maxamillionaire
Hurricane Wrangler
Offline
Is the answer to this question no?
Posts: 139
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Okay, so these are some of my ideas for the sequel to twisted metal black. Mostly it'll just be new characters (since thumperman did such a good job coming up with new storylines for the old characters). I've been looking at some of the other stuff on this board and its blowing me away and I know this wont come close, but I want to get my ideas out. So Please tell me what you think, tell me how I can improve. I'll post the middle and endings later, after i introduce all the characters.
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The night brings out the darkness in all of us. It shows us who we really are…
It has been 15 years since the first Twisted Metal Tournament in Midtown. Christmas Eve has ceased to become a day of joy and tranquility. In Midtown, it means the annual coming of Twisted Metal. Some say that Twisted Metal is a natural part of Darwin’s Life cycle, and should be allowed to continue. The criminals and lunatics run amok destroying each other across the city, weeding out the malicious and insane from society. The world would be better off without such people. Every year, however, Calypso is always able to find new contestants to compete in his demented game. Maybe Midtown is full of just psychos, maybe the constant chaos and destruction cultivates a race of maniacs. No one quite knows for sure. Most can agree, however, that due to the apparent surplus of daredevil freaks, that the contest should be stopped, as it eliminates killers only to raise a new generation for the next year. Every year on Christmas Eve, families retreat to the “safety” of their homes (no one is really safe) and huddle together, waiting for the devastation to end so they can try to rebuild their city, atleast until next year. Reconstruction is slow and has lost support, and many residents have fled the hellhole of Midtown to nearby Whitegrove. Twisted Metal drivers destroy the town faster than it can be rebuilt. Some assume that Twisted Metal must end soon; there is nothing left to destroy. The cynical say that Calypso will always find a way.
Nevertheless, evacuation measures are being taken to abandon the city before the next Christmas. No one will be forced to leave, but it is widely suggested that they escape the wrath of Midtown and its curse. Part of these measures was the destruction of the asylum, along with all of the hopeless souls inside it. The asylum had never cured anyone; perhaps by destroying it the psychopaths that had plagued the city for so long would cease to exist. There was one way out for any willing prisoners, however. Compete in this year’s twisted metal for a chance to win your heart’s desire.
December 1, 2020. A rumor spreads like wildfire through the streets as the news sends shockwaves through the city. Word in the underground is Calypso is dead. Murdered. No one is certain of who killed him, or even if he really is dead. The few who have heard either rejoice, hoping for an end to the violent chaos that has plagues their city for over a decade, or scoff at the fact that a man like Calypso could even be killed. Those who hope for the beginning of a new era, however, an era of peace and tranquility in their little town, are sorely disappointed. It was announced that Twisted Metal would continue as scheduled this year; it was far from over. Some said this was proof that Calypso lived; others said that Sweettooth, a champion of multiple tournaments, had finally managed to obtain his dream of taking Calypso’s place and had organized this tournament. At the time, though, Sweettooth was locked up in the asylum, a place he visited quite frequently, but always managed to escape just in time for the next Twisted Metal, somehow. So that theory seemed invalid. Others just thought it was a stunt orchestrated by Calypso himself to draw publicity to the tournament.
Whatever the reason, Twisted Metal was happening this year all the same. And for the first time, it would venture outside the limits of Midtown, starting in the rubble of Downtown, and making its way north to Whitegrove. The contest had run out of places in Midtown to destroy. And, like always, there were plenty of new contestants ready to take up the offer. Joining them would be returning drivers of years past: champions defending their titles, previous finalists with scores to settle, and veterans who were simply insane enough to love the game. One thing was for certain: It would be the most gruesome, twisted competition yet.
