kusanagi

((Ouch. Poor guy. Very nicely written, though. ))

(( The highly talented PyroDFB has done this truly awesome portrait of Foxtrot Juliet that I thought should be shared with the rest of you. Maybe if you send him enough encouragement he'll share the rest of his work with us as well. ))

((... Did some lunatic just spam the entire villain population of the Rogue Isles? Dude, Clobber-girl is going to be the least of your worries...))

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Honestly...

It sounds like Team Fortress with Superpowers.

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I consider this a Good Thing. Man, I loved TF. Too bad my half-life disc went missing...

That reminds me, any word on a TF mod for HL2?

I've been reading a lot of Charly's comics, lately. She says that I need to practice more reading and less listening to audiobooks, and she's a lot smarter than me that way. Zulu's even smarter. He got me this thing he calls an "e-book reader with audio", which I guess is his way of saying it shows the words and says them at the same time... But I'm getting head of myself.

... Ahead. Thanks, Zulu, but didn't you say the point of writing my memories was that I could practice my own writing skills instead of yours?

Right, right. Fine, help accepted. What? But I did wrote "memories"! Memoirs? Is that even an English word?

... Fine, fine. Can I get back to the point now?

Anyway, one of those things that happens a lot of the time is one guy wishing that whatever made him special never happened or didn't exist or whatever. I guess I can kind of relative to that.

Relate. Thank you, Zulu. Can I go on? Thanks.

Anyway, yeah. My life would probably be a lot less complicated (See, Zulu? I can write long words!) if my magic didn't exist. For starters, mom wouldn't have told dad I was concerting with Djinnyah, and dad wouldn't have tried to beat the evil out of me. And then my magic wouldn't have reacted to the beating by making my skin tougher when he hit me and he wouldn't have broken his hand.

And he wouldn't have taken his sinful daughter to the imam for advice, and the imam definitely wouldn't have decided to "turn Shaitan's influence into a weapon for Allah" and sent me off to that training camp for "brave mujahedeen" -- or, as most everyone else calls them, "crazed terrorists" -- to be taught to fight for their "noble purpose" of killing everyone they didn't like the face of.

Of course, burqas suck for close quarters fighting. And since this camp had to be really secret, there wasn't much non-essential traffic in or out. So none of the other trainees - all of them at least five years older than me, and male - had seen a girl, pretty or not, in at least a year. And they'd all been taught that women existed to dutifully serve men.

Feh. Every single one of them was being promised seventy-two virgins in the afterlife, and they weren't going to live very long either, so was it really that much of a sacrifice to wait a few years?

Yes, apparently.

I won't bother with the details. If you want them, go rent some sleazy gangbang porn flick and use your imagination, you perv. Anyway, occasionally one of the imams would come by and they'd stuff me in a burqa and made me stand apart from the men as he preached about the Evils Of The West and the Great Shaitan and how we had to kill everyone who wasn't just like us because Allah wanted it so, and how all of us who fell in this Righteous Struggle would be rewarded in the afterlife (See my comment above. No, I never voiced it out loud. Saying anything that wasn't a direct response to a direct order was sinful for me, and punished -- and although by that time sticks and stones couldn't break my bones, flames were another matter)...

And the men all bowed their heads and knelt and prayed, and the next day he'd be gone and they'd go right back to what they were doing before. The proper term for this is, according to Zulu, "Hypocrite", which I'm not sure is an actual English word either, but whatever.

The imams also always said stuff like "Avoid sexual impropriety, which is sinful and bad for the soul". It was definitely bad for Ahran's health -- if he hadn't been so preoccupied with forcing me to the ground when he should have been standing watch, he might have spotted the black-clad soldier that came out of nowhere and put his hand against his head.

I didn't know what he did, but Ahran froze, rolled off me, and curled up into a ball. His mouth was wide open as if he was screaming, but no sound came out, and the black-clad man looked back at me. I couldn't see his eyes but I saw how he was standing. Rigid, with that almost-tremble in his legs and arms that dad sometimes had when he was especially furious with me. I cringed, mostly out of reflex, but that seemed to just make him angrier.

And then he did the most incredible thing I'd witnessed.

He turned his back on me and muttered something. I had no idea what he said, since I didn't speak English very well, but a little later the shooting started in the camp.

