engineering? The southern corporation of choice- Plancorp, and the northern rival- Steamwerks have both made incredible automatons, capable of walking bipedally! What a wondrous thing to witness in the town of steam. The robots are all lined up, supposedly to try and play a game of soccer to determine which is more adept for consumers...

And so, lined up in their places the game was off. How exciting a match! The gold team versus the silver team...

Nick sat, his brown hair whipped by the artificial breeze within the sports arena, as the steam gliders whizzed by, shooting out clouds of steam periodically. He had done a job for someone where he was paid with great seats to the GearBall game. That didn't put food in his mouth, however.

The artificial wind blew away some of the obscuring steam, to reveal the ball in the hands of the silver team. Nick bet fifty on them winning, and the money was needed, indeed. The rent was due on the warehouse that he lived in, and customers were paying in sporting tickets rather than money.

Damn shame that the landlord wasn't a sports fan.

The ball changed hands as the players rode the winds uneasily. The worn gliders seemed like they'd break apart given a slight nudge. GearBall being a contact sport compounded it. That's why it was so damn fun to watch.

The crowd gave a large "OOOOOOOO" as a Gold player was unceremoniously smashed into a wall, and the ball was picked up by a silver member flying below. "Yes!" said Nick unconsciously, as he pounded the railing, his betting ticket in hand. This bet would pay the rent, groceries, and hell, maybe a lobster dinner if he felt like it.

The ball was on the other side of the arena. Nick dug a pair of binoculars out of his pocket to get a better view. "Stevens has the ball... going for the goal, and... SON OF A BITCH." Another bout of oohs from the crowd as the silver player was sideswept into the steel panel wall. The scoreboard noted that he was now out on injury with his arm broken in two places.

Gotta love this sport.

Desmund certainly didn't have the funds to be able to be at this event legally.

Desmund walked up to the arena from the outside, eying the structure up and down, a marvelous thing really, this piece of engineering. The architecture was also quite astounding, whoever designed this of course had an immense amount of talent. To bad Desmund would be breaking into this Arena to catch a glimpse of action.

He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked around. He made sure there was nothing watching him, or could be watching him, and he jetted off. Quite literally infact. Desmund clicked the button on his boots, the one that would send a giant amount of steam, making him able to get close to the top of the Arena. He flicked open his elbow, his grappling hook became visible. He shot it off to the top, wrapping it around the pipe. He swung himself with the momentum acquired from his boots, into the top of the Arena's seats. He was at the nose bleed section, he couldn't see a darn thing.

Desmund quickly made his way down to an area uncrowded by anyone, a place where nobody would really notice a seat was filled. He sat, and watched the game, at least it was something to do. He opened a bag of chips, crossing his feet and putting them on the seat in front of him. Life was great.

Ptollimi was in the middle of the stadium seats, screaming, eating, and being a sports fan with the rest of them. He had bet a decent amount of money on Gold, and if they lost he wouldn't be too bad off. He was an Architect after all, and good at his job.

Ptollimi tried to pick up his drink with his Cannon-Arm, only to knock it down. He was still getting used to the damn thing. He'd only put it on to advertise for his customers, though the only people to ever even look into it was the military, but even they wouldn't be able to use it unless the soldiers agreed to cut off their arm. The money Ptollimi would win from betting would go to more research into a new Cannon, one that could be attached and detached but not cost you a forearm.

Ptollimi sighed and ordered a new drink, digging in his pockets for cash.

The golden team is ahead by one point after 10 minutes of play, the silver team seems to have taken a time out though... The programmer has put in a new macro into the bots, presumably changing how they move. This could change the tide of the game!

Up on the tier for the wealthy and glamorous stood Crace. He was next to the railing, his point on the half way line, a dull look upon his face as he stared down at the field of play. It was the mix of enjoyment of the game and the fact his chosen team was losing, along with his lazy posture which created this bland expression, one that made no others near him approach.

If Father was there, he’d have no doubt been surrounded by the many strange friends his old man had, a ruffle of the hair and a complement on his looks. But Father was on business, so Crace Jr. had to represent his position at the game. He wasn’t very good at it.

