View Same Google ImgOps iqdb SauceNAO Olivia Axel.png, 101KiB, 803x741

Anonymous Sat 13 Jul 2024 15:21:27 No.67360684 Report

Quoted By: >>67360762 >>67361158 >>67362538

>>67360619
It's 4:20 p.m., I've done nothing much else today besides some minor shit.
Probably gonna paint if I can go get off my ass. Ate some pasta earlier.

Anonymous Sat 13 Jul 2024 15:25:47 No.67360762 Report

Quoted By: >>67361091 >>67362538

>>67360684
Who put Olivia in the fucking Axel car

Anonymous Sat 13 Jul 2024 15:46:28 No.67361091 Report

Quoted By: >>67361222 >>67362538

>>67360762

>It's been a year since Inco finally snapped and left for good.
>He really couldn't handle the pressure of an aspiring artist trying to get into the cruel art world.
>Once again Olivia returns to her run-down apartment after an exhausting meeting.
>"No, you cannot fucking name it 'Art's in the mind, not in the legs', you are ridiculous".
>And once again, the journo turned her down.
>At least drawing skinnie porn provides enough money for now.
>She even got to take a plenty of live references from Inco while he was still here.
>But something was wrong.
>The light was darker, the room felt short of oxygen, the atmosphere was daunting.
>And, of course, there was a human sitting in her sofa.
>His eyes were red, and staring into his long black hair felt like staring into nothingness.
>"Who are you-"
>"Hello, Olivia. My name is Calypso. Knowing that you're a pretty busy person, I'll cut it short to the chase."
>She is not really thrilled to listen to the guy, but his intimidating aura stops her from answering anything.
>He quickly runs through explaining the tournament of hopeless people killing each other in death machines for entertainment.
>"And as for the grand prize... If you survive all of it, I will grant a wish."
>Olivia realized that this might be her chance.
>She didn't think about being able to walk, or for Inco to get back, or for everything to be okay again.
>She, first and foremost, thought about finally making it into the artworld as a standalone artist.
>"Deal."
>"I thought so. We'll contact you."
>He proceeded to get up and leave, but stopped at the door.
>"Also. I know you're not much of a car person. But do not worry. A friend of yours has figured it all out for you. It'll fit you like a glove."
>In horror, you look outside your window.
>There stand two large person-sized wheels, connected with a freakish chain of metals and levers.
>Beside it stands Mia, with a shit-eating grin on her face.
>This might have been a mistake.

Anonymous Sat 13 Jul 2024 15:54:40 No.67361222 Report

Quoted By: >>67361461 >>67361543 >>67362538

>>67361091
Major kek
I wonder what the ironic twist on her wish would be, if Calypso even decides to screw her over.

Anonymous Sat 13 Jul 2024 16:14:56 No.67361543 Report

Quoted By: >>67361639 >>67361742 >>67362538

>>67361222

>The man didn't lie.
>After a grueling fight for life, after being shot at, trampled, exploded and thrown off of the buildings, Olivia survived.
>It's a miracle that modern medicine could cure those wounds, but not her legs.
>But she came out on top, as the last man standing.
>And the man didn't lie.
>Shortly after she got a lot of requests for partnership.
>She also finally started receiving criticism.
>The work went booming. Her art was improving. Things finally looked to be alright.
>But something was wrong.
>The paintings were great. They sold off to rich men and presidents. Some were already hung up in Volcaldera Bluff's national museum.
>Alone she climbed the art ladder, becoming more and more proficient, without anyone ever even considering her disability.
>She even learned to do a tail stand while doing public talks, to be in line with everyone.
>And yet again, no one even mentions it, like it's a natural thing.
>It's everything she's ever dreamed of.
>But she more and more often catches herself on the thought that she doesn't remember painting half of them.
>She'd just wake up in her room, and there was yet another masterpiece waiting on the canvas.
>She knows she did it. It's her style. It's her brushstrokes. Here's paint all over her clothing. Here's sketches.
>But she does not remember it.
>At first it was confusing, and she decided to roll with it.
>But now, as she rolls along the empty gallery after closure, among dozens, if not hundreds of paintings.
>Each a masterpiece in its own right, each having a "Sold" tag under it.
>Each having her signature under it.
>How can she be proud of it, if she doesn't even remember it?
>How can she be proud of her own accomplishments, if they seem to vanish from her memory?
>How can she be proud of her paintings, if the only thing they result in is fat stacks of cash?
>And most importantly, how can she be proud of it, if there is no one to be proud of her?

Anonymous Sat 13 Jul 2024 16:25:23 No.67361742 Report

Quoted By: >>67361768 >>67362538

>>67361543
>As the words "proud" resonated around her head, she noticed something .
>It was a painting that has sparked up in her mind.
>She actually remembers painting this one, though not exactly when.
>This has been happening less and less, so it really gets her excited as she approaches it.
>She looks at it.
>It's kind of amateurish, actually. The lines are rougher, the pallette is a bit over the place, and some of the shapes blend in too much.
>She inspects it closer and closer, trying to figure out how'd it get here.
>It is not until she reads the plaque under it that it finally dawns on her.
>"Dreamscape".
>But.. how?
>Her first reaction was confusion.
>Then frustration.
>Anger. Torment.
>How'd it get back? Did she paint it again?
>It was supposed to be over so long ago, but here it is.
>The feelings of anger, however, quickly get replaced by a feeling she hasn't felt for a long time.
>It was a very important painting to her, even if it brought so much pain.
>But she was proud of it initially.
>Iadakan was proud of it.
>At the thought of Iadakan something inside her mind turns.
>He was proud of her. Not because she was a great painter.
>That was, of course, the case.
>But also because she loved it. She had a spark. And she was ready to share it with the world just because she wanted to be heard.
>She remembers the high school. Inco and their little romance. What it turned out to be.
>She looks around the gallery once again.
>The paintings were masterpieces. But they were soulless. They had no intention. Nothing about them was human. They felt as if an AI bot learned to use a brush.
>This is not the world that she wanted.
>This needs to change. And change now.
>She still has a chance.
>
>At the corner of her eye, she notices a fire axe.

I am Calypso, and I thank you for playing Twisted Metal.