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Stephen Key It's strangely dark out here tonight. A few of the street lights along part of your walk to work have gone out, plunging parts of the street into blackness, and even the ones that are still burning feel... muted, foggy. And it's quiet, too. Normally you can hear traffic in the distance, mingling with a thousand other indistinguishable sounds; the distant hearbeats of the city. Tonight the only sound is your own footsteps. You feel it before you hear it. The hairs raise on the back of your neck, the vague feeling of being watched. Tension in your muscles. But before you can even glance back, you realize it's not tension. It's a vibration, the throaty rumble of a familiar engine. You turn and it's there. The car you keep seeing, idling in the darkness about 30 feet back, just barely poking its nose into one of the tiny halos of light cast by the streetlights. For a second, you just stare at each other. It's never done anything like this to you before. Then the headlights burst to life, blinding full brights, and with a screech of tires and a roar from its engine, it rockets down the street, aiming straight towards you, trying to run you down. The car from your visions is trying to run you down. You've got plenty of room to react but not much time: Pain 2. Gretchen Lightfellow The image you've painted quivers and pulses uneasily on the canvas. But as you take a step back and blink for the first time in what feels like a long time... you realize it's not a canvas. Not anymore. It's like a door in the air, throbbing in time with your uneasy breath. And the city you see through there is alive. Entranced, wondering if it's all just a dream, you lean forward and try to peer through. And with a tearing sensation in your gut, it pulls you forward, and you tumble face-first into a teeming crowd. A hundred curses and demands hit you all at once: "Don't shove! Watch it lady! I'm walkin' here! Goddamn hippy! Piss off, kid!" But no one really reacts physically; you catch glares from a dozen indistinct, ugly faces, but none of them pause for a second or move to help you. You glance up and see the hole in reality you just tumbled through; it hangs about 5 feet up, too far to reach. Then someone steps on your hand, and someone else's knee whips past your face, and you realize that these people aren't going to stop. They'll just trample you under; you're nothing to them. Just a face in the crowd. You try to stand and immediately find yourself being pushed around, pinballed between them, caught in the crush. Where are they going, what are they doing, where the hell are you? The streets are all wrong, the buildings are all wrong, everything's all wrong. The air tastes like sweat and fear and stale candy. Nobody's fashion matches: you see men in fedoras and suits, t-shirts and jeans, animal skin loincloths and three-piece suits with top-hats. A woman shoves past you in some ridiculous Victorian-era ensemble with maids holding up the dress's train. They all seem to be headed in the same direction, and no one's willing to move for you. You need to get out of this, you need a second to catch your breath. There are shops and alleyways all along the side, if you can just force your way out of the crowd, you could find somewhere empty to stand. When you first try, you almost make it into a doorway, when suddenly a man on the periphery of the crowd turns and looks directly at you; the first person to do so. There's something wrong with his eyes. He grins like a shark and slams both palms into your shoulders, shoving you back into the mass of people, who continue to jostle and drag you down the street. And now that you look, you see men and women just like him lurking around the periphery of the crowd, with the indescribable eyes and shark grins. You get a terrible feeling that they want to keep you here, and let the crowd drag you to whatever's around the next bend in the streets. You're stuck in a crowd of Mad City denizens and it looks like some very creepy people are intent on keeping you here, preventing you from getting off this horribly congested street. The crowd's crushingly tight and stressful, and you'll have to put in some effort to slip past the people on the outside of the crowd. Whether you stay in the crowd, try to break out, or anything else, this is Pain 2. Luna Ross The stairs were there again today. They're ordinary, painfully so. They shouldn't be there, you know that. It's like they're mocking you by being as unremarkable as they can. If it weren't for the fact that there IS no floor above you, you'd never look at them twice. But of course, the floor that definitely isn't above you is the problem here, isn't it? The dog noises have been getting more frequent. They've been following you around the apartment; like the dog that isn't above you, that CAN'T be above you, knows exactly where you are at all times. The last time you left the apartment, you thought you heard a soft whine and the sound of claws against a door. And the last time you came back, you heard the repeated tick-THUMP of an excited dog jumping around for joy. But you could ignore that, pass it off as a figment of your imagination. The same thing for the barking. But just now, you heard a scream from up there. You freeze, shaking, desperately telling yourself that you didn't just hear that. It wasn't Holly; it was a man's voice. But then you hear it again, longer. Then a loud crash of glass hitting the floor, and stumbling footsteps along the ceiling, bumping into furniture that isn't actually up there. Then comes the loud thud of someone falling down, hard, and a keening sound that you mistake for a dog's whine. Then it deepens into deep, hitching sobs. You faintly hear a voice from above you; all you can make out between the sobs is a repeated "No... no..." Then, the ticking of dog claws. Slow, deliberate steps, towards the sobbing. It sounds like someone's in trouble up there, in the room that shouldn't be. Maybe you should go check. Could you live with yourself if you ignored someone who was hurt? But on the other hand, there can't be anyone up there, because there isn't a second floor. No matter what those stairs want you to think. Right? No pain.. yet. Jason King "There's more of them coming," murmurs your cat. She hops up into the windowsill and curls up, looking out at the city lights, purring softly. "You don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself. But you? You're in trouble. They were telling me about what they have planned, you see. They've been watching you for a while, and they've come around asking questions. Don't worry, I didn't sell you out. In fact, I'll tell you this: right now they're starting in on plan B. They're going after the circuit breaker. And you know what'll happen then. You'll be in their domain." She looks back over her shoulder and blinks languidly. "They'll bury you in bodies if you try to hold out here. You'll do your fair share of fighting tonight. But you're dead if they corner you. Run, Jason. Run until you find a reason to live, something to cling to, some measure of peace. It's out there, waiting for you in the Mad City. When in doubt, take the last door on the left. Don't trust the Nightmares, no matter what they promise you. And don't take any wooden nickels." There's a fumbling, thumping noise downstairs, the sound of something blindly stumbling through the hated light towards your circuit breaker. Right on schedule. If you start moving now, you can probably get within sight of the door out before the lights go black and those things show up in force. This is Pain 1, or Pain 3 if you want to grab anything on the way out or ask your cat any final questions. Ashley Schneider This can't be happening. The landscape outside is... it's all wrong. The streets are bathed in a dizzy neon rainbow from a thousand hideous signs that jut drunkenly out of the rooftops. Most of them are complete gibberish. The houses that aren't fire-gutted ruins look like they haven't been maintained in decades. The grass grows knee deep on everyone's lawn; pink flamingos and signs endorsing political candidates peer out of the grassy jungles in places. "Screwtape for Mayor?" At least, that's the state of every house but your own. It's just the same as it ever was, with a well-manicured lawn and shiny new siding. An island of sanity in this madman's suburb. And before you can take in any more of the blight outside, the view through the peephole is obscured by darkness... and then an eye, looking back. You half-jump back with a start, then you see the shadow outside take a step back. Numbly, you press your eye to the peephole again as he backs down your stairs. Sallow-eyed, bone white, and pimply, he's wearing a stars-and-stripes bandana over his mouth and nose, with a black hoodie and torn jeans. Could be anywhere from 13 to 16. And he knows you're watching; he raises one arm and gives you a sarcastic little wave, fingertips and untrimmed, dirty nails just barely protruding from his too-long sleeves. Suddenly, he whirls and runs for the street. At the same time, you hear the sound of glass breaking. In the baby's room. No Pain yet. Driver Jane Where... where the hell are you? You peer around but there's no landmarks, with the exception of distant city lights. It's twilight, or maybe dawn. The ugly faded half-light between times. Looks like the desert you're driving through, but there's something off about it. It's hard to tell in this half-light, though, especially moving at highway speeds. Is that Vegas up ahead, Reno? It doesn't look like any city you've approached before. How goddamn far did you drive? Your stomach grumbles and grinds, and you glance down at the clock. 6 hours? But there's no date on that thing. What if it's 30 hours? More? The hunger turns to queasiness. Your ears are filled with a quiet whine; after a few seconds, you realize it's the radio. Nothing but the soft sound of dead air. You'd adjust it, but you're scared of what you might pick up. Hell, at this point just the thought of touching it makes you feel queasy. Maybe it's the drugs. You're not sure if you've taken anything, and that's the problem. Who knows what you popped while you were out? Maybe all this is just hallucinogens, or a bad dream, or... Three thumps, rapid succession. Then silence. Then several more thumps, out of sync. They're coming from the trunk. Something's in the trunk. poo poo. poo poo. Your veins fill with icewater and your stomach drops a few feet. What do you do, do you stop and check, do you try to get to the city first? The thumps come again, harder, more insistent. No Pain yet. Arthur Deschamps It takes a few tries with the key to get inside. You don't know what the hell is going on, but you can deal with it later. You just want to get inside and block out everything that just happened, bury it under a soothing balm of video games. It's waiting for you inside, sweet friend PC. Maybe you should take a day off. You've probably been working too hard, need to relax a little bit, catch up on some of these Steam titles you keep buying but not actually getting around to playing. You finally get the door open and find that your home is a disaster area. It looks like a tornado came through here. Someone's torn through the place, pulling cushions off the chairs, opening every drawer, throwing things around. Someone looking for something. Your jaw drops, your heart stops: have you been robbed? There were no signs of forced entry. This is the kind of thing that's only supposed to happen to other people, right? Then your eyes seize on something. Two perfect bootprints, singed right into the carpet, with a trail of diminishing ashy footprints scattered around the room. And there's only one set leading out of the room. Towards the computer room. Then you hear a thump and a muffled curse from that direction. Whoever did this is still here. poo poo. Should you call the cops? This bastard could be after your stuff, and who knows what kind of damage he might inflict in the time before the police show up? What if he gets away with some of your games or something? But what the hell would really do if you confronted this guy? You freeze, momentarily paralyzed by indecision. But you've got to do something. No Pain yet. Dachshundofdoom fucked around with this message at 07:02 on Feb 25, 2017 |
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Feb 25, 2017 06:30
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Arthur Deschamps Shock and indecision quickly gave way to anger, which cooled and quenched as he took a moment to focus on what was going on. An intruder with ill intent. Nothing else stirring up those ashy footprints, whatever caused that hotfoot to begin with, so probably just the one. Boot size... hm, let's see, do the math, probably means he (probably he going by the boot style) would be about yea high, give or take. Right then, time to pull off it was a 'This was in self defence, officer', Nip into the kitchen, grab one of the bigger, sharper knives and a good, heavy iron skillet. Well-insulated handles. He's using both hands to search, needs to to get those covers off, if he's armed probably isn't in hand. So, get the drop on him, press the advantage, get ready to voice-activate the mobile device if it looks like the cops would be useful. Data is backed up, everything is insured, it's go time. He made a beeline from the kitchen to the computer room, household weapons in hand. AJ_Impy fucked around with this message at 16:16 on Feb 25, 2017 |