After the greeting formalities, he had stood at the railings, his hands slung in the pockets of his waist coat, one of the metallic arms holding a glass of cooled water for him, lifting to drink every so often as it let off a cloud of steam which each movement, the joints probably needed oiling. Aside from this, Bill seemed motionless, except for the blue eyes which followed the game closely. He had personally not put any money of the game, but those around him had, mostly on silver. The tension of the spectators surrounding was obvious, despite the humble nature and good manner of quiet chatter they showed on the outside, he could imagine that they were all shouting insults at the opponent and cheers for their team, these people hated to lose money, even though they had plenty.

If silver lost, Bill could slip away and return home, he had a number of orders and finances to check up on. If silver won, he would be stuck at the arena for well over an hour, celebrations were never light.

Meanwhile, Jack was at the local bar in the Midcity. He had no real interest in going to the game, but he listened to it on the radio anyway.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!"

The locals in the bar had mixed reactions, some cheered for the score while others were about ready to take out their money and pay for the bet's they've made. It seemed everybody wanted to gamble on this game today, except for Jack and possibly a few others that either didn't care for the game or had no money to bet with. Jack continued to drink from his glass of whisky, and chuckled at the other people whenever their team failed to keep a lead.

Much like Jack, Ulysses could care more for a loan shark then popular sport culture. Even more like Jack, Ulysses also gave patronage to the same establishment for recreational liquor. As the poor chumps cried over the winnings and losings, Ulysses simply enjoyed his drink. In all honestly, he only came here this day to silently mock the hopeless cretins that believed they could find salvation in gambling. Ulysses believed in risks, but he did not believe in chance.

His stark cynicism was more than trademark. This gentleman was well-known for being a bit of a tightwad, but he was still a renown surgeon. During his long career, he had become known for taking any case, and, even though not every patient survived, he had one of the best survival records and recovery records. Thus, people were able to overlook his cruel personality. Hell, many found that foulness to be charming.

Damien could probably have scrapped up enough money to watch the game, but there were two problems. There was NO way he was going to spend so much money to watch advertisements playing soccer (Especially when he had a part in inventing them)... and the tickets were already sold out. So he improvised.

While noone was watching, a small, scrab-like drone flew up into the Stadium, and perched itself on the top of it. It's 'eyes' were actually camera's, perfect for spying on rivals, enemies... and sports games. The feed from the drone was directed to Damiens T.V., allowing him to watch the game while leaning back in his recliner. Sure, he could have just turned on the Sports Channel, but this was much higher quality, and free of annoying banter.

Oh yes, that and he could sell the footage tomorrow for a small profit.

While sitting in his favorite bar, conveniently the same one that Ulysses and Jack were located, Eric only chuckled as the nim-rods lost their money. He had learned a long time ago that the only 'safe' gamble was one that he made on himself and seeing as how he could have found more interest playing beer quarters anyway what point was there in watching a soccer game? After ordering anothe few rounds he just sat there and for the first time watched the game. All the while bouncing quarters off the bar-top and into the various empty glasses located on the far side of the counter.

With silver neck and neck with gold for the game so far, half-time is approaching. 30 minutes down until the big half time show-

And in the sky there were multiple banners now coming through, one flown in on a mini-jet reading "GO GOLD GO! DON'T LET US DOWN!"

Eric watched as the mini-jets flew over the stadium with their various banners. "Typical....spent all their money on advertising again...." Eric grumbled as he continued to let quarters fly into the various drinks down the bar. A few he managed to land in seperate peoples drinks which despite the normal angered reaction that one would usually get they seemed more impressed that he had so casually made a 30 foot bounce with a quarter.

The ball was kicked. It whistled through the air, the time was close. Five... four... three... two... one... GOOOOOOOOOOAL! The timer blew, and with it one of the mighty towers of the North. The buzzer was so loud, some didn't even notice the explosion. Many thought the odd glow was from fireworks, preparing for the halftime show. But then realization kicked in as the tower fell to the ground, destroying sky scrapers near it and pieces falling to the streets, killing many. Panic started, and the screaming rose with it. Everyone knew which tower had been destroyed. Tapes previously watching the game now rolled on the after effects of the tower. Already words were being spoken between lips.

"The North Company Headquarters was bombed! But... by who? The... South Company?"

"...what the hell?"