No, I didn't move, even to pull my pants back on. I suppose my duty would have been to help my fellow warriors, or failing that to die beside them, but the moment I thought about it the dark man turned back to face me and waved his hand and everything went dark.

When I woke up again, I was lying on a makeshift bunk, and a westerner girl with blonde hair and angry eyes was sitting backwards on a chair, leaning her arms on the back, and a boy standing to each side of her. Only one of them - the boy on the left, with the dark hair and strange markings on his face and arms, who I could see through - yes, Zulu? What? Translucent? Is that even english? Latin? But you said... Fine, fine. - could speak a word I understood, even if his accent was weird.

... Well, it was. Or at least is sounded that way. How was I supposed to know what a "voice synthesizer" was, or how one small enough to fit into a "portable holoprojector" -- which I also didn't know about -- has a limited quality? Right. Moving on...

Apparently, they were mercenaries, and they'd been hired by someone else to destroy that camp. I wasn't sure what to believe - they didn't look that much older than me - but the strange boy explained further.

They were a band of children who had been used and tossed out, unwilling soldiers in whatever war their self-styled masters had chosen to fight... Except that they were done being the victims. They walked away and found each other and formed their own side, their own company.

Foxtrot Company, a band of children who were raised to be soldiers, to be something not-really-childlike-anymore.

Children like me, in other words.

The boy who spoke to me - Foxtrot Zulu - said he had two choices to offer me. One, he could arrange for adoption in a western country somewhere. They had collected enough proof of what had been going on to get me refugee status in any country I chose, get adopted, go to school, lead a "normal" life...

I knew what the other choice would be before he said it out loud, and I took it. It didn't excuse me from my education, though, but Zulu decided I was bright enough to go through what he called 'crash and cram schooling' which apparently is his little joke for "Teach her things until her head explodes with pain, then give her some aspirin and teach her more".

Sadist.

Of course, there was also combat training. ACTUAL combat training; it became obvious pretty quick why my former 'comrades in arms' had gotten shredded - compared to Foxtrot's standards of training, they were almost qualified to police a kindergarten. If you drugged the kids first.

I also met the rest of the Foxtrots, one or two kids at a time, and I learned the names of the ones that got me out of there: Zulu, who delivered the intel that got them there; Charly, the blonde girl who led the actual ssault... And the man that killed Ahran, whose towering anger was directed not at me, but at what had been done to me.

Romeo. A meaningless name to me, at the time, although I've done some reading - well, listening to audio books - since. Always cool, always on top of things, always the gentleman, always well-controlled...

... Although when I'd completed my training to Charly and Zulu's satisfaction and they introduced me to the Company by the name that's now mine until the day I die or move on, I did see him wince. I'll take that as a good sign.

So to get back to my point, yeah, my life would have been a lot less complicated and painful if I'd never had magic. I wouldn't have been beaten, or sold off, or abused so often that I forgot to keep count. Instead, I'd have been a pretty little dutiful daughter who might one day aspire to become someone's pretty little dutiful wife and slave for my husband until the day I died, and I'd have considered that happiness.

And I'd never have met Foxtrot, orCharly, or Romeo...

Yeah, on the whole I think I'll take the bad with the good.

Anyway, this is about enough for a first memoir, wouldn't you agree, Zulu? ... Zulu? ... Damn, he's off into the internet again.

Ah well. That just means he's not here to make another one of his jokes about my choice of literature. Looks like the flight's at least another two hours before we get to Newark. Should be enough for the first act, at least.

... "Two households, both alike in dignity... "


((Foxtrot Juliet, coming to the Rogue Isles Soon[tm], on a Virtue server near you.))

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It might be hard to find the right moment, but you're in relative safety the entire time.

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As opposed to a stealthed blaster flying way up high above the range of possible retaliation while he builds-up for a snipe followed up by the heaviest other attacks he has?

(No, Inertial, this isn't a slam against you. Like I mentioned in broadcast, as a Stalker I really have no right to complain about whether anyone else's tactics might be "underhanded"...

...But also like I pointed out, if you adopt effectively the same style, by default neither do you.)

And WRT the "relative safety"... Every single hero I encountered in SC last night had IR goggles, and I'm fairly sure most of them could see us. Especially the EN/EN blapper that liked to build up just before doing a SS-powered driveby melee punch to knock off as many toggles as possible to allow her teammates to nail the stalker.