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Feb 25, 2017 12:20
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Dachshundofdoom posted:Stephen Key Jesus, what time is it? I wasn't in the gym that long was I? Stephen glances down to check his watch. The strange haze and quiet of the city reminds him of the eerie calm that came before the attack on his humvee. He can't stop the memories from forcing their way into his mind. He shakes his head and then he notices it: the car. Oh, not today rear end in a top hat. Stephen takes a stride into the street, hoping to confront the driver. However, without warning, the car leaps towards him like a beast. Stephen barely has time to react: (increasing exhaustion by one, current exhaustion: 1/6) D, E, M, P: 3#1d6 2 4 3 1d6 1 1d6 6 2#1d6 5 6 (looks like two successes with pain dominating) Having no time to dodge, Stephen hurls his gym bag at the car and instinct takes over as he leaps into the air, arms wide as though he intends to wrestle the car to a halt. And it almost works. The car swerves a bit as the bag of dirty laundry bounces off this windshield, turning its direct impact course into a sideswipe. The car makes contact with Stephen, knocking the wind from his lungs. He lands on the front of car nearly flying through the windshield. "Goddamn, that'll leave a mark..." Locking his fingers into the groves of the hood he struggles to maintain his grip as he takes deep breaths to refill his lungs and tries to get a look at the driver... PyroDwarf fucked around with this message at 12:49 on Feb 26, 2017 |
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Feb 25, 2017 14:02
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Gretchen Pulling her arms tight to her chest, Gretchen found herself shoved along as she stared dumbfounded at her surroundings. Was she dreaming? It wouldn't be the first time she'd fallen asleep at the easel. Something in her gut said no, however. Everything felt too real. The noise, the rough hands shoving their way past, the feel of the street under her boots. If it was a dream, it was the most horrifically vivid dream she had ever had. Bodies pressed in close around her, and it was all she could do to keep on her feet and avoid being trampled. Cutting her way out of the crowd was risky. Faces loomed in close and leered at her toothily anytime she tried. Their was something in their eyes not quite human. A predatory gleam that suggested they were doing her a kindness in a way. If she did managed to escape the throng, she might wind up far more closely acquainted with those incisors. And yet, whoever or whatever they were, they were known. If they were going to try to hurt her, she could at least try to run. Stuck in this throng there was nowhere to escape and no guessing where it would lead. Truth be told, she really did not want to find out. Possibilities whirled through her mind and she desperately glanced around for an opening. People being burned at the stake. Faceless men in body armor and riot shields. A vast cliff bisecting this unreal city and leading into nothing whatsoever, hundred of people madly laughing as they march off the edge, dragging her along with them. She settled on a yawning alleyway nearby. It seemed to drink up the light around it. An inky void containing every possibility, but there was only one person near it. One of the shark-faced women, but her eyes were looking elsewhere...so it seemed. Startling even herself, she threw an elbow into the Puttin' On The Ritz looking man(?) next to her and shoved by, darting ahead of a reasonable approximation of Marie Antoinette with only a brief backwards glare at the outraged cry it provoked and finally broke free of the press of humanity. Gretchen wasn't really thinking, just acting. Anything to try and quell the panic roiling up within her. Fighting through the crowd (D, M, P): 3#1d6 1 2 3 1d6 1 2#1d6 5 6 4 successes, Pain dominant
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Feb 25, 2017 16:03
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Luna She hadn't been home more than an hour. The loving thing had seemed almost excited, even though it wasn't real, even though it couldn't have known where she was, or that she'd gotten home. The loving thing was following her, she was certain of it now. Maybe it was time to see a psychiatrist. This was all very clearly a massive sign of a nervous breakdown. Luna was on the top floor. She knew she was on the top floor. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was no floor above her, and that the roof was off-limits to anyone but building maintenance. And none of them brought loving animals to work. There wasn't anyone up there, and she was just having a breakdown, and... she needed help. There was nobody up there. There was no floor above hers, no matter what her idiot loving senses told her... The scream nearly paralyzed her. Luna started shaking, her eyes squeezed shut. There was nobody up there, there was nobody up there, there was nobody up there-- It's going to get him, and it's going to kill him, and it'll be entirely on your hands if you do nothing about it. You're going to kill him, just like you killed her. Maybe her psychotic break was a false memory of her building only being three floors. Luna bolted into action, running as fast as she could into the kitchen. She didn't carry a gun-- she was against them on principle in the city where nobody hunted, and she couldn't stomach killing a deer herself-- but part of her wished she carried one now. Luna grabbed her biggest, sharpest chef's knife (a gift from a friend of hers) and ran out of the apartment, closing the door behind her. Either she died here or rammed into a wall, trying to get to a place nobody else could see, or her building really did have a fourth floor and her mind was remembering it wrong. She ran up the stairs, trying to find the door that led onto the floor with the man in trouble. She couldn't let anyone else die like Holly did. Luna shifted the knife to her left hand. The missing ring and pinky fingers on her right side weakened her grip significantly, as did the damaged tendons. She was getting better with her left hand. Surely if she could open a jar, she could stick a knife in an insane animal, right? Maybe? Logic wasn't working right any more. Was adult-onset schizophrenia triggered by stress? That usually happened in your 20s, right? She had no family history of schizophrenia, but her great-aunt had had synesthesia. Were those related? Both involved hallucinations... Luna had no idea what was going on. She didn't know what the next right thing was. What if her brain was reading another human being as a dog? Was it still going to kill someone? What if she stabbed people having sex, and her brain was processing it as a dog attack? She tried to calm down. Surely no judge would prosecute her for being crazy. Worst case, she ended up in a maximum security crazy ward. Best case, she saved someone's life. These stairs seemed way, way, way longer than they should for a single floor.
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Feb 25, 2017 22:16
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Jason It was still hard to believe he was listening to his cat like this. But Jason nods, scratching the side of the cat's cheek like she always liked. "You're a good girl, Hannah. Thank you. Stay safe." He'd always talked to her before, but now it felt.. awkward. Weird. He starts to head out the door and hesitates a moment, glancing back at the cat. "Sorry about all the baby talk over the years." He opens the closet door where the food is kept and nods to himself, taking the stairs two at a time. He looks over his shoulder at the thing shambling through the kitchen towards the circuit breaker over the washing machine. He shakes his head, still trying to come to terms with what's going on, opening the front door and stepping out into the well lit apartment parking lot. Those things would have their work cut out for them if they wanted to kill the lights out here. Wouldn't they? Was this even the same city any more? He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, digging his car keys out from his pocket. He hesitated a moment, thumb on the key fob. Was the car a good idea? Jason hits the unlock button, the interior lights of the car coming on and the headlights coming to life. Yeah. This was going to be an okay idea. He settles into the car and presses the overhead lights, turning the key and backing out of his parking spot. He didn't know where to go now, or really what to do. The only advice he had was from a drat cat and he wasn't sure how much that was actually worth. Turning his blinker on, he fiddles with the radio, settling for a station calling itself Jack FM. "Playing from a rusty little trailer park, Jack FM's no request is on! We play what WE want." He turns out onto the quiet street and just drives. Something would come to him. He had faith it would. He turns the radio up slightly from the buttons on his steering wheel, trying to calm his racing mind; Land of Confusion comes on after the little self-advertisement blurb, and Jason can't help but laugh. Couldn't have asked for a better start to his run in the Mad City. GET OUT (Disc, Pain): 3d6 8 1d6 4 Two successes, discipline dominating.
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Feb 27, 2017 00:02
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Ashley Schneider No, this isn't... this can't be real. I've finally snapped from the sleep deprivation, or I finally fell asleep and I'm dreaming -- it has to be one of the two. Nobody in our neighborhood has political signs at all, let alone signs for "Screwtape," which sounds familiar, though I can't quite remember why. There's something kind of fascinating about it, though, like there's a new life out there, a life I could escape into that isn't mine. My hand goes to the doorknob -- And then there's breaking glass from upstairs, from the nursery. No! Abbie! Aaron keeps a flashlight on the table in the foyer: one of those big Maglites, with the steady beam and the long metal body. He's joked about it as "self-defense," but right now I'm not even sure it's a joke to me -- I mean, if someone's upstairs, I might have to -- well, I grab the flashlight and hold it in a club-grip, just in case. When I start moving, I think I'm going to stalk upstairs and try to surprise whoever it is, but my body thinks otherwise, and I'm running upstairs, to the nursery, to Abbie and whatever's happened to her. If something's happened... well. There's an open second-floor window. I can deal with myself right then and there -- No. No. No. Not the time. Run, Ashley.
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Feb 27, 2017 01:02
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97.3 ‘JUST DESERTS FM’ posted:Voice #5:  *BANG-BANG-BANG* My heart slams into my ribs like a slug of salt. I scream, hands over my ears. After a moment of pure, cathartic rage (not at the basic jump-scare, but at the endless, steady, gnawing loving fear of my everyday freaking life) some part of my brain instinctively allows reason to resume its hold, and my hands dart back to the wheel. The radio is thankfully nothing but static. Squat: You can’t loving stop, can you? And you know we don’t need that thing to get to you. “Thankfully nothing but...” *BANG-BANG...BRONG BRANG* My right hand shoots out in a psycho-somatic spasm and claps over my lips. Hard. I can feel my panic-widened eyes tearing up as I stare dutifully down that broken yellow line. Something in the trunk. Nope. Lizzie: Sweet Jeebus Folks! It’s literally the punchline for 90% of hooker-related jokes! GTFO. Morning show trainwreck. Think. Driver Rule #1: What would Sammy J do? Fixer...? Right. But I have no idea where I am, so weighing a decision on the unlikely possibility that I could find a hosting contact who had a line to some shade was pretty dumb. I can’t be that... passively serendipitous any more, not since Johnny dipped on me. stupid super bastard That was my life before this – a delusion of security and naive assumptions. Without the love, there’s just the drugs, the debt and the danger. Without love, things come into focus. So why can’t I think straight? Its likely that… that trippy power poo poo went a bit too far. I glance in the rear view at the dirt-crusted curve of the trunk. Could someone suffocate in there? No. Who loving cares. All that matters is that we can’t just blindly drive into this strange city like a ticking time bomb. This has gotta be sorted now. Can’t just hop over onto the shoulder, either. Might as well roll out a picnic blanket for the bears at that point. No, there’s only one logical solution. I set my jaw like that and pull the wheel into a sharp, skidding turn off of the blacktop and onto the dirt and sand stretching out into a barren, desert plain. There’s another way to handle my poo poo out there, and I’m gonna find it.
