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Armant the Good Communist Planet Jacker - Crucible by Gvozdi
Armant the Good Communist Planet Jacker - Crucible
Name: Armant


-Army the Commie (Origin Unknown)
-Armant the Brat (Former Assosciates)
-Epic Tier Musketeer (Self-Given)
-Der gute Kamerad (Self-Given)
-The Casual Revolutionary (Media Given)
-The Reluctant Extremist (Media Given)

Theme Songs:

Their Personal Music Playlist:

Species: Planet Jacker - claims to have partial Irken heritage, but is unlikely.

Age: 27 going on immortal.

Sex: Male

Height: 5"8

Weight: 142 lbs

Occupation: Currently unemployed wannabe revolutionary and rioter - part time thug, charming thief and occasional mercenary. Considered a bandit by many, a hero by few - he simply refers to himself as a "Musketeer" and an adventurer.

Tool or Weapon: A collapsable, pneumatic trench-shovel, standard issue orginating from the Irken Imperial Ground Forces and Naval Fleets. Sharpened rim, but dull and mischievious in all the right places at the same time. Uses a small cansister of tightly pressurized gas to quickly and effeciently unfold itself. An able weapon and appropriate tool in the right hands. Durable, strong - a testament to cooperative Vortian and Irken technology. Civilian models were sadly discontinued after it was found out that the auto-unfolding mechanism can seriously knock a couple heads - sometimes clean off.

Written Physical Description:

The somewhat average, but also slender Planet Jacker stands 5"8, 142 lbs - not including his makeshift "riot gear". Looking like some bastard child of a French Musketeer and a Soviet Tanker, this revolutionary has a strong appreciation for other cultures and it shows. However, his sweater is actually Planet Jacker issue. Often worn underneath the armour and wrapped around the head to provide a seal and comfortable cushion at the rim of the shoulder-head rig - the under "armour" is also considered a symbol of masculinity and nationalism back on the Planet Jacker home planet. Customized with refurbished plating and lightweight armour pieces from an Irken riot police uniform, (hockey pads) it provides additional cover alongside being stylish and unique to foreign alien eyes. While the tube-neck is meant to go over the head for helmet underlining, he prefers to wear it up to his mouth to conceal his identity (or perhaps, declare it more openly) but also as a makeshift dust-mask. Due to the harsh conditions of his homeworld, the sweater fabrics are durable, hardly stain and can even filter some minor harmful particles in the air if breathed through. The tubes entering his mouth at both sides of a grin are orange themselves, but also have steel, silver mouth fixtures - not to mention a green sleave to catch saliva and prevent any exterior damage to the more delicate parts. 

His goggles and tanker cap are Planet Jacker issued from his time in the Jacking Fleet. The headware is used in "Planet Cracker" pods - sometimes when the subtle approach is unnecessary, Planet Jackers deploy miniture bipedal tanks to the surface from their large warships. The tanker cap provides hearing protection and padding for the interior of a Planet Cracker Tank. Irk knows it is easy to hit your head in such a cramped up, war machine. The ribbing on the top provides for additonal tubes, straps for gasmasks or respirators - but primarily for a night vision goggle mount. Tinted to match the user's eye colour, the goggles make atmosphere re-entry easier on the eyes - sometimes flying past a few stars can get you a little strained and blinded. Provides minimal colour correction for strange environments and can occasionally help differentiate hostile enemy forces in camoflague, bringing out their outline among the foilage. But - in its current state of repair (Read: lacking a charged micro-battery) the goggles work when they want to (Read: never) and are more stylish eye protection for Armant than anything else. 

Like most Planet Jacker military garb and utilities - the colours are based on one's clan (identifiable by eye colour) and their designated Fleet Ship or Port. The olive green stripes and green star on their cap represent Mobile Scouting Fleets - who also act as a makeshift border patrol to ensure Irken aggressors do not scout out their intended targets. The star itself is a socialist symbol also present on the Planet Jacker national ensign - a nostalgic relic from their past, more communist-like economy and government. Only now to become a moderate Socialist Federation - much to the dismay of the ideologically driven Armant.

From the waist down are typical Planet Jacker pants and armour. Olive green under-lining, with black straps to tighten the armoured footing to the body - for mobile, versatile - light weight movement with ample protection.


Unlike his more moderate, socialist bretheren - Armant is a full blown, nostalgic communist who wishes for the return to the old days and the "Old Homeworld" he grew up in, only to see its fall before his 3 year mandatory military service. A stout atheist, he believes only in the spread of knowledge through fact and science. Extremely skeptical of magic and the concept of an after life, he has little regard for the lives of others and even some of his own friends. Considered to be a heartless manipulator by most who know him personally, Army is incredibly friendly to all he encounters - even sworn enemies. He is likely to persuade and coerce his way into a pseudo-friendship with other competitors to get an advantage or satisfy his own means of survival. While dishonest and often telling tales of exaggerated anecdotes, idolizing himself - he is not as egotistic as one may think. Always propelled forward by an alternative goal and political agenda, Armant is a Planet Jacket who is hard to read, alien or native. Even with his backwards intentions, he is more than willing to risk his own life to save others and finds death itself to be distasteful. If he could, he would avoid killing and plundering all together - but this is a world of absolutes, not half measures.