(No, Jane Riveira, I'm not complaining. It was good tactics, and very, very well executed. I have nothing but kudos for you - and besides, the one time when two of us snuck up behind you while you were too busy getting ready to take out the third to notice them was worth it. *smooch* )

The damage wasn't actually all that bad - no one-shots happened to anyone, just a brutal AoE damage with a disorient mez that made the follow-up lethal. The annoying part was the fact that with a 6-villain team being the only ones who had any part at all in killing it, the XP received was barely as much as we'd have gotten for taking down an Elite Boss. Definitely lacking in the whole risk/reward thing.

All Hallow's Eve can be hell on your temper if you don't like kids. Doubly so when your boss does, or at least cares enough about his organization's public image to want to be thought of as family friendly, even in a place as decidedly family-unfriendly as the Rogue Isles.

Especially in a place like this, when you think about it. Of course, mooks delegated to doorman duty tend not to be picked for their capacity for deep thinking, and Marcus was no exception, so he'd so far spent the entire evening glaring at the bowl of candy treats as if it personally offended him, interrupted only by occasionally grudgingly offering some to the few kids that actually dared to go door to door, while his temper slowly boiled.

So when the doorbell suddenly ran again and this time kept ringing even as the familiar and hated chorus of "Trick-or-treat!" rang out, he grabbed the bowl and stomped angrily to the door, yanking it open without so much as checking the peephole first as he'd often been instructed to do.

A forgivable oversight, perhaps; certainly others would have made the same error in similar circumstances.

"All right, youse brats, knock it off, here's yer [censored] ca-"

He never got to finish his sentence as the girl adorably dressed up as a miniature commando raised what he'd been assuming was a plastic assault rifle and put a short five-round burst right through his heart. His companion, sitting in a chair five meters down the hallway, barely had time to scramble out of his seat and was still desperately trying to get his pistol out when a second, identical burst ended his life.

The girl calmly walked inside, checked the hallway for further immediate threats, and finding none, keyed the radio on her shoulder.

"Abe, Vic, Bravo. Charly here. Way's clear. Come on in."


Someone once said that it takes one virtuoso to truly comprehend the art inherent in another virtuoso's performance. Watching them on the closed-circuit security monitors, I'm forced to agree.

An untrained observer might be able to notice how they seem to mow their way through the opposition without slowing down much, but it takes an experienced eye to appreciate the level of training and skill it takes for a unit to move with such clockwork precision; how each member knows each of the others so well that they no longer have any need for actual communication -- when a situation changes, they simply move, implicitly trusting one another to cover the angles they're not covering.

Flanking attempts are blocked, attempted ambushes are anticipated and pre-empted, fortified positions (inasmuch as an office building provides any) are pinned down, flanked, and eliminated.

Beautiful.

"They really are quite something, wouldn't you agree?" I ask my companion, who maintains a frosty silence. Ah well.

I get out of this comfortable chair - nothing but the best for the Don's most trusted underlings, I suppose - switch off the CCTV, eject the tape and smash it. No need getting the kids into unnecessary trouble, after all.

I can hear the shooting coming from down the corridor now. They really are very efficient.

"I really ought to be going now. Nothing personal, you understand, but I'll need my sword back now..."

Jimmy the Meatman's body slumps a little as my sword stops pinning it to the chair he was sitting in when I caught him, and I place a kiss on his forehead as I take the silk handkerchief from his breast pocket.

I'm just about done cleaning my sword when the door crashes open under a pair of size 8 combat boots and their owners burst into the room, immediately crouching and turning toward the corners as the pair behind them moves straight in.

They're good, very good. Both of them immediately aim at me, but hold fire as they recognize a potential (but not actual) threat, then the girl who seems to have been in charge throughout this scans the rest of the room, spots what's left of their target, and groans. "Aw, man..."

By now they've scanned the room thoroughly, having found no threats, and all four are looking at me.

What do they see? A lithe figure, five feet seven, wearing black leather that's tight over curves that - she said modestly - are more than pleasant to look at, with a few glints of chrome and a bare handful of pouches on a belt.

They're looking at my face, now - or at least, the part of it they can see above the mask covering the lower half and nose. My mother used to say that I had very expressive eyes, but nowadays I suppose the only thing someone looking deeply into them will see expressed is "I'm going to kill you." so maybe that's not a good thing. I'm wearing my hair short, because a long ponytail can get in the way at the most irritating times.

