city without limits

Felt like redesigning some characters from an old comic idea of mine. This is Jack, a classless civilian of the City without Limits and his partner, Ripper, a living remnant of the world devouring war that took place over a millennia ago. I often think about digging up the idea again. It has a really cool world… 

Nếu tôi hỏi bạn có thể xây chung cư giữa Central Park, New York được không? Câu trả lời chắc chắn là không, vì chúng ta cần những khoảng không cho thành phố thở, cần nơi để mưa ngấm xuống đất cho dù chúng ta không đến đó. Nhưng ở đây, chúng ta xây những toà nhà cao với tầng hầm hiện đại, rồi trồng cây trên ban công và bảo rằng đó là cuộc sống tự nhiên.
—  Ekumenopolis - City without limits

When Ray died Los Santos trembled. The death of a criminal should be no great shock but the FAHC have survived so much for so long that it’s hard to even think them wholly mortal. To remember even they cannot cheat death in the end.

When Ray died the Fake AH Crew were inconsolable. While the death is unexpected, the depth of the resulting meltdown really isn’t. Having made no secret of their loyalty, the possessive bond between the innermost members of the crew, any who knew of them could suppose that the loss of any one would not be pretty. That anything less than blind raging sorrow would be wildly out of character. The FAHC make no effort to hide their mourning. They are not quiet in grief.

When Ray died everyone was left scrambling to work out what had happened, who was to blame. From allies to enemies, the cops and the public, word that a Fake had finally fallen spreads fast, and with it came fear. Networks across Los Santos were alight as everyone went to ground, burrowing into safety while they waited to see how the cards fell, whether control of the city would shift and tumble overnight. By dawn another crew had been wiped off the earth. There were no survivors, none deemed distant enough to escape, and rumour is no one died quickly. No one died clean.

When Ray died the city was quiet, crime at an all time low for weeks. Even bitter rivals of the FAHC kept their heads down, if not out of respect then out of fear; grief does terrible things to even the kindest of people, and the Fakes have never been so unstable. The few ill thought out aggressors trying to take advantage of weakness were dealt with quickly and without mercy. There were no warnings, no negotiations or chances to retreat; any who acted out were put down.

When Ray died his enemies stopped looking for him. It doesn’t matter if they’d sworn personal vengeance or were merely seeking leverage against the FAHC, once word had gotten out all possibilities were instantly rendered moot. There was no witnessing the body, none foolish enough to approach the rabid dog that was his old crew, but a head is not the only proof and not a single citizen of Los Santos had any doubts. A dead man holds no value and can pose no threat, becoming nothing more than a name to strike off the list, a ghost soon to be forgotten.

When Ray died he took a stolen car in the middle of the night, blasted through the city limits without looking back. In the week leading up to it he’d sat through hours of advice from Geoff and Jack, received lists of contacts, endless backup plans and almost more physical contact than he could stand. That night he’d returned the gesture when Michael flipped him off, didn’t fight when he was dragged into a hug, punched hard enough to send his arm numb. Sitting in the drivers seat he’d laughed at Gavin’s most obnoxious face, at the way he refused to take off his sunglasses, to acknowledge the redness they hide, the waver in his voice when he demanded postcards. Engine revving he’d smiled at the shadow barely visible in the gloom, lifted his newly gifted gun and mimed something obscene just to see the returning flash of teeth.

When Ray died he left behind his pink sniper, his favourite hoodie, his name. The family he never expected to find. He left behind the number to a burner phone, a proxy email and the promise to check in soon.

someconfusednerd-deactivated201  asked:

Wait you were responsible for a werewolf sighting? What did you do?

I’m SO glad you asked because this is one of my favorite stories about me.

So, backstory. A couple years ago I commissioned this beautiful piece of taxidermy from @naturepunk, a black wolf headdress with a fully mounted realistic head. Here’s a picture of me with it:

Shitty bathroom selfie but you get the idea. This thing is huge and envelops pretty much my entire body from the back.

Now, I may be a bit of an oddball but I am at least self aware enough to know that this is not something I could realistically get away with wearing anywhere in city limits without calling lots of attention to myself. So, whenever I get the urge to photograph any of the taxidermy I’ve acquired, I usually bring it with me to my favorite hiking spot about fifteen minutes out of town.

I try and make sure there are no hikers around and snap a few pictures here and there and then finish my hike alone.

Fast forward to Halloween of 2014. An old art history professor of mine wants me to come to her class Halloween party, and knowing my affinity for the macabre, encourages me to bring the most outlandish costume I have. The black wolf isn’t my only piece of fur costumery but he is by far the biggest and one of the most impressive, so I pick him and put him in a bag and take him to class.

Once in class it’s time for the dramatic reveal. I put him on the table, pull him from the bag and place him on my head to which a student in the back loudly gasps and says to me “Oh my GOD! YOU WERE THE WOLF?!”

Apparently, despite my best efforts not to dress like a weirdo in public, on one of my outings in the woods someone had spotted what they could only assume was a werewolf out in the sticks. Given the paths that the trails take and how different seasons make little areas more or less visible with brush cover, it’s not unrealistic for someone to have caught a glimpse of me in my wolf pelt but not enough of a glimpse to see that it was actually a chick in a costume and not an actual factual for real werewolf running around by the riverbed.

He seemed a little disappointed that the wolf wasn’t real. He was however very happy he got to pet it. We spent the rest of the class time watching Dracula in Spanish.