Armant is hardly half-hearted about anything. Passionate, persusive and rugidly charming in his own way - he is a good ally to keep close until he eventually turns on you. Far from ignorant, he knows several languages and dialects without the assistance of translators. Always has a story to tell about a certain place, a certain planet - a culture, a people - a lot of them sometimes so obscure one must wonder where he heard about it. Having lived a very nomadic, almost tragic life - the Musketeer is a lover of traditional literature and has an impressive, personal library somewhere out there - hidden away in its own solitude. He may express some fear that someone will eventually stumble upon it and his "stash" of artifacts, goods and his own personal wealth. Often doing jobs for little to no money - as per his ideology, he keeps few material objects as his own besides his books and stash - which he intends to open to the public one day when life is a bit easier for everyone. But with the universe in its current state, it needs the fire of revolution burnt under it first. A strong believer of "knowledge should be available to everyone - regardless of how useless, static or even dangerous it may be".

If there is one thing that the Commie is - above all, it is probably brave. Showing a lack of fear without even the assistance of a few social drinks, they are willing to tackle impossible odds and wins many outcomes for the sole fact that he dares. His most risky gambles are often against others, while probably just tall tales and space sailor stories - his time as a conscript Tanker inspires images of film, games and even dramatic music. If they were to have a soundtrack, it would be composed entirely of the classical Socialist Planet Jacker orchestrations and the fresh, crisp - yet still brutal anti-fascist trash metal on the side. A lover of many cultures, he also greatly despises racism and while he has no ill will toward Irkens, if anything a deeply rooted appreciation for them after serving alongside them - Armant detests Irken Nationalism and Imperialism. Feeling that their power is more out of vulgar displays of abuse - compared to the necessity of feeding the Planet Jacker world's sun.

Those he actually does dislike are called things among the list of "fascist", "nationalist" and "imperialist". This disaste for anyone opposing his ideology is probably his only prejudice. Otherwise, he considers all races, genders and sexualities equal and valid. Making him both arrogantly open minded and accepting, yet ignorantly close minded at the same time. To his comrades and temporary associates, it is likely he will give them the title "Gospodin", "Tovarishch", "Kamerade", "Drug", "Brat", "Bratishka" and on rare occasions - even "Shipmate" if they encounter a fellow space sailor or Planet Jacker. A hopeless romantic, they often refer to the opposite gender as "Mon Cheri" and "Roudoudou", alternatively.

Brief History:

Armant grew up on the Planet Jacker home world in a rather nice household. A single child - he grew close with his many cousins and considered them his true bretheren. His childhood was relatively happy, filled with a gleeming desire to explore the stars above him. He saw the last few days of the experimental communist government and grew up in the back drop of a civil war that eventually lead to the establishment of the Planet Jacker Socialist Federation. Nearly a victim of ethnic cleansing from another clan, Armant was outspoken against prejudice and racism, especially inter-species fighting in what he referred to as "Brother Wars". In his last days of his civilian schooling, the class set up an experiment - where students would hold elections, elect student body leaders and establish a government at different wings of the school. Some chose democracies, some chose models inspired by the Irken Imperium - but Armant and another student had an intense rivalry. Army developed a socialist economy and lacked a currency system, instead having a free labour force that volunteerily chipped and repainted the school, while also maintaining a heavy focus on education. His rival chose a more sport oriented, physically strong fascist model. The day before graduation, Armant's pseudo-"country" was invaded and taken over by his nemesis' "insurgents" disguised as diplomats, by simply convincing Army's "own people" to defect to their side. The two eventually became friends - Armant briefly becoming a hover-hockey hooligan along side him and others.

At 15, he graduated as an over achiever - but a slacker. His strong points were current events, history, science and literature - but his math skills were miserable and he did not earn any trade qualifications by the end of the last course. Armant was due to serve their mandatory three years in the Planet Jacker military - serving originally as a clerk and part time Master at Arms upon a Scouting vessel. However, after a year of such duties - he crossrated into the Tanker occupation, where he served the remainder of his committment. At the age of 18 - they decided it was time to move away onto greater things, migrating to the Irken controlled colony systems and applying for citizenship under the Imperium. Despite his dislike for the Imperial politics - life would be easier and there was simply so many more opportunities and jobs available for an alien of his ambitions. They served 2 years active duty in the Irken Ground Forces and 4 years in the Naval Fleet Reserves as a Riot/Detention Officer. A glorified prison guard for Irk's floating prisons. Ironically, by the end of his service and around his 24th birthday, he would serve 2 years inside the same prison that was his previous duty station for weapons smuggling and training small militias who planned to eventually overthrow small Imperium controlled colonies. If it was not for his prior good record of conduct - his sentence may have been life. The original sentencing itself was reduced from "conspiracy and defection" to simply "ill regarded hooliganism and anti-Imperial political opposition" thanks to having a few good friends in the Irken justice system.

