First | Action
[Someone has just stumbled out of thin air by the Chaos Gate, and being completely unused to his boot jets suddenly giving out mid-dash because they aren't there anymore, he proceeds to fall flat on his face.
A loud string of curses promptly follows as Forte shoves himself up, freezes, and gives his surroundings a deadpan glare. He had just been darting down a high-tech hallway, not the middle of some weird old city!]
The hell, what gives? [He immediately tries to run a system diagnostic... and finds he can't. Several attempts confirm that he can't seem to launch any system commands. He shouldn't even be moving if that were the case! The only outward sign, aside from a confused and frustrated look, is to move a hand to his head as he goes to activate the radio in his helmet-
His hand hits his ear, and hair. That's about when he looks down, as well, and the frustrated expression just sort of explodes into anger. His armor is gone, replaced by weird-looking black and gold clothing that he might call armor if it bothered to cover his midriff at all, and pants that sit a bit too low on his hips for comfort and poof out somewhat before tucking into leather boots. His helmet is, of course, entirely AWOL, revealing a rough, spiky head of dark, near-black violet hair that's pulled into a ponytail in the back.]
Okay, not funny! [Because shouting at the street is sure to help!] Whose dumbass idea of a joke is this!? Get out here so I can thank you properly, you bastard! And where the HELL is Gospel?
A loud string of curses promptly follows as Forte shoves himself up, freezes, and gives his surroundings a deadpan glare. He had just been darting down a high-tech hallway, not the middle of some weird old city!]
The hell, what gives? [He immediately tries to run a system diagnostic... and finds he can't. Several attempts confirm that he can't seem to launch any system commands. He shouldn't even be moving if that were the case! The only outward sign, aside from a confused and frustrated look, is to move a hand to his head as he goes to activate the radio in his helmet-
His hand hits his ear, and hair. That's about when he looks down, as well, and the frustrated expression just sort of explodes into anger. His armor is gone, replaced by weird-looking black and gold clothing that he might call armor if it bothered to cover his midriff at all, and pants that sit a bit too low on his hips for comfort and poof out somewhat before tucking into leather boots. His helmet is, of course, entirely AWOL, revealing a rough, spiky head of dark, near-black violet hair that's pulled into a ponytail in the back.]
Okay, not funny! [Because shouting at the street is sure to help!] Whose dumbass idea of a joke is this!? Get out here so I can thank you properly, you bastard! And where the HELL is Gospel?