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Feb 28, 2017 03:09
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Stephen Key Although you probably only stayed on the hood for a few seconds, it seems like an eternity. The window is tinted and there's so much glare from the streetlights; if you could just see a little more... There's a screech of brakes as the car tries to shake you off and fishtails in the process. You slide off the hood at a shallow angle. For the half-second you're airborne, your mind lingers on the tiny glimpse of the driver you'd caught just before you were shaken off: bony fingers gripping the wheel, skin the color of parchment. A sallow, gaunt outline of a face with sunken dark eyes. Then you hit the ground rolling, mostly unhurt, and in the time it takes you to roll to a stop you hear the distinctive *CRUNCH* of the mysterious car's hood as it oversteers into a light pole, which bursts in a final flash of light and topples over. The alley fills with the clatter of falling metal and the tinkle of broken glass. At the same time, there's a final squeal from the brakes as it spins 180 degrees from the impact and skids to a near-stop in the middle of the road. Engine still purring but one headlight down, it slowly drifts down the road back towards you. It doesn't really speed up; it just idles forward, still in drive. There's a vague suggestion of a figure slumped forward across the wheel, unmoving. Unconscious, dead? Only one way to know for sure. Or you could just get the hell out of here. 1 Coin of Despair is now mine. Gretchen Lightfellow A hand tears at your arm as you tumble into the darkened alleyway, but it doesn't get a grip. You tumble loose of the crowd and scramble back to your feet, but you didn't really need to. The shark-faced woman stands in the opening of the alleyway, silhouetted against the crowd, looking furious. And perhaps a little heartbroken? She seems to strain slightly, as though she desperately wants to step forward after you. But she doesn't. She just speaks in a low, disapproving tone, like a disappointed mother. "Well. I hope you're pleased with yourself, little miss, because now you're really in trouble. It's a big, cruel city out there. You wouldn't like what's waiting at the end of this street... but you're going to wish you'd stayed before the end. We know what's best, even if you don't like it. So just you remember: if you don't play by the rules, you stand out. And the nail that sticks out gets hammered down. This City eats up people like you. What a waste." She turns and disappears back into the crowd without another word. There's really only one way to go, unless you want to plunge back into the crowd. The alley stretches off farther than you can really see. There's dim lights every so often, streaming out of windows or bleeding out of red neon signs overhead. It's still bizarrely dark in here considering how well lit the street was. When you look up, the sky is gone, obscured by a sudden layer of dark clouds. From the deeper in the alleyway, you hear a low, steady thumping. A musical beat, maybe? 2 Despair. Luna Ross You're nearly out of breath by the time you reach the top, and there's only one door, right at the top. It doesn't fit the building: it's nice, stained wood, with a bronzed handle. And it's cracked open an inch. You hear the sobbing behind it. It echoes, like it's crossing a vast distance. There's a final moment of hesitation... but nothing ventured, nothing gained. You shove through the door. It takes your eyes a second to adjust to the softer lights. The room is big, too big. Hardwood floors, fancy candelabras, a curving double staircase, more of those fancy doors in all directions. This isn't the top floor of an apartment building, it's the foyer of a mansion. The sobbing is coming from deeper inside on the ground floor, somewhere beyond another closed door. It very nearly distracts you from the scritch of nails on the floor behind you. You whirl just in time to see the figure who'd been standing behind the door slam it shut, stepping between you and the doorway in the process. But that's not the distressing part. He's's wearing a blue uniform and cap, carrying a comically oversized butterfly net behind his back in one twisted, furry hand. He wears no shoes, not that they'd fit his paws anyway. He has the head of a golden retriever, panting, seeming to smile in that strange doggy way. He reaches back with his free hand and slides the deadbolt shut, murmuring in a gravelly New York accent. His voice comes out of the depths of his throat without his mouth actually moving. "Heeey now, it's okay. I know you're scared but I don't mean ya' no harm. Why don't ya just come with me? It's gotta be lonely out here alone. My partners and I'll take good care of you. Just hooold still, don't go runnin' away or bitin' on me..." Somehow, you immediately understand with an immediate pang of terror that this is a Dog Catcher. When humans go astray, he takes them to the pound. And he's got you in his sights. Pain 2. Jason King Nothing's familiar. Not the streets, not the buildings, not the sky. The stars are too bright and their patterns are all wrong. At least, they seem that way; it's strange enough to see stars in the city to begin with. Streetlights jut at crazy angles; the windows flashing past occasionally suggest inhuman faces peering back as they blur by. You rumble down the deserted avenues for a few minutes, wondering if this maze of dim streets ever actually ends or changes. Just when you're considering stopping the car and trying to get your bearings, you take a turn a little too fast (but who cares, there's nobody out here, right?) and immediately have to swerve to avoid a nasty pothole. Right after you get back on track, there's the high-pitched wail of a police siren being tripped and a red light flashing in the rearview. Where the hell did that police cruiser even come from? You hadn't seen anyone to your left when you'd taken the turn, but there he is all the same, and he's catching up fast. It's not a modern vehicle either; it's an ancient Ford, looking like it just drove in off the set of some noir detective movie. No Pain yet if you pull over, Pain 3 if you don't. Ashley Schneider You burst through the baby's door to find another figure in black looming over the crib, a trail of broken glass behind him. He's got a crowbar lying at his feet. He glances up at you and takes two steps back, startled. It's another kid, pale and sickly looking. No bandana on this one; he's so white his lips are almost blue, and his hair is nearly transparent. He raises his arms and splays his hands in surrender. Wait, no, he splays his hand. The left one. When he raises his arms, his hoodie sleeves pull back; the right one's just a smooth, cauterized stump at the wrist. His mouth drops open, revealing black gums and a nervous, rotten smile. When he speaks, his voice is pubescent and screechy. "Aww, j-j-jeez lady. You're f-fast. I didn't, d-d-d-didn't mean nothing by it, j-j-just a little p-p-prank. Maybe you ain't such a b-bad muh-muh-mother after all." He runs his tongue across cracked lips, his face contorting with a dozen unreadable emotions. You almost don't pick up on his eyes flicking over your shoulder, looking hopeful. You almost don't hear the footsteps in the hall. You turn and duck, running on instincts you didn't really know you had, as a baseball bat fills the space where your head was a second ago. It bangs against the inside of the doorway and slips out of the third kid's hands, clattering across the floor behind you. He's older and bigger (but still just a teen) and missing an eye; the deflated lid has been crudely sutured shut. He staggers back against the wall outside the door and balls his hands into fists. As he steps back towards you, he screams, "GRABBA' KID AN' RUN, IDJIT!" in a thick Southern slur. You hear the other kid's footsteps crunching in the glass as he dives for the crib again. Pain 3. Driver Jane The tires spin for a second and catch. Pretty soon you're kicking up a trail of sand as you blaze a new trail, into the desert. The banging doesn't completely stop, but the ride's rough enough that whoever (or whatever) is back there spends as much time banging on accident as it does on purpose. God knows it's unpleasant enough to be in the driver's seat. Your tailbone is aching within minutes, but you've got to get away from the blacktop and prying eyes before you do anything else about this. You crest a rise in the terrain slowly, listening to the rocks and desert scrub scrape against the undercarriage. Alright, this should be far enough. Nobody watching out here except for coyotes, snakes, and vultures. Hopefully. You bring the vehicle to a stop and take a deep breath as the engine idles and the radio hisses. You're not going to be able to deal with this without getting out of the vehicle, unless you want to just leave it in drive and find a nice cliff to drop the vehicle over. And that's not really an option in the long run, is it? You reach for the handle, but a sudden crackle of sound from the radio freezes you. The static surges, then fades, and from the speakers comes a crystal-clear message in a deadpan voice: "You shouldn't have stopped here. This is bat country." Silence. Then, low giggling, rising towards hysterical laughing. Just before it starts to sound more like screaming, there's another blast of static and the radio's back to nothing but that low hiss of dead air. Before you can really come to grips with that, there's another deafening *BANG* from the trunk, and you could swear that one was so hard the tires left the ground for a split second. You have a terrible feeling that you're working on borrowed time. Still no Pain yet. Arthur Deschamps Your computer room is in disarray too; the chair has been tossed aside, and random scraps of paper have been thrown around, covered in burned fingerprints and crumpled. The room is bathed in the greenish-black light of the command prompt pulled up on the screen. But the figure furiously rapping away at your keyboard is what really catches your eye, literally; your eyes wince and water just looking at it. It's like looking through warped glass and heat haze at a blurry picture of someone. One being displayed on a CRT badly in need of degaussing. It jitters and twitches with motion and light, and the air in the room is uncomfortably hot, even this far away from it. Your hair prickles with static electricity. Just as you finish taking it in, it stops mid-keystroke and turns its head nearly 180 degrees. Its eyes are the only clear part. They're human, unmistakably so. They hang in midair, completely visible through its translucent rainbow skin. It might just be the lack of eyelids, but they look shocked, or pained, or incredibly, incredibly terrified. But regardless of the message the eyes are sending, the body is sending another one. It twists stiffly in place, as though the body was now revolving around the head, kicking up a cloud of ash in the process from smoldering paper and carpet around its feet. Unsteadily, flickering, it lurches towards you, hands rising from the "typing" position and into the unmistakable "strangling" position. And if the scorched handprints on everything else in the room are any indication, strangling might be the least of your worries if that thing touches your neck. Pain 3. Current Despair: 2
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Mar 4, 2017 06:13
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Luna Ross Luna almost felt calmer when she stepped into the foyer. It was really a lovely place-- many of her clients had had similar nice houses, as had her boss. She wouldn't have chosen the creepy Victorian sort of theme herself, but it was kind of an interesting place. If not for the sobbing, and the fact that this was almost certain proof of paranoid delusions. Or something. She'd never had much use for psychology, or psychologists. It seemed like quackery to her... ...but maybe you should've thought of that before you went off the deep end. She started forward, toward the sobbing, looking to help. Maybe she was completely nuts. Maybe she was trapped in an insane hellscape inside her own mind. But she wasn't going to leave someone else to suffer. ...maybe I should just go home. Go back down the stairs, back to my apartment, stop acting crazy-- The click, click, click of claws on the floor grabbed her attention, and she whirled, knife at the ready. She was sure she looked like some sort of crazy person. Which she was. Emphatically. But the sight in front of her shook her to her core. The loving thing looked like the one that'd grabbed Holly's tiny leg in its jaws. It was staring at her. Grinning. And it'd locked her in here without a way back to her apartment. All Luna wanted was to go home, and this... this thing wanted to take her places. Luna did not want to go to strange places. She was already in a strange place, probably on her roof or dead and in hell. It was smiling at her. Why the gently caress was it smiling at her? What right did it have to smile at her? But this wasn't real, and she was armed. She didn't want to kill anyone, even if her broken brain was trying to convince her that he was a... thing. Beast. She'd charmed her way out of tickets before. Even if she was crazy, she still had resources. Luna smiled right back, the bile rising in her throat. Dog Catcher. You can work with this. You can work with this. This is just like the Whole Foods account: gotta own it and not show fear. Heart in her throat, Luna summoned her best fake-cheer from a lifetime of half-truths. "I'm sorry, sir, it seems there's been a misunderstanding. I'm up to date on all my shots, and I've got an official government-issued license." She reached into her pocket and pulled out her wallet, then showed off her driver's license. It wasn't the same one as she'd had downstairs: her state of residence was listed as "Pennsyltucky," and the official information on it appeared to be written backwards in pig-latin. The picture was unmistakably her, but somehow more... lean. Hungry. The Dog Catcher took the ID in one of his paws and looked it over, his panting smile turning to a tilty-headed look of concern. "Seems in order, but yer shots ain't on here. I'm gonna have ta' take you in. Now why don't'chya just come quietly..." Luna felt a jolt of adrenaline hit her system, and a creeping, insidious part of her came to a creeping, insidious conclusion: if this was a hellscape created by her own shattered mind, shouldn't she be able to exert some control over it? It was like lucid dreaming, right? She had to try. Luna reached for the part of her brain furthest from the part internally grounding her, recoiling when she barely touched it. She felt a flash of violence, teeth and blood and bone and screams, and then there was another set of ominous, clicking claws hitting the floor behind her. "I can vouch for her, Officer," came a smoky-smooth female voice from behind her. Luna turned around and nearly screamed; a massive Doberman made her way toward them, slowly, deliberately, each paw placed with the elegance of a queen walking among her subjects. She held her head high, chest out, her smirk an almost perfect mirror of the one Luna used when negotiating raises. "Pennsyltucky does not issue licenses without proof of vaccination. Surely someone such as yourself is aware of state laws besides your own?" "Look, lady, I'm just tryin'na do my job--" "Perhaps," the Doberman continued, "I should report you to the Top Dogs for negligence? They might even call you a Bad Boy." The Dog Catcher flinched as if hit, then handed Luna's license back to her. He wanted to be a Good Boy. Who didn't? Who didn't want to be a Good Boy? Nobody! Nobody wanted to stop being a Good Boy! "You watch yourself," he told Luna, then unbolted the door and walked out through it. It didn't lead back to the same place. Luna's face crumpled. Well... no going back now. The Doberman waited a few seconds, then turned and bounded up one half of the double staircase and was gone. When she was sure she was alone, Luna made her way over to one of the columns, then sat down behind it. She curled up in a ball and spent some quality time hyperventilating. Her subconscious was tormenting her. That was the only explanation. Her subconscious was tormenting her, and she had to get through this without losing herself in the process. She could do this. She could do this. Maybe if she said it enough, it'd become true. time to gently caress up a dogman (D,M,P): 3#1d6 6 1 5 1d6 2 2#1d6 3 4 Axqu fucked around with this message at 08:02 on Mar 4, 2017 |
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Mar 4, 2017 07:50
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Arthur Deschamps A moment of shock, regarding this, this thing that was burning his carpets, scorching his possessions, that had ransacked his home and, right now, most saliently, was typing away at his computer. HIS. Whatever it was, it had wronged him, and now it seemed to be trying to kill him, the very air twitching and glimmering from the convection rising from those outstretched digits. Good thing he'd had the presence of mind to tool up first. He took a pace forward, so that the doorway wouldn't catch his arm, and raised up his skillet to bring it down sharply across the reaching hands, trying to knock them back and aside. He lifted the hefty knife up parallel to his neck to dissuade a further approach towards it. "If you're smart enough to ransack my home, smart enough to use my computer, whatever you are, you're smart enough to understand. Back the hell up, tell me who the hell you are, what the hell you are, why the hell you've brutalized the place, and how the hell I can get restitution out of you." He tried to ignore the growing numbness in the arm that held the skillet, because right now he needed to at least seem like he was still in control here. At best, he'd pulled something. At worst, he really didn't want to look... Demonstrating the benefits of tool use (D3 E1 M2 P3) 3#1d6: 4 5 4 1d6: 5 2#1d6: 5 2 3#1d6: 6 3 6
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Mar 4, 2017 19:20
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Gretchen "Wh..." Gretchen tried to formulate some sort of coherent question, but the woman was gone before she could get it out. What did she mean, play by the rules? And why did she look so sad about it? Where the hell even was this city? It certainly wasn't the one she was accustomed to. Even disregarding the mad procession through the street and strange look of the people within it, nothing here felt familiar. No. That was wrong. It felt entirely familiar. Like a half-remembered dream from childhood. What it didn't do was feel sane. The buildings flanking this alleyway rose dizzyingly upwards, illuminated every so often by sickly pale lights from high windows. The architecture defied easy categorization. They were impressionist interpretations of brutalist designs and it made her head ache to look too hard. And they seemed to arch far overhead; it called to mind an entryway to some gothic cathedral lit in neon and paved in cement and detritus. Far off, she could make out a rhythmic pounding, and Gretchen realized she could feel it faintly through her boots. Was it a club? Or a heartbeat? Gretchen leaned against the wall and stared steadfastly downwards, hands on her knees as she tried to collect herself. She had nothing on her. Her bag had been lying on the bed. Her phone on the nightstand. Even the paintbrush she'd been holding was somewhere behind her, no doubt trampled and broken under a multitude of feet. But even if she had her phone, who would she call? What would she say? "Hi, I am sorry to wake you up so late but I am having a psychotic break. Can you please come and get me?" No. Absolutely not. Her parents would be absolutely livid. The cops would probably arrest her. Trevor or one of her friends might come pick her up but like with the cops, word would get back to her mother. She couldn't let that happen. She absolutely would not shame her parents like this. A deep breath. Jane. Jane might be in town. She would come and pick her up, keep an eye on her until she got herself under control. At the very least, it would be a familiar voice to talk her down. Right. Okay. Now it was just a matter of finding a phone. Gretchen raised her head and stared into the blackness. It was terribly inviting in all the worst sorts of ways. Come in. Let me wrap my arms around you and show you things you never wanted to see while I whisper all the most horrible secrets into your ear. She looked back towards the parade. The shark-faced woman had said she didn't want to see what lay at the end of their march, and Gretchen was inclined to believe her. She swallowed, and walked towards the distant thump of what she hoped was only bass.