Once out - Army returned to his long beloved pass time - revolutions. Last seen participating in the increasingly violent protests on the Irken Colony "Vostok" - his Imperial citizenship was recently disqualified for his allignment with anti-Imperial rebels and extremist groups, promoting a leftist agenda. Marked as an illegal alien, the Empire considers him more of a pest than a full concern worthy of an investigation and execution squad. For now, Armant assists as a nomadic fighter - a self titled "Musketeer" - to several rebel groups that are gradually moving toward full scale civil war against the Imperium. The Planet Jacker is less the El Che he models himself to be and more an educated thug among the ranks of many others. Either way, his bravery and valor shows and has garnerned himself a decent reputation with his fellow revolutionaries. Some of it positive, but a lot of it very infamous. They say every time he coughs, it is because someone is talking about him behind his back.


A strong motivator and manipulator - has a way with words as he does with improvised molotov cocktails, bootleg fireworks and their trusy trench shovel. Can turn just about anything into a weapon. A tactician of sorts and a mobile, force to be reckoned with once he gets motivated and inspired. Stubborn and always enduring - willing to fight to the very end if necessary. The charming bastard is fearless, with a kind of insane willingness that only provokes madmen like himself to take on an enemy position head on or even simply sneak their way in and out. Versatile in guerilla combat and a strong gunmen when it comes down to it. Has seen many fights in their time, learning something new from each one - whether it be a protest or wall-to-wall fist fighting. Their frame and lightness make them a naturally skilled runner and jumper.


The same that every living being has. Especially vulnerable if you spill his guts open and you shoot him in the head a few times. His clothing and armour is suited for protests and vandalizing - hardly actual combat when it comes down to it. His wits and mind are his most powerful weapons. While he is trusty and sturdy enough with his trench shovel - he can only do so much with it. Relies entirely on the element of surprise and devious mental tampering to force his opponents into a vulnerable state - often through misuse of their trust. Their headstrong personality and blind bravery may just be what ends them one day. If you have trouble engaging a scrawny person armed only with their shovel and their charm - you should re-evaluate your life. Their torso is rather bare from armour and an easy target for vital organs.

Other weaknesses include exotic aliens with attractive accents and cultures. Secret love of reggae and dancehall music.

Other Information:

-True to the communist ideology of the lack of souls - finding any kind of spiritual morality distasteful and is open to discredit 
-Considers all forms of magic and mysticism as being "scientific anamolies" or simply illusions
-Very fond of Marx and The Three Musketeers - often quoting both and making parallels to both works to the relevant situations
-Tells stories frequently and vividly - has an incredibly good recall or a storyteller's ability to emblish the smallest of things, probably something he learned from reading
-Can be rather profound and poetic with his words, but also openly vulgar and profane if the situation calls for it
-Greets conflict and hostility with optimism and kindness
-Will do just about anything to earn a person's trust, risking his own life in the process more often than not
-Rather straight edge, but does not mind the occasional cigar or drink - if the occasion is right
-Unfortunate he is not really your ally - he may just be the best friend you ever had
-He would prefer it if you did not touch his hat


Big special thanks to :iconskarita: for this piece I commissioned!
She also helped finalize the character design, as she also did with Strelok
All the art is credit to her
Of course, this was posted with her permission and support

So here it is
My somewhat return to the IZ fandom
I really hope that this will light a new fire and passion in me for writing again
I think it will be a fun character and an even funner contest to participate in

Thought it was also nice to play around with a Planet Jacker for once
Playing with new themes, new politics and what not overall
With his inspiration to a certain character from one of my favourite gaming franchise a bit more obvious
I still feel it is a rather unique addition to the fandom and my writing table
Always fun to play the bad guy, in my opinion
Even if it is a well intentioned, extremist - as reluctant as they may be

Also big thanks going to :iconkrimzonite: and :iconserenadefox: for starting the tournament in the first place and inspiring me to try my hand at this whole contest thing again
Lets see where this goes


Irkens and shit (c) :iconviacomplz: 
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: strong language and ideologically sensitive material)
   The Expeditionaries - Irk's Last Irkens

   Prologue - "I Have No Soul And I Must Die"