I take a moment to smile brightly at them - not that they can see it, of course - and wink once, then I wave cheerfully while dropping a smoke bomb with my other hand.

Two of the kids yell out in alarm, but the girl shouts at them to maintain discipline, and they obey. Very impressive indeed. Still, no problems; a well-aimed stapler smashes through the window and as all four of them turn toward the sound I sneak out through the doorway they're no longer covering.

By the time they figure out where I went, I'm long gone into the streets. I'll be seeing them again sometime, I'm sure.

My name? They call me Mercy's Kiss.

What "mercy" do I represent, when I kill so many without the slightest remorse, I hear you ask?

A sharp edge.

((Quick bump to buy time while I ask Cuppa to move this to the RP forum where it won't be deleted in the weekly sweeps))

Whoops.

((applauds))

((Very nice conclusion. Don't forget to ask Cuppa to archive this in the RP forum so it doesn't get lost in the weekly purge.))

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(( That's Kus, with the unnecessary(?) violence. We're glad she's on our side. (She is on our side, right?) ))


[/ QUOTE ] ((Good question. Wise question. Care to ask her sometime? ))

((edit: Also, the Countess is deluding herself. But then, she's passed so far beyond right and wrong that she can't see them over the horizon, so it's useless to argue with her.))

((We do our humble best, and strive to entertain.))

((Sorry for the delays. All the hold-up on this thread is because MJ graciously granted me a chance to play, and I took a bit longer than intended. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.))

112 Union Ave, Kings Row

Shaughnessy hated overwatch jobs like these.

Spending long hours in some cramped unmarked van, pointing a whole bunch of sensor gear at some goodie-two-shoes hero's front door in the hopes that he - or she, in this case - would be stupid enough to try to use it while there was an APB out on her. They rarely did, but Hopkins wanted all angles covered, and one did not argue with Hopkins, more than once, ever.

Worse yet, their current target, a "Miss Megajoule", was deemed sufficiently dangerous that the usual sniper-on-the-opposite-roof would possibly not suffice, therefore a Revenant unit had been assigned to the mission as well -- meaning, in effect, that neither he nor any of his other normal colleagues could indulge in an occasional catnap as they normally did on watches like these. Not much chance of that with a tireless hulking zombie watching silently from the back.

The comm beeped, as it did every bloody fifteen minutes to remind him of his duties. "Perch, this is lurker. Check in."

"Perch here. All clear. No sign of the target."

Just like the past fifty hours and counting. Shaughnessy repressed a bored yawn before responding. "Roger, Perch. Streets are clear as well. Maintain watch."

"Roger. Perch out."

He sighed again as the channel closed. Agent Ritter, callsign "Perch" for the duration of the mission, was definitely one of the more attractive agents he'd been assigned to work with, and during past assignments they'd occasionally engaged in some light verbal flirtation to fend off boredom. Elite agents tended to get a bit more leeway with regards to fraternization rules, after all; on the other hand, the taciturn frankenstein reject behind him served as a constant reminder that there was to be Absolutely No Screwing Up on this mission - and anything it saw and heard would be reported verbatim in the debriefing.

Just as he was shifting in his seat in an effort to get at least a little more comfortable the comm crackled again.

"Perch here. I think I s--" and then static as the signal cut off abruptly.

"What the- Perch? Ritter, come in!" Nothing. He swore, then turned to the Revenant behind him. "Something's up. Get read-"

He was cut off by a dull thud on the roof of the van, followed by a clattering noise and a softer thump against the windshield. He turned to look just in time to see Ritter slide face first down onto the hood.

Well, most of her, anyway - her right arm below the elbow was missing, and the stump had left a dark red smear down the windshield. Judging by the gash that appeared to have gone through her exquisitely tailored jacket as well as the tastefully subtle layer of armor underneath it before cutting through skin and flesh, however, the arm was the least of her worries.

You don't get promoted to special agent if you're not quick on your feet. Shaughnessy wasted less than two seconds swearing, then quickly clambered out of his seat and into the back where the weapons - and the zombie, which was now standing upright and alert rather than slouched and morose - were while his mind raced through the available clues.

Spandex-clad morons taking potshots at you while you were minding your own business was something of an occupational hazard for Crey Special Agents, but most of them preferred non-lethal force when possible, or call out something pithy like "halt, evildoer!" before they attacked. Of course, "most" still meant that "some" weren't as kindhearted and considerate. And it looked like they'd just caught the attention of one of the "some". Boredom suddenly sounded very nice.