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Mar 4, 2017 19:47
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Jason King Jason glances up at the flashing lights in his rear view mirror and old instincts kick in hard; he groans and sighs, turning his blinker on and pulling over onto the shoulder, slowing to a stop. He puts his car in park but hesitates with his hand at the key; looking back in the mirror, he squints, realizing at a second look that the police car didn't look like the kind he was used to. He places his hands back on the wheel, keeping the engine running and his eyes on the mirror. Deep down, he knows he shouldn't have pulled over, not with how things are now. The cat told him not to trust anyone, and here he was, assuming things were the same in spite of everything he'd seen so far. Jason licks his lips, waiting to see what gets out of the car and approaches him.
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Mar 4, 2017 20:30
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Empty Static posted:“Y-you sure about this?” But that… that never happened? A particularly jarring bump jolts me out of my spacey daydream, its memory a crumbling sandcastle under the crashing wave of a dire reality. This desert crap is worse than gravel, at any rate. It’s like the car’s having a seizure, as if at any moment the shuddering rib cage of the undercarriage will finally just shatter and spew its twisted, metallic guts all over the parched earth beneath me. I nervously check the rear view. The mysterious city skyline still hangs gloomily over a twilight horizon, like a beckoning thunderstorm; however, the highway is out of sight for the moment, tucked behind a row of dunes. I twist my head around to take in the view. Scenery is sparse: occasional clumps of brittle brush, dotting the bone-colored sand like stubble; outcroppings of strange, rocky arches casting sprawling claws of shadow; little speckles of pastel poppies being ground to dust beneath the hot rubber of my tires; and, of course, plenty of damned cacti to dodge. Here’s fine. Time to face the trunk-music. I slide the Chevy into park between a few weathered boulders and draw a deep, albeit shaky breath. Flipping the visor down, I take a glance at my reflection in the mirror and immediately grimace. Looks like I lost another few pounds I didn’t really have to spare, and my makeup’s all smeared like a Halloween harlequin. Just how long have I been on auto-pilot this time? *BANG* I catch a scream before it escapes my throat. A trickle of cold sweat starts to slither down my spine. Get a grip, bitch. Right, I can handle it. This isn’t the first time my… “power” has spit me out into strange territory. …Okay, well, maybe it’s the first time I’ve surfaced with a friend in the old kidnap-cabin, but hey... Not like Driver Jane hasn’t scraped through some hairier poo poo than this, right? Just gotta follow our easy, breezy four-step program! Get legs to work, use said legs to exit the vehicle, figure out who/what is in the goddamn trunk, then simply find a way to deal with Mr./Ms./Whatever Who/What aaaaaa…gently caress IT JUST GO My hand shoots to the door handle, gripping the cold, impassive steel before… ???: You shouldn’t have stopped here. This is bat country. … “Oh hell no.” My eyes remain fixed on the grey, saucer-sized orbs staring back at me from the mirror. If there’s just one thing I really, really don’t need right now, its the blathering, cackling psychobox screeching at me. Despite my better sense, I peer cagily around the car again, scanning out beyond smudgy windows into the vast, empty distance on all sides. Again, not a living thing in sight. No swarming clouds of vicious, winged rat-fucks. No apocalyptic sandstorm. No three-headed, six-breasted thunder goddess flying overhead sprinkling magic peyote dust into neat little piles on my hood. Just a scared-looking chick staring dumbly again at a foggy rectangle of glass inside her Montecarlo in the middle of freaking nowhere. You sure about this? Pausing for one more steadying lung-full, I slowly push the air out and pop open the glove box. The nickle-plated 10mm is still resting atop my faded, long-expired registration. My lips curl into a crooked half-smile. “’Course I’m sure.” Leaving the engine idling, I rip open the door and manage to stumble outside before being swept up by a heinous head-rush, staggering abruptly forward and almost kissing the ground. My knees catch it instead, stinging smartly. Momentarily stunned at my fawn-ish lack of mobility, I have to shake my head before snapping out of the daze. While the cobwebs of one motherfucker of a trip gradually clear, I hastily jerk the gun up and point it at the rear of the car. Climbing to my feet cautiously, I summon the strength to push my shaky legs onward, ever-so-slowly inching closer towards the trunk. How do I approach this? “Oh woops, sorry about all that, but hey, beats a luggage rack?” This is gonna go swell. “H-hey! Uh… Hello in there?” Wow. Brilliant. Try again Bambi. I clear my throat and set my jaw like that. “Drop the steel drum routine and listen, rear end in a top hat. I don’t know how the holy hell you got in my trunk, but we’re gonna work on un-loving this situation post-haste. First and foremost: are you armed? If you are, and you don’t let me know right-the-gently caress-now, I’m gonna start blasting the second I see heat.” Samuel L. Jackson would be… probably ashamed. Whatever, I’m not exactly working with a full tank right now. I think for a second, then add, “Oh. If you can’t speak for whatever reason, knock once for yes and twice for no. You know the drill. Or at least you should if you’ve watched any movies, like, ever. You know, like suspense flicks and stuff. Just pretend you’re in one of those.” Now I’m rambling about film to some poor schmuck stuck in my trunk. Drugs, kids. “Just remember your ABC’s: Always Be Cool. If you can do that for me, I promise I’ll return the favor.” suicide4sexbots fucked around with this message at 04:20 on Mar 6, 2017 |
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Mar 6, 2017 03:44
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Stephen Key, Current exhaustion: 1/6 Stephen's first instinct is to stop the vehicle before it can do more damage. He gets back on his feet and dashes for the car. With one one hand pulled back ready to strike, he grabs the driver side door and throws it open. The driver is thankfully in no condition to fight so Stephen quickly pushes him over to the passenger seat and pulls the parking break. Now able to assess the situation, Stephen finds himself in the middle of the street next to a busted up car, a fallen street lamp, and a passed out driver. Looking up to the surrounding buildings, he can see curtains being pulled aside as prying eyes and shadowy figures investigate the commotion. God drat it... Not willing to lose this opportunity, Stephen hops into the driver's seat of the car. Using the passenger side seat-belt, he binds the driver as best he can, trying to ignore the the driver's resemblance to that creepy mummy from the late night horror show he used to watch as a kid. Satisfied with his handiwork, he drives down the block. Where the hell am I going to take the guy... Stephen tries to think of a secluded place, keeping one eye on the road and the other on his passenger.
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Mar 6, 2017 03:57
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Ashley Schneider Exhaustion 1; Responses [x] Fight [ ] [ ] Flight Black gums, stumps, sewn-shut eyes: are these kids from the landscape I saw outside my door? Definitely not a good school district, I catch myself thinking, because that's what my mind is now, isn't it? Pithy self-defense systems, because otherwise, how can I cope with the broken glass, the baseball bat, the screaming -- No. They want Abbie. no no no no I spin, catching the one-armed kid across the jaw with the butt of my flashlight, but he's not really what I'm aiming for -- what I need is that baseball bat. They can't be allowed to have it, not if they're after Abbie, and -- God, they stink. I can smell it now, coming off of them, the rot. The toxins. What happens when you feed a child sugar soda and white flour for a decade-plus. I can't help but snarl it under my breath as I grab the bat in my free hand. "You're rotting from the inside, aren't you? Both of you. All of you. The sickness in your guts, it's oozing out of you. How can you even live?" I can feel every muscle tensing. I've been slacking, just a little bit, but I'm still in shape enough to do what I have to. And God, I have to. They're like walking sacks of poison, and they want my daughter. I drop the flashlight, choke up at the bat, and swing hard at the one-eyed boy's head. I -- I'm not, this isn't -- no, this is what I have to do. Everything screams it. "Get the gently caress out of my house!" Throwing in one Exhaustion die and two temp Madness: You Kids Get Off My Property (D,M,E,P): 3#1d6 5 4 3 2#1d6 5 6 1d6 2 3#1d6 2 52 2 successes on my pool vs. the two Pain successes. With the only 6 on the table, Madness dominates, so I'm checking off Fight and, well, you can probably guess.