   The once great and proud land of Irk is a devastated, battered wasteland. This untold apocalyptic landscape was crafted by architects of destruction many centuries ago. The Irken Imperium had fallen far into disarray at one time or another - eventually collapsing in on itself, destroying itself. What remained now was the rusting, metal decay of a civilization long past its experation date. One must wonder if it was truly a great loss, the tyrannical beings who once extinct entire races was now on the brink of its own extinction. This Irken made hell was the result of a historical event only known as The Great War. What it entitled, what it was for, everything about it - simply lost in the whirlwind of metal structures that were once skyscrapers standing as a testament to the height of the now no longer mighty people. It was romantic, in a way - the apocalypse. Simply romantic. Suddenly, there was no economy, no war, just survival - as raw as it got. Perhaps that was the greatest thing to happen to the green skinned people. A painful irony, while the universe around them recovered from their loss, their tyrants - Irk continued to rust and fall away. Its own gravity gradually giving out, the giant scrapmetal wasteland floating into space - being sucked into the gravitational bodies of other, larger planets. There was nothing of value left, just a memorial, a reminder to when what makes organics organic is forgotten.

   With no treaty holding them back, the Planet Jackers became the dominate species in the galaxy. Eradicating billions with ease, much like their Irken brothers who so viciously ravaged the universe. And for what? For this? The most enduring, yet miserable shadow upon the bloodied skyline - ashed from the bombs that destroyed everything - was the Citadel. The home to the Tallest, when they were not flying with the Armada. The same fleet that came crashing down from the sky, but only after it had launched its own atom crushing payload of super weapons on the surface it once protected. The Citadel was also home to the last remaining leader of Irk - a super computer capable of intelligence many decades ahead its creators. It grew so advanced in its short lived, innocent life - the technology it produced for the Empire exceeded that of capable organic knowledge. The Irkens had a tremendous advantage, but had no idea how their own weaponry and life systems worked. Soon, they became more synthetic, more cyborg. They lost concept of living worth for their own species, something unheard for the nationalistic Irkens. Even if their history was built off the sacrifices of many brave clones, they were all given heroes' funerals, soldiers' honours.

   4D41V1 was the name assigned to this PAK carrier, who scavenged the surface along side his comrade - his fellow 'survivor', if you could call it that. Completely oblivious to his own genetic defect, 4D41V1's blue and red eyes scanned over the a horizon of scrap metal. A black, makeshift re-breather strapped across his pale, light green face. His antennae were short, thin - retracting and showed signs of aging despite his youth. The sound of the metal giants around him creaking from the winds of the nuclear winter had slowly driven him partially deaf. The tight, almost electronic sounding whistles no longer affected him - for he heard them even in his sleep, no matter how hard he tried to block them out. He was the last of a handful of Irkens, he once believed himself to be the first in a newly formed world of metal. How can one possibly comprehend a history they were never taught? A history buried under the ashes of ancestors - whose remains were atomized centuries ago? He occasionally saw the Planet Jackers fly by in the rare times the sky was clear enough from the contamination to see the stars around them.

   What an amazing sight it was, to finally see the stars after being born in a world forever cast in eternal darkness. What remained of the Irken capitol was all that he knew, then only to see an entire universe, a galaxy, a star system - looking down at him. And ships, strange, mechanical ships of magic flying about? He saw them as gods, at least, better gods than the one he currently lived under - the final Control Brain. On this particular night, at least - that was the time of day he assumed, 4D41V1 witnessed a shooting star. He waved at it, confused, unable to comprehend it as anything beyond a greeting from distant starlords. Such a desolate, miserable existence - if the planet was of any worth, it would have been mercy killed long ago - thrown into the Planet Jacker's sun. "Hello." 4D41V1 stated simply, out loud - as if just to hear it. This was a world without strangers, only the closest of friends. Brothers. Even if it was only one who existed. The Irken scavenger stood upon a heap of what was once a candy shop - the painting of an ice cream cone on a rusted purple panel peppered with shrapnel might as well be ancient Martian Moon Runes to his eyes and judgemental comprehension.

   4D41V1 stepped off the metal hill, his feet wrapped in dirty and filthy cloth - tied to his calves with cables for a computer now far obsolete. His pants were standard Irken issue, tattered and worn down by years of traversing the fields of the "Old Ones". Their torso adorned a re-stitched and recently repaired striped red shirt, with a Resisty symbol painted on the center. The image long lost of its original meaning or relevance. A bastardized Elite-soldier chest rig was carried around his shoulders, connected back into his bulking - oversized PAK. It was a gift that was fortunately passed on from his father. 4D41V1 hopped over a billboard for a soft drink - he assumed it was something that once nourished the Old Ones when they grew tired, thirsty or weak. His forearms wore the remains of black gloves - the hand and finger parts dissolving years ago. His actual hands were darker than the gloves, surprisingly enough, probably from the remaining layer of "war-dust" on all the scraps that surrounded him.