He grabbed one of the submachineguns off the rack and turned to the Revenant. "Full combat alert. Get outside and find whoever just killed Perch." Fortunately, it was one of the melee combat models; it should hopefully be tough enough to keep whoever it was occupied while he put a few dozen bullets through their head and torso.

It didn't respond, merely nodded silently and turned around and reached for the side door latch, then pulled the door open and stepped out of the van, ready for combat.

It didn't manage to get five steps before three feet of folded steel with a razor's edge went in through the back of its neck and came out just under its solar plexus. It attempted to turn around and face its killer, but all it accomplished was to tear the wound further open even as the dark-clad, hooded figure pulled the blade down and out.

Shaughnessy wasted no time gaping; by the time the figure had turned her - judging by what he could see of the build beneath the cloak and hood, it was either a slight woman or a very, VERY scrawny teenaged boy - had turned away from the crumpling form of the Revenant he had already lined up his SMG and fired off a long burst, aimed at her center of mass.

His shot was perfectly on target and she didn't even bother dodging as half a dozen holes sprouted in her torso, which would have greatly boosted his confidence in his own survival if the first wound hadn't stopped bleeding by the time the sixth bullet hit.

No sense wasting more bullets - judging by her healing rate he'd need at least a dozen gunners or several rocket launchers to do any significant damage. Instead, he slammed the side door shut and climbed into the driver's seat. He reached for the radio even as he keyed the ignition, but a single glance at the red diagnostic lights showed that there would be no calling for help.

There was a loud shriek of tearing metal from the side door as he reversed out of the parking spot, but he was already moving too fast and a second later he was clear. An idea sparked in between surges of adrenalin, and he switched on the headlights.

There she stood, right in the middle of the road, sword - a katana, judging by the curve - still extended where it had carved a scar across his van when he pulled away, and he bared his teeth in a feral grin.

Let's see you shrug THIS one off, you murdering [censored].

He switched gears and floored the accelerator, holding on to the steering wheel with a death grip as 1.5 metric tons of metal charging on a collision course with sixty-five kilos of flesh and bone.

At that close distance he couldn't get much speed, but it also meant she wasn't able to dodge. He could hear the bone-crunching thud as his bumper smashed into her at just over thirty miles per hour, and the impact flung her body away almost contemptuously to land in a crumpled, broken heap in front of his wheels, followed by a satisfying double thump as he ran over her.

There was no time to savor his victory or admire his handiwork in the rear view mirror, however -- regardless of how ineffectual they were, the cops would at least attempt to respond to a double killing and vehicular manslaughter, and even if he tried to claim self defense he'd still have to explain just what he'd been doing with an armed sniper, a cloned ghoul and a van full of observation equipment and weaponry.

But that was all right. He'd be through the tunnel to Independence Port in a minute, and from there to Brickstown in ten more, at which point all he'd need to get backup would be to stick his head out of a window and yell. No problem.

He'd just exited the tunnel and started to breathe easily again when a relatively small limpet explosive attached to his undercarriage detonated, destroying his steering gear and sending shrapnel slicing through his brake lines.


There was barely enough time for a scream before the out-of-control van, underside ablaze from a leak in the gas tank, jumped the road and caromed off a storage silo before crashing through the guardrail at the harbor's edge.

The van hit the water almost head on, tossing its luckless driver out through the front window before landing on him and sinking straight down. Within seconds, the lapping waves had closed and the port was quiet once more.

Meanwhile, back in Kings Row, the broken, smashed figure stirred with a heartfelt groan as shattered bones reknit themselves and damaged organs started to regenerate. Experience told her that she'd be completely functional again in less than a minute, but judging from the sound of sirens that was time she did not have if she didn't want to be discovered. With another groan as not-yet-healed ribs shifted dangerously, she dragged herself up into a mostly-sitting position, looked around to get her bearings, and vanished in a subdued flash of light. An instant later, there was another flash visible on the rooftop, and another, and then the street was abandoned save for two bodies and the sirens approaching in the distance.

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(( "Use of unnecessary violence in the apprehension of Miss Megajoule has been approved." ))

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(( Ooo, unneccessary violence! That's Kus' favorite game. Can she play? Pretty please? ))

[[ Whu oh. Kus knows a few hidey holes MJ can use if she needs them. ]]

Very nicely written.