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Mar 7, 2017 01:56
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Stephen Key Your passenger was clammy and dry to the touch, and light as a feather. He's downright emaciated. In fact, you were starting to think he was dead until he jolts awake with a shudder and a rattling breath. He thrashes wildly for second, looking around like he doesn't know where he is. Then recollection abruptly seems to set in; he stops struggling all at once, turns in the seat, and stares at you quietly. Watery grey eyes. There's something familiar about him, but you don't place it until he starts talking in a voice that's weak but thick, like his tongue is swollen. "You were always the tough one, Stephen. Nothing could put you down. You look at some people and you know they ain't gonna make it much longer. There's just something about people whose time is almost up, y'know? You can see the reaper on 'em, in the eyes, in the way they walk. We saw a lot of that in Afghanistan. But I guess you can't see it on yourself, because when we went out that morning I thought I was gonna live forever. And now look at me. Look what they're making us do." Your veins fill with ice. You know this man. He died in Afghanistan, caught in the blast of the same IED that got you discharged. You saw him go down. And although it's hard to tell in this dim light, are those stitches on his withered neck, right where the shrapnel nearly tore his head from his body? No Pain. Gretchen Lightfellow *THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMPTTHUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP* On and on and on. The beat that was barely audible a few minutes ago is thrumming in your teeth, booming down the alley. Windows rattle in their panes, and you have a discomforting awareness of where all your organs are, defined by the pulse of the beat as it slams through you. Speaking of which, as if it wasn't already obvious that something is terribly wrong with this place, this alley is long. It just stretches on and on. You can't even tell how you'd get into half of these buildings; they face no street that you can see. The end comes in sight. Bloody red light streams down from an enormous neon sign that sits on the brick wall over glass double doors: CLUB, it shrieks in letters twice your height. What an imaginative name. Incongruously, despite the hideous signage and the fact that this "club" is at the end of a mile-long blind alley, there's a velvet rope and a tattooed, muscular man out front with a clipboard. There's not even a queue, so you're not sure what the point is, but as soon as he spots you, he smiles and waves you towards him with his free hand. He calls out in a friendly tone: "Miss Lightfellow, wonderful to see you tonight! You're top of the VIP list, so please, come in! They've all been asking about you, hoping you'd be in!" No pain. Luna Ross After a few minutes of staring blankly into space, you wake with a start when a door upstairs slams. You glance up, expecting another dog-man. Close, yet so far: this one's an enormously obese man with the head of a white Persian cat, one blue eye and one green, wearing a fez and half-tied smoking jacket. Unlike the dogs, it seems like his only animal feature is the head. He puffs on a cigar and pauses at the top of the stairs. After everything you've already seen in the past few minutes, you aren't particularly surprised when he begins speaking in the voice of Sidney Greenstreet. "Well done, Luna, my dear, well done! Those Dog Catchers... pah! You see, all you need to do is stand up to them. They're cowards at heart, you know. So very obsessed with the approval of their masters that it becomes an obstacle rather than asset. So much as imply that they might not be a Good Boy, and, well, you saw for yourself.They were trying to repossess one of my butlers, Charles. Lovely man, but you see, he was once an Awakened like you; he's assimilated to our ways quite nicely, but there's still the occasional bit of baggage from the Nightmares he crossed paths with before joining my staff." He claps his baby-like hands together and chuckles softly, sending jiggles through his swollen frame. "But you saved me the trouble of dealing with them personally, and that means more to me than you know! And I have always believed that one good turn deserves another. Besides, I know the smell of a freshly Awakened when I encounter it, and you are, shall we say, barely a newborn. Will you join me for a drink, and let me repay you for your services with a little friendly advice on surviving in this Mad City of ours?" No Pain. Jason King The cop car glides to a halt behind you. After a moment, the door swings open, and out steps... an 1800s-era British Bobby, judging by the uniform. He approaches stiffly; in the dim light, you don't catch a solid glimpse of his face until he's leaning in the window. He's a machine of some kind. Gears with gears, cogs within cogs. His eyes are glassy focusing lenses that whir and twist as he glances you over. His face is stiffly fixed in an approximation of a scowl: downturned mouth, angry eyebrows. He'd be an incredible work of clockwork art if he weren't, y'know, alive and talking. He just stares at you blankly for several seconds. You realize you can literally hear the gears in his head turning as he thinks. "License... and... registration, guv?" He abruptly leans back and stands stiffly at attention, staring off down the street, not moving. He might be complex but he's incredibly slow and he doesn't even seem to be paying attention to you anymore. You're considering your options when you hear it. Faint at first, but getting louder fast. Who the hell is blasting... The answer literally tears around the corner a block away. Massive chrome claws and hydraulic limbs splay out to the side like a crocodile's, scrambling for purchase against the sharp turn, carving through the asphalt in a spray of rubble and sparks. The body is a massive metal pickup truck with a grill of razor-sharp teeth and burning-bright headlights with slits in the middle, like glowing cats-eyes. It has a backhoe positioned in the back like a scorpion's stinger. Inside the cab, silhouetted against a literal wall of speakers, you can see those things that showed up at your house. Grey, goblin-like, and bloody, at least 4 of them. A half-dozen more cling to the sides or the roof. One flies off and explodes messily against the wall as the vehicle nearly flips on the turn; the rest of them clearly find this hilarious. It's the Monster Truck, and it just regained its traction, so it's going to be on top of you any second. Literally. "Stay here. I will... call for... backup." The cop starts to shuffle back towards his cruiser. If the speed it's already moving is any indication, he's not even going to make it halfway before he's trampled underfoot. Pain 5. Ashley Schneider The bigger kid gags and stumbles, hands dropping. The bat connects with a dull, wet thud; he flips back in the awkward, defenseless manner of someone who's been instantly knocked unconscious. Thin skull, probably indicative of poor nutrition. Sickening. The other kid catches a whiff of it too and falls to his knees, choking up, feeling the toxins inside turn against him. They'd have killed him eventually; you were just giving him a taste of what was coming. And speaking of a taste of what was coming, he knows what's about to happen. He takes one look at your eyes and slackens, looking resigned. Clear liquid dribbles down across his chin; you can smell the poison in it from over here and it only makes you want to hit him more. You draw back the bat and step forward, glass crunching underfoot. The blow throws him back, sending him sliding all the way to the window he came in through, leaving a trail of blood. There's another kid looking in, standing on the roof outside; he stares down at his friend and looks up at you, clearly horrified. "Aw, god. You're like Mumma When! SHE'S JUST LIKE MUMMA WHEN!" You don't know what he's talking about and right now, you don't care. He's going to pay. They're all going to pay for going after your baby. Snarling, you hurl yourself forward, not caring if you have to crawl out onto that drat roof yourself. This little punk was going to get a taste of clean living. No need: as soon as he sees you coming, he takes three steps back. One too many. He falls backwards off the roof with a startled cry. Probably not far enough to kill him, but you can hope. Where the hell was that crying coming from? The baby. Oh god, the baby. Gotta protect the baby. You whirl back and check her; she's screaming and you can't clear the red fog from your head to figure out why, even though it should be obvious, and for a few seconds you just stand there staring down at her with a bloody bat in your hands. The sound of glass breaking downstairs snaps you out of it. Was it a window? Then, the sudden smell of gasoline and smoke. They set your house on fire. They set your goddamn house on fire, and you're torn, horribly torn, because one hand you want to save your baby, but you also want to go find whoever just did that and beat them into a red stain. And for a second, you almost do, but then reason reasserts itself. Priorities, Ashley, priorities. You're fighting to save her, you can't leave her. Got to get her out. Suffice to say that these guys are now really, REALLY scared, which has made them desperate enough to go farther than they would've otherwise. Pain 3. Driver Jane There's a pause, five or six seconds. You're about to talk again when the muffled voice pipes out of the trunk. It's a man's voice, a little hard to hear. A little familiar too, but it's hard to tell with a trunk between it and you. "Look, lady, I can barely hear you and I don't even know what question I'd be knocking to at this point, so if you can't hear me either I'm just gonna do Shave and Haircut and hope you don't shoot me. Let me out of the goddamn trunk! You think I like it in here? It's dark, it smells like poo poo, I can't breathe, and I don't know why you jammed me in here but clearly we need to talk about our relationship, because it ain't working out so well! LET ME OUT!" He punctuates that sentence with three more kicks. A canned laugh track blares from the radio, followed by a sassy "Oh no he didn't!" voiceclip and a series of snaps. Back to radio silence. The air hangs heavy like bated breath, and you have the distinct feeling that something's about to happen regardless. Maybe it's just a storm coming. No Pain, but it's definitely coming next time no matter what. Arthur Deschamps The thing stumbles back, fingers flexing, and stands still for a few seconds, feet sizzling against the carpet. It speaks in voice that whines and drones tunelessly like a razor, wobbling and hissing with static. "HE HUngERs foR THe AwAKEneD. It HURTS. WE smELL YoU OUt. YoUR eSSENcE linGers heRE, STroNgeST on tHE mACHINE. KILL me PLEASE. YOu caNNoT EsCape. YoU Will FEED HIS HUngER." It lurches at you again; you step back and lash out on instinct, and the knife slashes right through its throat as it grasps at the space where you were standing a second ago. Another shock runs up your arm and you're blinded by a flash of scintillating light and an electrical *POP*. The air smells like ozone, ozone and blood, but there's nothing left behind but another burn mark where it was standing. You see motion from the computer screen. Words are still typing themselves. code:No Pain, +1 Despair from Pain dominating. Current Despair: 3
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Mar 15, 2017 04:19
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Jason King Jason's eyes widen as he sees the truck skid around the corner, and his hand quickly goes to the shifter as his foot depresses the brake.. but he stops, his brow furrowing as he stares at the Monster Truck in his rearview mirror. It was just a vehicle, something of steel and plastic. He could run, but could he actually get away? He looks down to his speedometer, thinking quickly. No. He couldn't. His car didn't accelerate fast enough. He couldn't get enough distance to avoid being run over. With a growl, he quickly frees himself from the seatbelt and throws the car door open, slapping his face and biting the inside of his cheek as he slams the door behind him. He needed to be angry. He needed to dig deep into that rage that burned inside him. His mind drifted back to his wife. He replayed everything that she did to him in his head, and he felt a lead weight fall into the pit of his stomach. He could picture her father driving the truck, yelling his empty threats and circling him with the vehicle, closing him off from everyone else that might care about him. In his mind's eye, Jason saw his body ripple and change, his muscles bulging beneath his clothing, not quite ripping them yet. He balled up his fists and cries out in frustration as the truck began to regain traction, slamming his fists into the pavement and creating two potholes. He turns his hands inside of the holes and grips the underside of the asphalt, straining and growling like a cornered animal as he tears up a chunk of the road. He staggers slightly under its weight, spreading his feet apart to stabilize himself. He roars out incoherently as he rears back, now foaming at the mouth, the blood he's bitten from the inside of his mouth turning the froth pink, and he lurches forward several steps before hurling the chunk of pavement at the oncoming vehicle, his eyes bloodshot and wide eyed with crazed fury. The chunk strikes the front of the vehicle as it tears up the pavement beneath it in its mad rush, crumpling in the front of the vehicle as the piece of pavement continues on and caving in the windshield and top of the cab. Jason stands there, panting, his teeth bared and turned pink from his blood, until he realizes that the chunk didn't actually counter the vehicle's momentum as much as he would have liked. He thrusts his hands out, digging his heels into the pavement, and braces against the coming impact, but his stance isn't sturdy enough; when the vehicle strikes him, he is driven back, kicking up chunks of road debris as his feet dig into the road, until he is finally simply knocked down by the force of the vehicle, and he winces as the undercarriage passes a mere half a foot from his face. FIGHT (Disc, Ex, Mad, Pain): 3d6: 8 [3d6=2, 2, 4] 1d6: 1 [1d6=1] 6d6: 25 [6d6=2, 4, 4, 5, 6, 4] 5d6: 22 [5d6=4, 5, 2, 6, 5] I succeed, but pain dominates.