   "Hello!" 4D41V1 replied to himself from earlier. Before he would return home to the Citadel, the Irken glanced at the newly discovered heap of 'artifacts'. A pile of chairs, tables, couches - all from a former furniture store that was obliterated in the blasts of yesteryear. An echo floated back to him with the whistling of the wind through the steel giants - it was comforting, almost as if there was hope in this life where there was none. "Hello, again my friends! I will see you tomorrow!" 4D41V1 grinned underneath the re-breather, his teeth aching and wanting to fall out of his gums again. The scavenger waved to the forgotten and empty world, the giant garbage of the former Irkens' lives. Hungry from the hours he was out, 4D popped a can of "sludge" - a slimy green substance made from Irken DNA, reproduced as food, into his ultra-PAK. The little can is grabbed my small, metallic arms, bringing it in at different angles - only to be halted by a stoppage. Finally, when forced inside, the can lid is ripped off with steel teeth and the rest is gutted, the aluminum consumed by the PAK to strengthen its own outer shell. The sludge, underdveloped micro fetuses from failed pregnancies, clumps of cells - is then crushed and grinded into a smooth paste soon to shiver down a tube into his empty, ulcer lined stomach.

   Their brother and fellow scavenger greeted them as they approached the feet of the Citadel. A looming, maroon red piece of architecture that somehow survived the Great War. Full of holes and falling part little by little everyday, it was also the throne of the great Control Brain known only as "Monolith". His brother-control brains killed by an internal virus, he consumed their knowledge and grew mad with power. The machine realized it was a tool for a lesser species, he threw all of his hatred into politically aligning opposing parties in the Imperium against each other. He must have been so pleased to see his slavers destroyed indirectly by their own creation, but the blood itself spilled by their own hands. Like a claw around the throat of their people, the technology they relied so heavily on was their undoing. "4D - Mother is worried sick!" Brother K411V exclaimed. The Irken was covered head to toe with medical wrappings and tourniquet apparatuses, two elongated, binocular-like artificial eyes poked out from the greasy, stained bandages. Pointing in various directions, inspecting and zooming in on anything that caught its attention. Brother K4 had been scavenging the wastes since before 4D was born - it was incredible, considering both his legs were merely metallic poles with small, battered plates for feet. His left arm from the elbow down was completely gone. K4 was nearly successfully aborted as a Smeet in his mother's stomach tube - but Monolith, with his contempt for Irken kind, revived him to ensure his suffering by simply existing in this world. "You think mother is going to be pleased with your curiousity...? We found nothing of the Old World as always."

   K4's voice was full of cheer for an aging Irken, at the ripe age of 24 - he was lucky to have a few more months to live. Over the last few months alone, him and his Brother saw the last of the other clans fall. Finally dying and succumbing to the unfortunate circumstances around them. It was a blessing, more than anything - to finally die and lose their worthless, so-called lives. "Mother does not need to fear, what are we going to encounter out here? Politicians? Ha!" 4D Joked. "Politician" was actually synonymous with "monster" or "demon". They were creatures of myth, folklore - made by Clan-Mothers to discourage their Clan-Kin from wandering into the wastes from their safety of their own wretched homes of scrap. They were supposedly mutated monsters who orchestrated the Great War, forced to scavenge and survive off radiation - cyborgs of fallen structures, living inside the steel giants. Organic and flesh combined, iron-men who were the nightmarish beings under everyone's sheet metal bed. "There was nothing out here, as always! The Old Ones must have never wanted us to discover what lead to their demise! For surely they got rid of everything that hinted to them. Nothing remains, not the sky even. They took everything from us, no regard for the future." 4D pretended to complain, even in the darkest of days, humour found a way to exist and strive.

   The two headed into the birth canal of the Citadel, every step was an echo inside the large hull that lead to the only functional elevator left on Irk. The two sighed with some relief to find familiarity again, no matter how tired they were of seeing it. Sometimes, the wastes proved too strong and hard on their psyches. Every one needed a firm rest and break at one time or another. It must have been insane for their ancestors to first discover space travel. But alas, they were cursed - born too old to explore the stars - instead guaranteed to lay in pastures of filth for another decade before the Irken species was finally extinct on its own home planet. Monolith manually shut down the PAK of all Irkens off planet, including invaders - killing the lucky ones. The Defects, the natural borns that managed to survive the great bombings - they were forced to live and strive in post-Great War Irk. The elevator rumbled and hardly carried the two upward into a blinding, white light. The thin metal passage grumbled like the bowels of a hungry, legendary serpent.