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Blackfield Asylum Profile
Driver Name: Ryan Finn Age: 23 Vehicle: Riptide Vehicle Description: 1940s Woody Wagon. Station wagon with wooded panels on the door, sides, and fenders. The rear wheel is half covered by the rear fender. Painted a dull teal color that has faded profusely over the years and is peeling away. A surfboard is mounted on top, and a spare tire on the back. Pieces of seaweed hang over from the roof, out from the windows, and on the fenders. The whole car is always somehow dripping wet. The car is armored on the sides by the rear fender with life preserver rings that are roped together. There is also a kayak chained haphazardly to one side of the car. The steering wheel is a ship’s helm. Machine guns are mounted on the front fenders. Stats: Armor: 5/10 Speed: 5/10 Handling: 5/10 Special: 8/10 Special: Cowabunga = A tidal wave is generated from a hood scoop and engulfs the area in front of riptide, capable of carrying multiple enemies in its wake
Beginning Cutscene: I know I’ve done some bad things in my life (camera zooms from outside asylum into a hallway). But I think, after a certain point, it becomes almost justifiable to kill. When you have something like what happened to me, I think it’s excusable if your perspective of right and wrong gets skewed a bit. (Camera enters cell. You see a man sitting on the floor with his head down, looking dejected. He has scraggly blond hair parted down the middle that hangs into his face and a scraggy 3 day blond beard. He wears a shredded, torn v neck tee and boardshorts, revealing his horridly disfigured limbs. His right arm and both legs stop about half way down, ending in jagged, bloody stumps. Bite mark scars crisscross his face and skin.) My luck turned sour at the worst possible time, and when I needed them most, those scumbags who called themselves my friends betrayed me and left me to die. Well, I didn’t. But I made sure they did. Then they locked me up in here and tried to heal me. But I wouldn’t take their help. Why try to hide the freak I am? One day, the nurse slipped some kind of letter under the door with my meal. It was an invitation to some contest called Twisted Metal. I had heard of Twisted Metal, and of Calypso. Last I heard, he was dead. I thought it was some kind of sick joke, but I guess the contest was really happening again this year. I figured, why not? This asylum is goin down with me in it, and this could be my ticket out of here. I’m certainly a man with nothing else to lose. I mean, look at me. I sure could use a wish these days. (Wagon zooms away from the asylum.)
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Blackfield Asylum Profile
Driver: Chief Red Falcon Age: 54 Vehicle: Tomahawk Vehicle Description: Beat up, dirty 1994 Jeep Cherokee. Painted a light brown, woody color with offroad tires. Fenders reinforced with metal bumpers chained to the body. Strange, tribal designs are painted on the sides. There are those two prong-like things that come out from under the front bumper then go vertical, I don’t know what you call them (maybe like grill reinforcements?) Machine gun mounted on the left side. Stats: Armor: 6/10 Speed: 4/10 Handling: 5/10 Special: 6/10 Special: Ancestral Arrows = A barrage of arrows is emitted from a slot on the hood right in front of the windshield. Can be charged before activated. The longer charged, the faster and more powerfully will the arrows fly through the air. When detonated, they drop straight down onto opponents.
Beginning Cutscene: Start outside the asylum, zoom in like usual into a cell revealing a typical Native American Leader, sitting cross-legged on the ground. His hair is long and graying, drawn into many braids. He wears an open chested animal skin vest, revealing his bronzed, slim yet brawny torso. Wrinkles form at the corners of his mouth and brown eyes. His pants are brown and fray at the bottom, with colorful designs painted on them. He wears a headband with arrows on it, and wears an empty quiver on his back. This is all while he speaks in a native American accent: Behold the latest and greatest terror brought upon us by the white man. After they destroyed everything that had been close to my heart, they put me in here because they did not know what else to do to me. They robbed me of my dignity and my livelihood, and now I am not the proud leader I once was. I had nothing left to live for. I figured I would waste away in this asylum until they destroyed it. Taking my life would not mean much to me at this point; I have nothing left to live for. Then, one day, I got a letter from a strange man named Calypso. He offered me in a place in a strange contest of his, a contest of automobile combat to the death. Suddenly I realized that this was the man behind all of my suffering. This is the man who caused all this to happen. I knew I must find this man and end his life to exact justice with the universe. As horrid as it may be, I knew I would enter his contest. I am not a violent man, but am a great warrior. I have fought for my home before and now I will again to reclaim it. This contest has given me hope, hope that I may be able to put my life back together again. I will restore balance to nature and end the chaos of this dreadful city. I realize now that it is what the Spirits have called me to do, and I shall not fail them. (Jeep zooms away from the asylum).
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