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Mar 15, 2017 05:11
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Luna Ross Luna heaved herself to her feet, the weariness setting in once the adrenaline wore off. She peered at the cat-man for a few seconds, then sighed. A cat-man. Sure. Why the gently caress not. It was better than a dog. She'd always liked cats, although this one reminded her of a character in a book she'd once read-- a fat Italian count, willing to kill whoever he had to to save his family's Stradivarius violin. That was a vast oversimplification, of course, but she didn't really have time to think things through. She wondered if this guy had ever read anything by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. Or if her psyche was giving her a respite in the form of a kitty Count Fosco. He wasn't speaking in an Italian accent, though. At least he seemed pleasant. She wasn't at all surprised that he knew her name-- a lot of people did. "I've always been a cat person anyway. Dogs will blindly follow the strongest person in the room, but earning the respect of a cat? Well, that's something special." Flattery got one absolutely everywhere, as long as it wasn't laid on too thick. "I'm not sure what you mean by Awakened." Nightmares, though? Those are familiar. She hadn't slept in over a month. Maybe that was why she was breaking down. Regardless... she had to figure out how to get along in this world. The cat-man didn't want to kill her outright. That was a good sign. If he was willing to help, she was willing to take help. Not that she trusted him in the slightest-- his "butler" had been screaming for help after all-- but she could at least hear him out. Luna was internally shocked at how well she was taking this... but if she acted like nothing was wrong, maybe nobody would notice that everything was horribly wrong. She smoothed out her clothes, tucked the knife in her belt, and walked up the stairs to the cat-man with a broad smile. "No drink for me, I'm afraid-- I'm on this health food kick and they want me to limit my sugar intake." An outright lie. I'm having a psychotic breakdown. The last thing I need is booze to make it worse. "I'm not going to say no to a friendly conversation, though. Those seem to be in short supply around here, and I'm more than a little lost. I didn't quite catch your name, Mister...?"
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Mar 15, 2017 07:17
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Arthur Deschamps He flexed numb fingers, staring at the screen. Place was still trashed, but whatever that thing was, it wasn't invulnerable. It was, however, still messing with his drat computer! He paused, closed his eyes, took a deep breath to refocus. Great, now the doorbell. He returned the utensils to the kitchen, took a moment to assess lines of sight from the door and righted a couple of furnishings to block the worst of it, put the security chain on, and opened the door a crack. "Yes?"
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Mar 15, 2017 11:46
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Gretchen https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VCeczrZKluM "Uhm." Gretchen wrapped her arms around herself as she looked up at the bouncer, shifting from foot to foot. She'd love to be able to just sit down for a minute and rest her feet. It felt like she'd been walking for an hours. "Do you have a phone I can use? I have no idea where I am right now and I have classes in the morning and I just need to call somebody to pick me up." The man glanced up from his clipboard with a surprised look on his face. "You're still here? Everyone is waiting for you inside. They'll take care of everything. You're on the list, after all. Just don't keep them waiting. They hate being kept waiting." His smile entirely vanished at the suggestion that she would keep them waiting. He lifted up the velvet rope and stepped to the side, ushering her in. "Really, I just need to make a call to-" "They hate being kept waiting." His inflection didn't change. It was like he couldn't even hear her, or was refusing to hear her. She shuffled forward slowly, watching him as she passed. He stared straight ahead, not turning to track her. As she pushed open the double doors and the music blasted outward with renewed vigor, she could just make out his parting words. "They hate being kept waiting." The doors clicked shut behind her and dim lighting of the entry hall beckoned. Gretchen took a deep breath, trying to relax, but it was no use. She was wound up tight as a drum. Every muscle drawn tight and shaking with adrenaline. Continuing on, the flat carpet squished softly under her boots. She didn't want to think what had soaked it, but the scents coiling through her brain implied all sorts of things. Stale alcohol was the least unpleasant thing that came to mind. Ahead a light flickered intermittently from a side room. As she approached, a neon  sign hung haphazardly from the ceiling, swinging and twisting back and forth from the power cord. Gretchen paused and glanced inside. Nobody appeared to be manning the station. Leaning in, she glimpsed a closed door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. She debated hopping over and shecking to see if it was locked. It might lead to a manager's office and a phone along with it. A sudden blood-curdling shriek disabused her of that notion immediately. Stumbling back, Gretchen turned and sprinted full tilt down the hall and slammed open the doors, nearly falling as she came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the massive knot of people in the club proper. The stage lights were near-blinding as they strobed in time with the beat. The air was thick with smoke and sweat and unnameable other things. She could make out the general shapes of the club-goers, but they were vague. Unformed thoughts given only the broadest strokes. The only thing truly sharp about them were their eyes, which now turned upon her. The music abruptly stopped, the lights ceased pulsating, and a voice like God thundered from everywhere around her. "LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, THIS IS YOUR MASTER OF CEREMONIES. IT IS MY MOST EXTREME PLEASURE TO PRESENT TO YOU THE LADY OF THE HOUR, MISS GRETCHEN LIGHTFELLOW! IT'S SO LOVELY TO HAVE YOU HERE. WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING SO VERY VERY LONG. AN ETERNITY, REALLY. WHY DON'T YOU SAY SOMETHING, THANK ALL THESE LOVELY PEOPLE FOR THEIR PATIENCE?" Gretchen threw a hand up in front of her face as she was suddenly illuminated by a spotlight. She had no idea what was happening, or why it was happening. She just wanted to go home, not deal with whatever this was. "WELL? WE'RE WAITING. I'M SURE YOU KNOW HOW WE FEEL ABOUT WAITING." She struggled to think. Her mind was scattering in a million directions. "Uh. Um. H-hello." Her voice was a terrified whisper. "Can I...I mean. I am sorry to bother you all but I just need to use a phone. Please."
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Mar 15, 2017 20:27
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gently caress! Culver?! It’s only after several moments of standing there, still drawing down on the trunk mindlessly (with my lip curled curled into a pout of frustrated confusion) that I fully recognize the owner of the only real voice I’m hearing. Culver was a J-Town mainline figure Johnny had introduced me to around a year ago. We would occasionally party with him while touring the city’s lively nightclub scene, touching base with several very valuable hubs. The connects were real, and at first I was too busy flipping bricks and candy to notice how crazy things got. However, I’d not hung around the scene overlong before I learned he had a thing for both me and my boyfriend, and well… let’s just say it got a bit weird for a while. It’s not that I had an issue with his orientation or anything… I mean gently caress, I’ll admit that part was kinda hot. We maybe had some fun, even. Pete: Oh. How totally crazy and silly and lovably wild of her. In case you skimmed that, this is the part where we see the gilded beauty of Jane’s shining self-righteousness. Please adjust your radio-vision to soft focus. Also, please note how far past TMI we’ve gone. ‘Maybe’ being the operative word. Pete: ‘Hard drugs’ being the subtext. Don't forget our girl is lovably destructive, folks. But at the end of the day I’m just an insecure bitch, so inevitably I started getting all jelly-face about our shared hedonistic flings. Sparing the details of an especially interesting after-party, I’ll just say it ended around 4 AM with Culver running out of someone’s house into the street naked, a stupid Guy Fawkes mask slipping halfway off his face; and a certain screaming girl giving chase not far behind, waving an electrically-charged tennis racket over her head in a blackout rage. Things chilled after that. Not saying Johnny cheated on me (technically), but honestly… I can’t even really remember. Maybe that’s what bothered me the most. Pete: Aww, gee. So reckless, and yet so lovable. Please love her. Anyways, I haven’t been through his hood since, and we never talked about it. Johnny, ever the tactician, simply adjusted our routes and kept quiet about the whole incident, and as usual I was hesitant to ruin a good time by stretching out the drama around it. So while I’ve got no idea what 'The Culv' has been up to these past few months, I haven’t completely forgotten about the jerk. In fact, it’s so like him to play things neutral like this (like with the whole smarmy ‘Look, lady’ bit). Can't say I'm surprised to learn he can still manage to be a dick despite any situation. Then again, taking into account the admittedly awkward predicament we are both currently experiencing, he might just be scared and simply mounting an indignant, third-person defense (or whatever Psych-major bullshit you call it), trying to diffuse the situation in some backwards-rear end way. Pete: If this were a ‘Floyd song instead of a masturbatory monologue, it would be called ’Lovably Dumb’. I apologize to our listeners again, we don’t pick the programming here on 101 Flashback...*FZZSSST* Shut the gently caress up, rear end in a top hat. Stop jacking the inner-dialog. *BANG BANG BANG* Lizzie: Oh no he didn’t! Startled from my swirling thoughts, I angrily kick the bumper, “Alright! Alright, rear end in a top hat! gently caress. How the hell did you even get in there?” Ducking back into the driver’s seat, I quickly pop open the trunk. Labored grunting and gasping sounds emanate from behind me as I watch the man clamber hastily out of the back of my vehicle. A wince-worthy crashing sound is followed by a howl of pain, followed by a string of curses even I can hardly follow. Should probably check on him. Before I can guilt myself into fighting through my own dizziness, he gets up and immediately slips forward into the passenger-side rear door, crumpling headfirst back to the ground. Were it not for the savage adrenaline dump compounding an already savage crash, I might have been concerned enough to get off my rear end again. Instead I produce a half-manic chortle. "Ha ha! Try the handles, homie." “gently caress YOU, JANE!” He’s practically frothing as he heaves himself back up to his feet while leaning against the door, face smashed into the window pane, glaring at me. Classic Culver sneer. The hot breath shooting from his nose puffs against the glass, oddly reminding me of the stream coming from the nostrils of a cartoon bull. Oh dear! He’s bleached his hair! Another laugh escapes and this time I’m not able to stop the relief-inspired fit of giggles. The Culv rights himself, takes a moment to angrily brush the dirt and sand from the front of his expensive-looking button-up shirt, then jerks open the passenger door. For a second or two, he appears to consider how best to assault me, then notices the glock I’m pointing at him and pauses. “What… what the holy gently caress is your deal, you psycho-loving-bimbo-bitch?" A thin string of drool rappells from his chin. "Huh? You tryin’ to fuckin’ bury me out here or something?” Wiping my own mouth with the wrist of my free hand, I take a few breaths and manage to control myself enough to finally say something. “Actually, yes. By mistake, though. Sorry, but… uhm.” He stares at me with the most flabbergasted, emotionally-churned expression I’ve ever seen, and it takes all my rapidly-depleting willpower to not burst back into gales. Suddenly, I’m struck by both a strange sense of déjà vu and the dawning certainty that we are literally living out the terrible aftermath of some road-trip movie’s comedic climax. Exercising a feeble attempt to focus my thoughts, I mull over the bizarre situation as best I can, attempting to carve through the distractions and reach some kind of logical… something... Nope. Absently figeting with the safety, I mumble, “… I don’t know what happened. I have no idea how you got in that trunk. The last thing I remember about last night was running from the cops. Lizzie: You mean the bloody bears, dah-ling. After all, it’s quite a treat to greet the beasts that feast on sweet human meat. Squat: Skeet skeet. Drop the beat! “What the hell did I take? You have to tell me. It feels like it might have been some kinda K-Hole K.O., but, like, while simultaneously tripping through some night-terror, hellride bullshit.” Now appraising him fully, I realize he’s holding a large, steel-reinforced case that appears to be clamped shut with a ridiculously huge locking mechanism. Or rather, he’s been handcuffed to it. In fact, it looks a lot like… My brow furrows, “Dude. Is that Johnny’s case?”