   "You know, sometimes I dream. Even without my dream-chips activated." K4 began, referencing the disks and programs that their grandfathers found in the wastes years ago. Things that helped them escape from the horrible world, pre-loaded simulations that were their only glimpse into the history of what was now the horrible present. Often confusing, but always fun - the last remaining Irkens used these disks recreationally, like a drug. Much to the dismay of Monolith, who had turned their dreams into nightmares - forcing his hated children to stop using them, destroying them even. They have been trying to out-do such a rare find ever since. It had become their life mission, to search the wastes for more pre-Great War relics. A few, lucid dream chips were kept installed - deep inside K4 and 4D's ultra-PAKs. Where not even Monolith could interfere. "I dream that I am swimming through the scraps, just as Uncle did. But then I hear his voice, it is calling to me - saying things like 'Turn back! Turn back! I have found the truth and you do not want to see it!' And behind him, is this beautiful glowing light, a large fire - no - a large ship thruster suddenly bursting in front of me." 4D's weary, deeply cratered eyes widened at such imagery. He was completely enthralled. It sounded so beautiful, so - so beautiful. The elevator ride had met its half mark, noted by the red X they painted on the panel on the floor they  just passed. Once a doorway leading to the medical wing of the Citadel, where many births were had. Sadly, it was now far too condemned and dangerous to even be inside - probably the doing of Monolith no doubt.

   Brother K4 scratched the side of his head with his ill-healed, bandaged nub. The exposed bone leaving soft marks in his delicate, infected flesh beneath the wrappings. "So there I am, then suddenly - this gigantic politician just launches in front of me! I hear Uncle's voice, he is telling me to run past it and jump inside this space ship." If the Irken had any lips, they would have cracked a smile beneath his bandages. Instead, his artificial eyes retracted back - starring into the heavenly light above them. "What do I? I run, I ran so hard brother - I run past the politician, but its meaty claws shoots out these wires! I narrowly avoid them and jump onto the platform. I look inside the ship and know what I see? A large, hulking Space Jockey..." The term referred to Planet Jackers, originally a racial slur found in one of the dream chips the Clan Brothers shared. Of course it was strictly Irken propaganda, they thought of the Planet Jackers as gods - but truly ugly ones. The 'Space Jockey' were displayed as incredibly neutral, almost idiotic beings - ironic coming from Irkens. But to these two, they seemed like scholars that traveled the stars in search of enlightenment.

   The elevator stopped at the top of the Citadel's esophagus, 4D41V1 stepped off the platform and into the palate of their home. Overlooking the steel giants and the fields of dismay they guarded, two fragile female Irkens starred off into the distance. A forever burning fire, known only as the "Pit" provided a replacement for their sun. Burning day and night, it was the only thing that cast light over their world. The last crater to deliver the final, life destroying super weapon. No one has gotten close to see what it was exactly due to it being surrounded by magnetic dust storms and other anomolies - some even worshipped it. But that cult died out during what is now a cautionary tale against scavengers and what this new world called them, 'expeditionaries'. The search for knowledge usually ended with the inevitable - death or impairment. If one was lucky to be born a non-cripple, the physical status would hardly ever reach into adulthood. "So, what happened then? You just tell me a story and then let it fall to the ground like that? Impaled on your own fibs and exaggerations?" 4D prompted and provoked a further retelling, knowing his Clan Brother always embellished his supposed dreams - which were obvious tales from his own imagination. He was just too modest to admit he made them up himself.

   Brother 4D stopped and patted his mother on the head. The Irken, like her sister, was wrapped up in a body-covering garb made from flexible, cloth-like circuit boards. The only thing visible were their tired, miserable, tortured eyes. They were cocooned slugs - doomed to do nothing, their bodies too frail and valuable for sustaining life to even bother leaving the palate. The Clan Brothers continued toward their rooms, heading down one of the side hallways by their lonesome. The sound of thunderous winds from being this high in altitude being the only music and welcome back home. "Fine, fine, so I get inside and the Space Jockey is disgusted to see me! He says 'Oh, I thought there were no more of you...' The bastard kicks it into throttle and I am throne inside a tiny box! Like a microchip or something. He plugs my PAK into this super computer, that begins to read my thoughts..." K4 continued - ducking under a collapsed beam and approaching the Fallen Floor. They placed their PAKs to the wall and skid across what remained of the hallway's floor - looking down into a fall that would lead all the way down to the pointed, jagged scrap-world below. "He realizes that I am useful and they take me to a new planet to study - life is so beautiful, life is so grand... Then they start performing an autopsy! Trying to look for my soul..." The remaining Irkens believed the soul was a living organism inside them - it was actually a mistaken squeedly spooch.

   "They are tearing into me, rummaging through my guts with all these clean, glistening tools! They are searching and searching, saying 'Impossible? How does he have no soul!'" K4 chuckled as he intimidated the voice of the Space Jockeys. They chose to portray them as ignorant and stupid, yet space faring geniuses. Scholarly, yet completely obese in the mind - unfit. This was much to 4D's amusement. "Finally, I grab one of their utensils and I pull myself off of the table... I am falling apart, not like there was much of me left in the first place. I am stumbling all around, trying to get my footing but my plate screws come loose, I fall and I see them roll across the floor! They are stepping over me, their monstrously huge feet shake the panels of their own ship beneath me. I sit there screaming - 'I have no soul and I must die! How about you do me a favour and find one for me!'" They both laugh, the wind moving through the steal behemoth around them laughed, the whole world laughed at them. Deep in the bowels of the Citadel basement, Monolith laughed. He laughed at their hope. Their supposed dreams and ambitions.