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SIX?! I should be so lucky. Want the screenie I took of me, trying to plow through 15? Painful.

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I was never as happy about having taken teleport as my main alt's travel power than when I first ran into a half-dozen earth thorn casters at once.

... Of course, later on I ran into several dozen Knives of Artemis at once, all of them dropping caltrops and I went from "deliriously happy with teleport" to "utterly ecstatic". I shudder to think how my /SR scrapper will have to deal with them, though - her travel power is jumping...

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I thought Discord was just made up for Hercules/Xena. Well, I hate that character not at this point, if she was merely a renamed goddess.

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If we're going to be discussing greek mythology, can we at least for the sake of my blood pressure agree on a few things?

1) A google search for 'greek mythology' delivers a wealth of information. Don't boast of your 'knowledge' if three quarters of it is misspelled, misunderstood and basically incorrect, not to mention containing hideously misspelled names.

2) In conjunction with 1) , the following sources are under NO circumstances to be considered canonical of even remotely accurate: Disney movies, the Young Hercules and Xena series, the Troy movie, and come to think of it any movie or series designed with the current crop of teenagers in mind. Anything they didn't actually distort because they didn't think it'd sell they dumbed down to the point where it's useless.

3) Try Discovery Channel instead - at the very least, they have a reputation of sorts to maintain and can be counted on not to gloss things over.

Now that I've got that off my chest, here's a basic summary:

In the beginning, there was Gaia (ye basic Earth-Mother goddess), who gave birth to Uranus ("Heaven", "Sky" - greek doesn't always translate easily), who subsequently married her and had literally hundreds of offspring, including the twelve Titans, one of whom was Cronos.

Cronos revolted against his father and cut off his private bits with a scythe. Uranus either died or just left after that, but predicted that Cronos would suffer the same fate - downfall at the hands of one of his sons.

Cronos married Rhea, and since they didn't have contraceptives in that time, had a whole bunch of kids (collectively called the "Olympians"), all of whom he devoured at birth to make sure he wouldn't get overthrown. Rhea finally got tired of this and fed him a stone wrapped in linen instead of baby Zeus, whom she hid.

Zeus grows up in hiding and eventually decided he'll need allies to take his father down, so he has a few words with various other groups that are being kept down by Cronos, including the Cyclopeans, but more importantly, he has his mother sneak something into his father's wine that causes him to vomit up every single kid he ate, all of them intact (and adults by now), and battle is joined between the Olympians plus allies and Cronus and the rest of the Titans.

Zeus and allies win, and the Olympians take up permanent residence on Mount Olympus, the Titans get imprisoned in Tartarus, and absolutely nobody lives happily ever after because the Greek gods all had very human personalities and flaws.

I'll go into specific details in a future post.

*applause*

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What I would like to see, for groups, is the ability to complete the same mission from multiple team members at the same time.

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Yes *please*. My main alt's in a fairly pro-RP SG, and a core of us runs a lot of our missions together. Sometimes it gets irritating to find RP explanations for having to do the same mission more than once in quick succession.

(e.g., three of us got past 40 recently. All of us have to do the Psychic Clockwork King dimension mission before we can proceed with Tina McIntyre. It's a lovely mission, but it can get tiresome...)

On the other hand, if done wrong this would severely limit the number of missions a char can go on, and might cause gaps like the current hole at 39 to get much, much worse...

Still, something to think about.

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im canadian ans sleepy, board, and not getting any, i have no reason for a spellchecker

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So obviously we should pay the utmost attention to what you have to say, regardless of your inability to say it coherently.

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Now my level 32 controller with those two missions deep in level 40 DE territory in Founders... well, I'm not sure what I'm going to do about them.

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Stealth is your friend.

Now if only it weren't for those bloody damn snipers on the rooftops. But they can't hit you more than once in the time it takes you to overfly them anyway...

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*shudders*

Hey, to each his own, man, but RPers in a game like this freak me out a bit. And what is it with the word "shall"? They pepper that bad boy in there like they bought it in bulk. When was the last time you used "shall" in normal conversation?

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Interesting. So what does the letter R stand for in "MMORPG" in the universe you apparently inhabit?

To the original poster: Remember, roleplaying is a form of acting. What they were doing can therefore best be described as over-acting. And pretty poorly, at that.