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Mar 17, 2017 06:31
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Dachshundofdoom posted:Stephen Key "WHAT THE poo poo!?" Stephen instinctively swerves away from the sudden activity from what he had assumed was a corpse in the passenger seat. He quickly corrects back into his lane, not that it matters as he hasn't seen any other cars so far. "Hey! Eyes on the road sarge! Ha! I'm surprised you still drive after we all got blown to poo poo out there. Ack!" the corpse's head bobbles on its neck as the car hits a bump in the road. It reaches up and re-positions its head more securely on its neck. "Ah, there we go. Where we going anyway, you trying to find a place to dump a body? Oh, how about the river, they never look there! Hey speaking of, can you pull over first? I need a drink I'm parched, man. I think there's a 7-11 on this block oh hey, there it goes, aw god damnit sarge, you just flew past it! No problem, no problem, we can hit the next one. Ooh, hey, what about lunch then? SKREEEE Stephen slams the breaks on the car, bringing it to a halt in the middle of the street. "SHUT UP!" His knuckles bulge as he grips the steering wheel, eyes never leaving the road. "Hernandez, you died. You, McMurray, Niko, Tanner. All of you. Except me." Stephen's passenger scoffs, "Oh, they're here too, somewhere. We still talk, they've been looking for you. They couldn't be here today, but we should all get together. Hey, we ought to keep moving, someone might get suspicious. After a moment of contemplation, Stephen begins creeping down the street again. "I went to your funeral." "Oh, right, that was very touching. Hey, take a right here. Operating on auto pilot, Stephen follows the direction. The street begins to take on a different atmosphere. "Getting warm in here, yeah, turn on the AC would you? I'd do it but-" he raises his hands as far as he can and shrugs. But he's right. It's getting hotter. And the street is getting more barren. How far out of town have you driven? "Oh, this is looking good. Remind you of anything? Taking in the quickly changing surroundings, Stephen's pulse quickens. The buildings of the city have given way to mud shacks and date trees. "This is where it happened" "Ohh, you think they'd hit us twice in the same area?" a macabre grin spreads across the corpse's face as its head lolls toward Stephen. "Hey, the three of us, we left something out here, but you? You brought it back with you. Tell me, you been sleeping alright? Don't worry I'm not like them doctors, I won't pull you off mission, if that's what you're worried about. Another bump in the road tosses his head at an awkward angle and it hangs loosely, facing away from Stephen now. "You could always turn around, try to find your way back to the city, but I'm not too sure that would work out for you." Checking the rear view mirror reveals that the city has vanished. Stephen is far into the desert now. PyroDwarf fucked around with this message at 07:31 on Mar 20, 2017 |
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Mar 20, 2017 04:27
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Ashley Schneider Exhaustion 2; Responses [x] Fight [ ] [ ] Flight What -- why are they -- what do they even want? I force myself to turn my brain off and my muscles on, because reason surely isn't getting me out of this situation. I scoop up Abbie with one arm, keeping the baseball bat clenched in my other hand, and run out the door, to the second-floor landing. Next to the master bedroom, where Aaron's asleep -- Oh, God. Aaron. I have to -- but I can't waste time -- I pivot, screaming as loud as I can. "AARON! WAKE UP! GET OUT!" I can't exactly pound on the door, but I've always had a decent screaming voice. Besides, I tell myself, Aaron's not such a heavy sleeper -- (he sleeps like a rock, Ashley, don't lie to yourself) -- and we've got sprinklers and alarms, don't we -- (the house is up to code, I made sure, he'll be fine) -- and right now I just have to run -- (Aaron's a grown man, he can fend for himself, he's not important like Abbie's important) -- so I run. Down the stairs, out the door, into the street. I've got nothing on me but a blunt weapon and a baby. Abbie's awake and wailing. Why is my first thought that this could still be worse? Jacking Exhaustion up to 2, then rolling to get the hell out: Time to bug out (D,E,P): 3#1d6 6 1 2 2#1d6 5 5 3#1d6 3 3 4 2 successes vs. 2 successes; Discipline dominates unless the GM decides it's time for despair!
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Mar 21, 2017 10:39
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Stephen Key Hernandez coughs and laughs, sagging in his restraints. It's the desert, alright. The road's turned to highway, and the highway's seen better days. The setting sun beats down on lines so faded they're almost invisible. The parts of the asphalt that aren't potholes are cracking apart, and in places the dunes have begun to encroach on the road. The terrain ahead swims with mirages and heat haze. Off to your right, far off, you see the dark shadows of carrion birds cruising high over the rocks. The corpse in the passenger seat runs his swollen black tongue across cracked lips. "Man, I'm parched. Being dead's thirsty work. You think there's any stations out here?" He tilts his head towards the radio. As though on cue, it crackles to life untouched. You wince as the car fills with the piercing squeal of an emergency broadcast system. It cuts off, and there's a fumbling as someone bumps the mic, followed by a murmur that might have been distant cursing. Then, a calm, flat voice: "This has been a test of the emergency broadcast system. If there was anything you could do to prepare for this, the tone you just heard would have been followed by official instructions. As it stands, you're hosed, Steve. Say hello to Jane from all of us, alright?" There's another fumbling, and more murmuring, and then the radio shuts off with an audible click. The whole car lurches under you as you abruptly run out of road. From here on out, the desert's eaten it. Hernandez lolls his head towards you, lips peeled back in what might be a smile, or just a rictus. "Those ain't vultures, sarge. Step on it. They've got your scent." And yes indeed, those shadows are closing in fast, swooping over the terrain. It's hard to see at this distance, but they're starting to look almost humanoid, and those wings look more leathery than anything else. Pain 4 to outrun them. Driver Jane Culver's eyes dart down to the suitcase, then back up. For a second, he looks like the kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Then it's gone, replaced with a truly laughable attempt to look tough. "Maybe it is and maybe it ain't, Jane. As for what you took, I don't friggin' know. You showed up at my place babbling some crazy poo poo, something about bears. I figured you were high and offered to let you crash, then I take my eyes off you for one second and you jabbed me with something that put me out like a light. Next thing I know I'm in your trunk handcuffed to this thing. I wasn't even sure it was your trunk until you let me out! For all I knew you sold me to the Russian Mob or something! Now I don't know what the hell you think you're... doing... what the hell?" His eyes have shifted over your shoulder, wide at first, now squinting like he's trying to make something out. Is he seriously trying the old "look behind you" thing? How stupid does he think you are? You're about to say something to that effect when you hear the distant rumble of an engine, followed by that distinct sound a car's shocks make when it leaves the ground for a second and comes down hard. You risk a glance back, and to his credit, Culver doesn't try anything. There's a black sports car that just crested the farthest visible dune, and it's roaring right towards you. A second later, three black winged things swoop over the dune after it, flying low and gaining on it fast. Your stomach drops a few feet the second you see them. This really is bat country. You almost forget about Culver until he speaks up in a squeaky, terrified tone. "You see them too? That's not just whatever you stuck me with? Aw poo poo, aw poo poo, awshit awshit awshit--" Pain 4, and in case it wasn't clear, you and Stephen Key are now in the same scene. Gretchen Lightfellow There's a moment of dead silence. The formless crowd stares, breathless. You could hear a pin drop, Then, all at once: laughter. Uproarious laughter. Figures in the crowd nearly double over cackling. There's applause, whistling, cheers, bravos, encores. A few roses spontaneously drift up out of the crowd. It just goes on and on, this rolling wave of adulation and amusement. You feel like you're drowning in unearned praise. It's excruciating; you feel like you're pinned under the spotlights, like the crowd is draining you somehow. You realize that you can barely breathe. It's not just panic, it's the air; it tastes like smoke and vomit and it's getting thinner, like you're climbing a mountain. Something is seriously wrong with this place. The floor seems to roll and pitch under your feet. The stage stretches out in all directions, the lights grow brighter and the dark grows darker, the crowd's eyes shine like cats' as they start to shuffle forward, trying to climb to you, still cheering and screaming your name. You're so dizzy that it's hard to tell, but you have a sickening impression that that isn't a crowd at all, that they're all linked together as one organism. And if you don't do something, it's going to smother you. Pain 5. Luna Ross The man chortles and slaps his belly good-heartedly. "My dear Luna, very often in this Mad City, things are not what they seem. But it is the great joke of the world that we Nightmares are often precisely what we seem. I... am the Fat Cat. Please, accompany me." He turns at the top of the stairs and thumps his way towards the nearest door and opens it. The murmur of voices, laughter, and clinking glasses filters through. He turns sideways and ducks slightly to squeeze through the frame, looking back at you with a twinkle in his mismatched eyes. "One of the first things you should know about this City: doors always lead somewhere, but rarely do they lead where you'd expect them to. You could buy a map, but you can't trust them when it counts. The City likes to change when you least expect it. Just a little farther: they always have a table set for me here." Following in his prodigious shadow, you find yourself in a smoky, dim-lit club. Seems like a classy establishment; soft jazz music, low lights, rich-looking groups around every table. But after the first glance, you start to see the things that don't quite make sense. The club stretches off to the left and the right; you can't even see the walls in those directions, it's tables as far as the eye can see, and every one is occupied. Ahead, there's a massive dining table, also fully occupied, except for the massive jeweled throne that sits half-facing the table and half-facing the window that dominates the far wall. The people at the tables range from Victorian-looking types in top hats and suit coats to slick-haired men in suspenders who look like extras from a mafia movie, all accompanied by women from matching eras. Fat Cat plods his way over to his throne, nodding and returning murmured greetings to the tables he passes. He pauses on the other side of the table from his throne, seeming to contemplate something. "Oh, let me get you a seat." With that, he calmly reaches down and grabs the man sitting in front of him by the back of his shirt. With a flick of his wrist, he hurls the man upward like he weighs nothing at all. He doesn't make a sound; in his passing, the smoke parts like water and then flows back into place like he was never even there. No one at the table reacts apart from a few chuckles or nods of approval. Fat Cat leans forward and brushes dust off the chair, then pulls it away from the table and motions to it expectantly. "Don't worry. They're not really... real. You see, most of the denizens of the Mad City are quite hollow. They are defined entirely by their role. There's nothing actually going on inside their heads. They're nothing but the shadows of mortal beings. You can do whatever you like to them without a shred of guilt. Oh, don't give me that look. I was going to bring him back down once you leave anyway. He's not dead, he's just elsewhere. So please, take a seat, and I'll tell you more about this city. And after that, I'll have a job offer for you, if you're interested. If you're not, well, I'll turn you loose, and from there your fate will be up to you. Are you sure you won't have a drink? I have some lovely vintages to sample today." No Pain yet. Jason King I'm spending a Despair coin to add a 6 to your Madness pool so that Madness dominates. It's time to check a box and freak the hell out. The Monster Truck's pounding music shorts out and is replaced with a chorus of indignant howls as it slides over you, its furious charge foiled by strength born of Madness. It lashes out with its shovel "tail" as it passes and misses your head by an inch; its claws digging tracks into the pavement as it desperately tries to turn on you. Its claws catch-- too well. Its sheer weight and momentum whip it to one side and roll it over, hurling the Rage Goblins from its frame and splattering them across the road. It rolls a half-dozen times, shedding parts and screaming in pain, then slides to a stop on its back. Its legs kick feebly at the air, severed hydraulic hoses hissing and dancing, oil bleeding from a dozen rents in its frame. The rage is boiling inside you, threatening to devour your mind. You've never drawn upon it this deeply before. It's shrieking white-hot and it just keeps coming, making your muscles throb, your eyes pulse, your chest ache. You vaguely realize that you can't remember how to unclench your teeth right now. Through the red fugue that has settled over your mind, you hear a voice behind you. Looking back, you see the goddamn Clockwork Cop, somehow untouched. He's leaning into the window of his cruiser, talking into the radio. "--repeat. We have an... Awakened... at my location... Send... backup." Pain 1, whether you Fight or Flight. Ashley Schneider I'm spending Despair to remove the 6 from your Discipline pool. Exhaustion dominates instead, +1 Exhaustion for you. You crash through the door and into the cold night air, almost stumbling, gasping for breath. Your muscles burn from how hard you hit those creeps, and your legs are threatening to cramp from the sudden activity without warmups. You keep your footing and skid to a halt when you see what's waiting. Six of those kids, arranged in a semi-circle under a street light. Black hoodies, pale skin, bad hygiene, and all armed. The tallest one steps forward, pointing a lead pipe at you. His nose is a ragged wound; it looks like it was bitten off. He speaks in a voice that trembles with pent-up emotion. "Listen to me and listen good, lady. This is our neighborhood, and this is for your own good. What happens to you, I don't give a poo poo. But you know what that baby girl makes you? A target. A target for something so much worse than us. We can protect