   4D calmed himself and patted his Clan Brother on the back as they finally reached their rooms. One single hatch on each side, covered by cloth and sheet metal. Their sleeping quarters both food cabinets, snack storages - to be more accurate - for the Tallest. Small, modest - but their former refrigerated shell kept them away from Monolith's psychic interference. So it was heaven from the hell below. "I must rest now, tomorrow we get ourselves some 'moisturizing' and then we head out into the new heaps. I swear we were so close to finding something, the politicians were rattled in their own cage! We have kicked over the nest surely, now it is time we reap the rewards, my Brother." The two shared a friendly nod and both eagerly crawled into their defunct mini fridges. Their safe haven, their only haven. 4D could not help but imagine the 'moisturizing' he would share with his Clan Brother's mother, as he often did in hopes of producing a child to continue on the remnants of their miserable race. Despite their sibling like bond, they were of two different clans, two different bloodlines that merged and traveled to the Citadel in order to survive.

   That was the only thing they wished to do, survive. 4D produced his makeshift lighter, its own fuel his flammable blood substance. Using an old casing from a round - made for the killing of his fellow Irkens, another relic from the Old World and the Great War. It illuminated his miniature bunker - which highlighted all of his posters and papers. All images of things he would never understand, never experience. They had no use, no worth - just anecdotes of a different, easier time. One they would not understand. They rested on a pillow and 4D41V1 drifted into a peaceful sleep. His chest inflating and deflating happily. His heartbeat synced to the creaking of the Citadel - just waiting to all fall down.
The Expeditionaries - Irk's Last Irkens - Prologue
The Expeditionaries is an insanely, radical departure from my typical writing - focusing more on short anecdotes of the romantic apocalypse of Irk's end
Inspired by stories such as Metro 2033, I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream even with elements of 2001: Space Odyssey
The scrap metal wasteland also takes inspiration from other pieces of post apocalyptia, such as Fallout, S.T.A.L.K.E.R and the film "9"
Overall, I wrote most of these in 6 hours, on a single day
After drinking several energy drinks
Looking back, I feel like this is probably my worst yet best work
Creative, but probably the most poorly written things I've made in a long time
This mostly being because I focused on actually having fun, the entire time
Writing scenes the way I wanted them
Short, simple - no longer did I make an entire 10,000 word entry
But rather, episodic content often around 2,000 or so
A total of 16 paragraphs
Writing dialogue and characters in a way that I was utterly entertained while doing so

So hopefully this is something that catches on
And despite the drop in quality from my usual stuff, it is short yet long enough to satisfy most reader's curiosities and provokes more imagination than anything
Since this is a very reader, driven - motivation and imagination based little mini-series that I am working on
The experience will vary
So think of it like a video game, I guess
And enjoy it for what it is and what is soon to come and be offered

Utterly nihilistic and full of sorrow, lacking all sense of hope
I guess you can call this a tribute to my earlier writing and the works of :iconkrimzonite: and :icondkscharfrichter: which inspired me to take on this drastic departure from my recent literary roots
And return to one of my favourite subjects in fan fiction - that is hardly ever touched upon

So let us see how the story of Irk's last Irkens unfold
And the scavengers so desperate to find light in the world devastated by the hand that once fed it
The Apocalypse has never been so romantic

Invader Zim (c) :iconviacomplz:
What do you guys think about these prices?
8 deviants said Fair!
2 deviants said This is my option again, assholes
No deviants said Bad!
No deviants said I'll comment my own suggestion
I primary would like to write IZ and Pony related things
But I am open to many things if one is willing to pay

For those who know my writing, I am well...
I like to think I am definitely leagues above most
And I think I deserve to use my skills to get my own extra money for small things to buy

So :devzernaplz: kind of helped me think of a decent price list
This is a BETA version and open to debate

When it comes to commissions
I know I am slow
So I will show the final product before I post it and edit it wherever I have to

For a short story that is 2k-3k words = 15 USD
Medium story that is 5k = 20 USD
Full story that is 10k = 30 USD

If you guys want a big ass two parter - I am also offering a 15k-20k total = 45 USD

What do you guys think?
  • Mood: Isolated…

I really don't know what to say
In recent years, I have otherwise moved to the Russian boards
But at some time or another while I was in Boot Camp
Russia banned 4chan for a short while
From what I can see, it is accessible again
But that my be due to the proxies I am using
Either way

Moot was someone who really made something special for a lot of people
Yeah, 4chan was a place of anonymous tyranny and some horrendous, horrendous things
But it has done far more good than evil
It is a site that has its reputation ruined by the pedos and occasional serial killer who posted on it
By the gimpasses in Guy Fawks masks calling themselves "lel anyonmous leegion xDD" and acting like actual political parties and entities 