Something bad had just happened. Really bad.

The last thing Damien's drone had recorded before it's connection was terminated was a flash of orange light and a rumbling sound similar to that of an earthquake. In short, an explosion.

The screen went blank, and a queer silence seemed to fill the room.

"But... why..." was all the engineer was able to utter, looking at the blank screen speechless.

Ptollimi slammed his Great Steam Cannon into the cupholder on his chair, crushing his drink withing.

"DAMMIT IT ALL" He screamed in a rough, burly voice that, even though louder than the usual schmuck's, was drowned out by the crowd's screaming and questionings. Ptollimi pulled himself from his chair and stood to get a better view of the tower and the screens that showed its disastrous ending. It was one of the many buildings he'd had a hand in designing, and he liked the look of it. Ptollimi left the stadium in a blaze, heading for the disaster zone he knew waited ahead.

Nick watched the screen as the falling wreckage was shown.

"Son of a bitch, there goes my money." he said, ripping up the ticket. The air was thick with dust and ash from the explosion, and panicked sports fans quickly turned into a stampede as they all headed for the exit. Nick decided to take a faster route, as he began to hop from row to row towards the center field. When he hit the long drop to the field, he fumbled around in his coat, pulling out a small grapple, which he hooked to the railing, and the reel to his belt.

He carefully began to rappel down, his back to the field. "I really hope this old thing holds." he remarked, remembering how little he had bought it for. He touched down, and retracted the cord, with a sigh of relief. Looking around, he found the exit into the building itself. As he pushed and shoved his way through the players, managers, and employees, he couldn't help but wonder what had started this mess.

Either way, destruction meant repairs. Looks like this may have been good for business.

Just when Jack had finished the glass of whiskey, the game being spectated on the radio was interrupted for the destruction of the North Tower. The locals had forgotten all about the game and all the money they've bet, and started panicking. Some even saying that someone in their family was supposedly working at the North Company Headquarters. But of course some of the locals, including the barkeep himself were pissed that the game had ended so suddenly.

Jack himself was concerned of the incident, even though he didn't know anybody that worked in or near the building at the time of the explosion. After leaving the money on the table, he walked straight out of the bar and headed towards what used to be North Company Headquarters.

The bottle of water fell from the grasp or the iron hand, the extra arms were made to be more steady and precise then human counter parts, but they were also wired in with Bills body and reactions. When the shock of what had happened hit him, the nerves played their part and the grip loosened. Some astonished bystander below fell quickly clutching his head, the bottle was glass. It made a bleak shattering noise.

Crace was not going to hang around to see whether the person below was injured or not, he barely noticed. The uproar from everyone in the stadium distorted all focus his senses had, just sheer noise. It was the Headquarters, he could tell by its design and scenery surrounding it before the explosion had occurred, right now it was probably as cloud of black smog. Many people must have been killed, but also the amount of damage this was going to cause on the family business perked up too. They had had a small department in the building, Crace knew from the records that they were all working today, despite their wishes to view the game. Most of them were valuable entrepreneurs.

Ignoring the muffled insults from the unlucky bloke below, Bill quickly spun around and shoved past a large group of fellow Northerners, they still stood gaping. The amount of money they had lost in that instant was probably being worked out in their heads too, so intense was their shock that they hardly seemed to react to the sharp jabs Bill gave them as he passed. The effect seemed to remain for several seconds before anyone reacted, said reaction being much like those in the lower tiers, panic and running. Crace had been luck enough to get down the majority of the stair with a brisk run, it was only when he was really in a hurry that he noticed how inconvenient it was to have such high seats, despite the luxury.

The rush was worse at the exits, they all merged and even security had decided to rush towards the scene of the disaster, leaving the panic to sort itself out. As he ran, Bill noticed some poor young employee hiding behind a staff only door, but he lost sight as someone stupidly collided into his side. Crowds were going to be a pain, he knew but once he was out he could escape the crowds. Running to the scene of the disaster seemed stupid to the young industrialist, instead he was hoping to head towards one of his companies outlets to see if he could get further information on the disaster and how many assets they had lost.