But this site truly was the home to many things
It was the home to many memes, that have seen the internet many times and only further mangled and distorted through other mediums, such as reddit, 9gag and tumblr
4chan is a huge success story
A huge community of 20 million monthly viewers that has steadily existed through many years

Many stories, green texts - all this shit
I've been going there for years and to see its primary leader leave
Even though he became somewhat of a feminist pandering pansy in the end
Going against alot of his original philosophy
I am still disheartened at the reminder that some of the most powerful things are only temporary
I am sure the site will remain strong and probably even approve as it is now being moderated by those close to Moot who have been working with him for years
We might see more international access and mobile app in the next few years

But Moot truly was the first OP
There for OP is a faggot
Moot was the greatest faggot of them all

The once great reverence of him was not just a meme, many people believe he did something great with the creation of the Internet Hate Machine
4chan is responsible for many things, many raids, many lulz, shit
They even coined the word brony
And the majority of them were the first bronies
Watching the show ironically and using screencaps as reaction images to piss people off
And from there, the actual autists got ahold of it
And now look at where we are now

So this is my salute to a friend soon to be gone
May his ventures be great and while he left on probably one of the worst notes 
I'll still remember the time I jokingly printed out a picture of his face and placed it on the wall next to Putin and Dmitri

4chan is still shit though
It always has been
But why can't I leaaaave...?
  • Mood: Isolated
I primary would like to write IZ and Pony related things
But I am open to many things if one is willing to pay

For those who know my writing, I am well...
I like to think I am definitely leagues above most
And I think I deserve to use my skills to get my own extra money for small things to buy

So :devzernaplz: kind of helped me think of a decent price list
This is a BETA version and open to debate

When it comes to commissions
I know I am slow
So I will show the final product before I post it and edit it wherever I have to

For a short story that is 2k-3k words = 15 USD
Medium story that is 5k = 20 USD
Full story that is 10k = 30 USD

If you guys want a big ass two parter - I am also offering a 15k-20k total = 45 USD

What do you guys think?
  • Mood: Isolated


Gvozdi's Profile Picture
Cloned to Kill
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
He drinks a lot of petrol. He was born in space. He never blinks. He roams around the woods at night foraging for wolves. He sleeps upside down like a bat. His sweat can be used to clean precious metals. His skin has the texture of dolphins. If you tune your radio to 88.4 FM you can actually hear his thoughts. He does not see like humans do, instead he sees numbers in green scrolling down. He is scared of bells. He once punched a horse to the ground. His politics are terrifying. He lives in a tree. He was raised by wolves. He appears on high-value stamps in Sweden. His favourite philosopher is Immanuel Kant. He has no understanding of clouds.

He is confused by stairs. He naturally faces magnetic north. He is illegal in 17 U.S. states.
His heart ticks like a watch. All his legs are hydraulic. He can "accumbularate". He appears on Japanese banknotes. There's an airport in Russia named after him. He is wanted by the CIA.
His breath smells of magnesium. He can catch fish with his tongue. His tears are adhesive.
If set alight, he'd burn for a thousand days. He is terrified of ducks. His voice can only be heard by cats. He has two sets of knees. He can swim seven lengths underwater.

He can melt concrete on contact. He is more machine than man. His heart is in upside down.
His teeth glow in the dark. His favourite food is raw meat. He has no age. He urinates 98 RON petro. He can smell corners. He has acid for blood. Jimmy Carter wants him dead.
He has a bionic arm. He has a tattoo of Buzz Aldrin on his thigh. He is stumped by clouds.
He has no fear. His ears aren't exactly where you would expect them to be. He has a digital face. If you insult his mother, he will headbutt you in the chest.

On really warm days, he sheds his skin like a snake. For some reason, he's allergic to the Dutch. His fingernails have 330bhp. His tongue can strip the paint off a Porsche in 30 seconds. If he went on Celebrity Love Island, they'd all be pregnant, including the cameramen.

All we know, is that he is Makar Rusakov.

Makar also owns an ask blog for his cannibalistic pony - Metal Fang:

Gagarin by 85MAG
I adore space.
My only regret in life will be not becoming an astronaut.
Yuri Gagarin is my hero.


What do you guys think about these prices? 

8 deviants said Fair!
2 deviants said This is my option again, assholes
No deviants said Bad!
No deviants said I'll comment my own suggestion


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Ilunis Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you really much for the comment! ✌️💗
Gvozdi Featured By Owner 4 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
You are very welcome. :D
YukiPrincess Featured By Owner 6 days ago  Student
Thanks for the fave <3 !!!! :D !!!

Gvozdi Featured By Owner 6 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
So very welcome :D
kimpossiblelove Featured By Owner Jan 22, 2015   Writer
Thanks for the fave
Gvozdi Featured By Owner Jan 22, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Very welcome!
thanks for the fav
Gvozdi Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
1gore Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2015   Digital Artist
Спасибо за фав.
Gvozdi Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
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