Eric's eyes widened as he watched the buildings collapse in the background. "The @#$% is going on now?" He asked himself as he stepped outside of the bar and loaded a single 12-guage round into his middle finger. Even if there wasn't any danger it was always good to be prepared. After seeing that the building really wasn't that far away he peaked his head back into the bar and asked. "Is there a doctor in the house?"

Dr. Hubert of course heard all of the commotion. Not even a deaf man could not take notice. Yet the doctor made no course to act until Eric's quandary. Now, why anyone would really ask if there was a doctor in a bar is sort of odd, Ulysses over looked this fact. He was ass, but he did except obligations. He stood and answered the beacon. "Sir, I'm a doctor, a surgeon to be exact. What do you need me for?"

"Were you just passed out drunk or did you actually see the building just explode over there?" Eric said while slapping the side of his head to make the question seem even more sarcastic. With that final gesture he turned out the door and now loaded a single magnum round into his index finger. With both fingers loaded annoying Eric was not an extremely wise decision.

(Apparently you guys fucking suck at social dynamics and thus require a catalyst for everything. Babies.)

And out of nowhere, a northern man fired a bullet into the air at the soccer area, "Get the damn southerners!!!" Apparently it was a forgone conclusion that the southerners had arranged the attack. Why at such a time, though? That was too complex for the material residents of the north- And so anyone with a gun pulled theirs out. It was all out warfare- And the mini-jet fell down from the sky, headed north to the explosion and swooping down to take out anyone that would shoot him anyway.

Yikes.

Desmund ducked down at his seat, and started to move his way to a, safer, area. He crawled at first, but soon made it more of a crouched sprint to the end of the row of seats. He looked around, nobody around. He ran up a few flights of stairs when a shot rang out and dinged close to him. Desmund used quick thinking, and dove off to the left behind some seats.

"Shit!" He yelled, thinking of what to do. He could fight, sure, and then be questioned by the feds, which was something he really didn't feel like. He clicked his boots on. Getting up and jumping, he shot off from the ground in an explosion of steam and smoke. He flew into the air about 20 feet, again over the stadium wall. He swung his grappling hook on a pole and he flipped from his position onto the ground, tumbling.

He decided to do what everyone in the thieving buisness knew how to do best, run. Nobody wanted to be around when the feds showed up. So he jetted, to his favorite bar, he didn't know a lot of cops who would look for people in there.

He walked into the bar after a good 10 minutes of running, exhausted and breathing hard, he sat down, (next to Streea's character who has yet to be named.) Desmund sighed, "Barkeep, could I have some water?" He asked.

Earlier before the chaos had broken out, Dr. Hubert had responded Eric's rude comment. The doctor only walked over to Eric and passed the man, letting escape, "I am the type that only performs when asked. I do not jump into chaos without request. If you think to strike at your allies' pride anymore, do not be so surprised if they turn on you or give up on you. Consider my work the best goodwill you will gather out of me." Dr. Hubert continued out into the streets, heading the the site of the chaos. At this time, the stadium had just errupted in its hunt of the southern citizens.

((FINALLY!!! IT'S THE YANKEES THAT STARTED IT THIS TIME NOT US!!!))

Eric just muttered under his breath at the doctors speach. The type that only performed when asked? What kind of doctor was that. Either way that wasn't the point. Eric could fix any machine known to man but not even he would know what to do if someone were actually injured. When the chaos of the norther slaughter of the southerners broke out into the streets Eric used his right eye to zoom in on one that was about to execute an unarmed southerner and fired the magnum round in his finger straight into the man's head.

Jesus slung his arm around Desmund's neck, pulling him into a hug. The smell of booze was pouring out of his mouth, his nose, his skin. "Maaannn... I love you man. For real. All the time, all my soul." Jesus then collapsed on the floor into a snoozing ball of holy.

(Streea's character has yet to appear. Please do not be referring to someone who isn't there :D)

After a few minutes of silence, Damien switched the T.V. to the news channel, to see what was happening. The field was still full of Chaos, as people ran left and right, trying to escape. Children were trampled in the chaos, sometimes even by their own parents. Unfortunatly, not all of the violence was unitentional, armed groups roamed the stadiums, shooting any southerner they saw. (Even killing some northerners) The news station Damien had switched to was a northener station, and he didn't like what he heard. Southerners were being blamed for what had happened, and the 'experts' were predicting (and even advocating) violence against them.

Damien immediatly turned off the news, even more scared than before. He feared for his life, his house was closer to the border between the North and the South than he would have hoped. He went to his workstation and began working on his pistol, it was nearly done, and hopefully it would be done before more violence broke out.

And, out of the sky, a gigantic missile was descending in the general area of the bar where people were acting like dumbfucks and congregating to halt the main plot...

A man was riding on top of the missile. Surely one would have to be crazy to do so, but his fingers dug into the sides none-the-less. His ivory white face was set into an eternal grin, no colour showing... anywhere. It was if... as if the man were wearing a mask. Which he was. His legs clung to the sides of the missile, and his body motions proved to be aiming the missile. Direclty through the door of the bar. When he was close enough, the man reached upwards and grabbed the roof of the bar, his twelve fingers holding tightly, as with one final thrust he threw the missile directly into the bar with great strength, aiming specifically at Eric. Before the detonation could commence, Noir flipped his feet up to the building, just as a great amount of steam escaped from around his face. He placed his feet on the building, and lept off as the explosion hit, not caring at the casulties. He spun in the air and landed gracefully on the ground, now a look of tranquility was on the mask. Shrapnel flew everywhere, though the man gave no notice. Noir stood in the street, and looked upon his people. Another burst of steam, apparently coming from within his mask, blew upwards. Now the look of a sinister grin stole his face, as Noir ran outwards. There was work to be done.

Thankfully the Eric, Noir had launched the missile at turned out to be none other than some helpless by stander. Our fun loving, yankee killing Eric meanwhile was out in the streets still trying to make his way out alive. No easier said than done as yet another northerner came flying around the corner towards him only to come face to shell with Eric's middle finger, literally. The definition for what the man's face looked like now could be described as 'chunky soup.'

((Note: not breaking the 4th wall because this was Streea's idea!! =P ))

The missile collided and the bar exploded, causing Jack to immediately startle and trip. As he picked himself back up, his eyes had widen to the scene of the bar. The once beautifully crafted building where he had spent most of his Sundays was now destroyed.

"Well fuck."

His attention diverted from the bar as he noticed a man running from the scene of the crime. Maybe he caused the explosion? Jack had thought about chasing after man and questioning him, but that would be unlikely of him to do. Not to mention that the chance that just an average man, especially one who appeared to be alone, had caused this by himself. Instead he continued on to what used to be the North Company Headquarters building, with the small idea that whoever was behind that disaster was behing the bar's destruction as well.

More interested in his previous work of art, Potllimi simply glanced, gasped, shook his head, and continued on to the tower, his previous destination. He wasn't to close to the bar anyhow, and he needed to assess the damage. He was nearly at the tower, he thought as he turned a corner.

Jack walked over to the wreckage to see that not everybody had died, he looked at some of the more curious-looking fellows to see them doing absolutely nothing.

"YOU FUCKHEADS NEED TO STOP WITH YOUR WORTHLESS CHATTER AND GET TO THE EVENT IN HAND THAT THE NORTH BUILDING WAS BOMBED, AND NOW THE BAR OF WHICH ALL OF YOU JUST SEEM TO BE IN HAS BEEN DESTROYED!" Jack shouted, quite furiously.

Jack then decided to make his way over to where earlier's game had taken place, and yell at the people over there too.

"GOD DAMMIT, GET OFF YOUR LAZY ASSES AND DO SOMETHING. I WOULDN'T BET A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY IF YOU GUYS COULD SAVE ME FROM MY DEATH!"

With that, he ran back to Midcity, as if he had never yelled at anybody in the first place.

((I'm just going to assume that posting a profile is all you need to do before you can post in the actual RP. If I'm horribly wrong tell me, because the sign up topic doesn't say anything.))

Tetsu woke with a start, just as a wave of panic was heard from outside. What the hell was happening? Serves him right for sleeping in so late. In any case, he couldn't just stay here. Panic tends to lead to buildings being blown up, and Tetsu would rather be outside the exploding building. He grabbed his things, and all the small amount of money he had, and ran outside. He equiped his Jet Magnum and kept his Steamtana close by. Something told him a fight was brewing.