her, okay? We're gonna protect her. This city will eat you both alive. Separated, you'll have a chance to actually make it out of here, because you're Awakened and that means you're not gonna get your brain fried by the City, at least not fast. And the kid, with us she'll at least have a fighting chance to not end up... oh. Oh, gently caress. gently caress the kid, gently caress the Awakened, it's too late, run! RUN! His eyes fill with horror, his voice cracks with fear. They all drop their weapons and run as fast as they can down the street. The leader supports another one who moves with a limp; might be the one who fell off the roof. For a few seconds, you're left standing in the cool night air, wondering what the hell happened, trying to cope with all this, trying to decide whether or not you should go back for Aaron or try to find safety for you and Abbie. Then you hear the firm tap of a cane on the path behind you. There's an old woman behind you. Curly white hair, a calico dress, and a plain wooden cane. How in the world she got there without you hearing is beyond you. She looks up at your burning house, the flames growing higher, and shakes her head disapprovingly, tapping the cane again. When she speaks, you immediately feel a sense of calm. "Oh, those ruffians are always up to no good. Dag-nabbed Lost Boys. Look what they've gone and done now. Such a lovely house, all burnt up. Ever since they moved in the whole neighborhood's just... well, y'know. Now Ashley, don't you worry. Your husband got out safe and sound. In fact, he's already staying with me, and he asked me to come get you and Abby too." She turns around slowly and smiles, and Abby's crying instantly stops. She cooes and giggles and reaches out for the old woman. You, on the other hand, feel an immediate chill. Her eyes are black. Pitch black. And while her voice is sweet, her smile is distinctly predatory. She's looking at Abby like a starving predator looks at a piece of meat. With a start, she seems to realize the expression on your face. She jerks out of her odd little reverie, looks up; the smile becomes seemingly genuine, although her eyes remain glassy voids. Some kind of genetic condition, maybe? "Oh, pardon my manners, I haven't even introduced myself. They call me Mother When. I run the local orphanage and school. It's just down the street. Won't you please accompany me? We can't stay out in the cold, your baby will catch a chill!" No Pain. Arthur Deschamps It's a run-down looking man in a brown coat and tie. He's balding and ill-shaven, looks to be anywhere from his late 30s to his early 40s. He locks eyes with you and produces a badge from his coat. "I'm Detective Quint. I'm investigating the disappearance of your neighbor, Nathan Oakridge. His family hasn't heard from him in a week. We sent somebody by for a wellness check, found his door forced open and his house ransacked. Signs of a struggle. I'd really appreciate if you could answer a few questions for me. We can do it out here if you want." Well, he hasn't got a warrant, so you could just tell him to piss off. You are a little busy, after all. On the other hand, this is the first you've heard about Nathan disappearing, and considering the state of your house, it might be a good idea to not give them a reason to come back. No Pain. Current Despair: 1 Current Hope: 2
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Apr 1, 2017 06:50
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Luna Ross The part of Luna's brain that processed stress seemed to have shut down for the time being. Any additional stress was seemingly meaningless at this point, replaced with a vague sense of "well, I guess this is happening now." She didn't know if it was from self-preservation or what, but following a cat-man through a hellscape seemed like an okay use of a Friday evening. She didn't have to be at work for another couple days; she could indulge in a complete and total mental breakdown for a bit. When she got home from her tour of crazyland, she'd definitely do some research on adult-onset schizophrenia and see if she couldn't get her GP to put her on some antipsychotics. As it stood though, Fat Cat seemed friendly enough. He didn't seem to be actively bullshitting her immediately, at any rate. Hot drat, what a low bar for social interaction. "Fair enough, Mr. Cat." Well, he seemed to act like any other important executive type, although the fct that he referred to himself as a Nightmare was a bit concerning. This all had the feel of some weird nightmarish fairy tale, like Aesop as told by Satan by way of copious amounts of LSD. Or, at least, what Luna imagined LSD to be like. She'd never touched anything harder than weed, and the one time she'd smoked, she was so paranoid she couldn't stand near windows. Not a fun experience. "That explains what happened when I tried to get back to my apartment." The club looked no seedier than any other club, and with the exception of the anachronistic weirdness and the hosed-up architecture, seemed fairly normal. So despite everything about the club, it's a normal club. Jesus, Luna, get it together. She'd been in worse places than this (why did so many executive types like meeting in strip clubs?) but also in far, far better. "Thank you, I appre-- oh. What?" She peered up through the smoke, but couldn't see where the man had gone. He didn't seem to be in pain despite being flung into the next galaxy, or even particularly bothered, so she supposed it was okay. She sat down in the offered chair and shrugged at Fat Cat. "No thanks on the wine, though I'm sure it's lovely. What do you mean by... shadows? Is that going to happen to me if I stay here too long?" A job offer? What the hell? Was this her brain completely breaking down in the middle of an interview?! Was she acing it despite being completely out of her gourd? This would be fascinating if it was happening to literally anyone else. "I'm assuming there's no reliable way back to my apartment and the sane world from here, is there?"
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Apr 1, 2017 07:37
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Arthur Deschamps His face was the very picture of neighbourly concern. "Nathan is missing? Sure, detective, I'd be glad to help, and out here is fine." Antagonising law enforcement was generally a pretty bad idea, so give him what he wants and get on with trying to sort this unbelievable mess out. Still, that was no reason to allow him onto property. If what had happened to Nathan was relevant to what had happened to him, , then maybe something useful could be gleaned from this depending on the questions the detective asked.
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Apr 1, 2017 11:06
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Gretchen Gretchen was frozen as the mass of humanity(?!) surged forward. Terror and indignation warred in her head. They were laughing at her, as if her request had been the funniest joke they had ever heard. She despised people making her the butt of a joke. She hadn't thrown herself into her responsibilities so harshly, risking her health over it, to be mocked. And yet. The wide-eyed adoration she saw terrified her. Her name being screamed into the void like it was only thing that would save them from hell. The idea that they were all as insane as she was and found what she had said to be so utterly brilliant left her nerveless. It was a torrent of emotion crashing down on her, and threatening to drag her into their embrace. And what would happen then? Devoured, either figuratively or literally by the crowd. Her knees threatened to collapse, and her body would not listen. Her arms were numb like she had just run a mile flat out. She needed space. She needed air. She needed out. They were nearly to her feet when Gretchen finally let out a mindless, bestial scream of her own. Fury and terror combined into one rising cacophony that managed to put some steel into her spine. Spinning around, she kicked at the door behind her and began to run, as hard and as fast as she could. It didn't matter where she ended up, as long as is wasn't here. Maybe she could find somewhere quiet and safe (was anyplace safe?). Or maybe she'd just wind up lost in that endless alley. Fine. Caught up in that grim parade? Fine. At the mercy of that shark-faced woman? Doubly fine. Anything, anywhere, but this. Running her rear end off (D, M, P): 3#1d6 6 4 3 5d6 1 5 1 4 2 5 2#1d6 5 3 1 3 4 4 successes, Discipline dominant
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Apr 1, 2017 11:47
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John Dyne has dropped from the game. The rest of you who didn't post this time aren't necessarily gone; if you're still interested, respond to your standing prompts before my next update and I won't write you out. Otherwise, I'm still willing to post for 3 people. It'll make updating go a lot faster. Gretchen Lightfellow For a few seconds, it doesn't feel like you're going to make it. The floor jerks and twists under your feet and your vision fisheyes (or is that the room itself stretching out?). Behind you, you hear the clattering and scratching of the crowd pulling itself up onto the stage. They're screaming your name with one voice, and that voice is sounding less and less human with every repetition. Once, twice, the door seems to jerk away from you. You can almost feel the hands grabbing at the back of your neck. Then, all at once, there's an audible *SNAP* and you break out of whatever is holding you back, sprinting down the hallway. The awful hive-voice fades behind you as the overeager crowd jams up in the doorway. But you're not going to wait around to see if they can get through. None of it looks like what you remember from wandering through here just a few seconds ago. Maybe the place has shifted, or maybe it's just fear, adrenaline, and the way that places look different when you pass through them in reverse. You pause to try a few doors. All locked. Is the crowd's voice getting louder again? Yes, it is. You pick a random hallway and run down it, feeling the beginning of a stitch in your side. You round a corner and see it: the soft red glow of an EXIT sign over a darkened stairway leading down. No time to backtrack even if you wanted to. You can hear the disorganized running footsteps getting closer. Pushing aside the pain, you hurl yourself down the stairs as fast as you safely can. And right as you realize that you can no longer see at all, and that this staircase seems very long, you put your foot down where there should be a step and find nothing but empty air. Somewhere above you as you tumble into the abyss, you hear a screech of disappointment from the thing hunting you. The pit doesn't remain bottomless for long. Within a few seconds, you suddenly find yourself above a vast plain dotted with dim lights and occluded with a haze of smoke. You barely have time to wonder if you actually feel it when you die from a fall this high before you crash down through the smoke layer and suddenly slow down, drifting weightless as a feather into a waiting seat next to Luna Ross. Luna Ross Fat Cat shrugs and takes one glass from the tray of a sommelier who is suddenly at his side. He takes a clumsy sort of half-lapping sip (despite his taste for wine, he is working with the head of a cat, after all) and nods approvingly; the man fills the glass all the way from the bottle and disappears into the shadows as quickly as he emerged. The Nightmare takes another sip and rolls his eyes in what seems like ecstasy, then starts speaking. "Will you become a shadow like them? Well, that depends. That's certainly one option to survive, if you can call it survival. My butler, the one you rescued from the attention of the Dog Catchers, that's the route he's chosen. He's very close to establishing himself as a citizen, at which point Nightmares like them will cease to, er, dog his heels, if you will forgive my pun. Ho ho! Now, all anyone has to do to join our ranks is simply commit themselves to a job. Or not even a job, really, just a role. Police officer and accountant are as viable as drunks and sycophants, isn't that right?" He indicates the people sitting in the restaurant. Everyone at the table laughs, delighted by their host's humor. "Yes, this is all they do. Forever. They are restaurateurs until the end of time, and possibly past that point. It doesn't bore them because it's all they know anymore. They've forgotten their suffering, the pain that brought them here. If you like, I could offer you a job like that... but that's not what I had in mind for you, because you don't seem like a quitter, am I right? You won't go quiet into that good night. Oh, our next guest is arriving, just in time! She's a very talented artist and I think her presence will be a boon to you and I alike." He nods to the man next to you, who smiles, stands up and wanders away aimlessly into the restaurant. Seconds later, Gretchen Lightfellow plunges through the smoky blue haze and slows gently to a stop from terminal velocity, landing in the chair without even making it creak. She looks... traumatized. Fat Cat chuckles. "Just in time, Gretchen! I was just about to tell Luna here a way that she can find her way out of this Mad City, and you can join her if you like. You help me, I help you. I understand that all this can be a bit hard to process, but please, try to listen. Is there a reliable way back to your apartment? Well, no. Are there reliable ways back to your world? Yes. Some of our gates and doors are more stable than others. I know of several that should return you to within a mile or two of your homes. And I'll be happy to reveal their locations to you... once you do a little something for me. But first, I suppose you want some idea of what's happening. You see, what I am, and what poor Gretchen here has had more than one run-in with, are called Nightmares. Some of us are born from, oh, all sorts of things. The desires of the Jungian shared consciousness, the nature of the human soul, or the creeping madness that infects the City Sleeping. That's what we in the Mad City call your world, incidentally. What creeping madness, you ask? Oh, you've both had run-ins with it, haven't you? What happened to your poor, poor sister, Luna? And the way people who claim to love you have treated you, Gretchen? Do you really think either of those things could happen in a world not rotten and wretched in its own way? And if you ask me, when many Awakened really stop and consider their situation, they come to like it here better. The Mad City is honest. It doesn't pretend it doesn't want to destroy you. And when you really understand why this place is so much better for our kind, for you and me and all of us who don't belong in that City Sleeping, that's when you bloom into Nightmares of your own. That's the other great source of Nightmares. The Awakened, those who have gone without sleep for so long that they've slipped into our world. Don't make the mistake of thinking sleep will save you now. Oh no, that's the very worst thing you could do. Your lack of sleep is the only thing that makes you Awakened. The Mad City has your taste now, and if you sleep you'll lose your powers, and if you lose your powers, you'll be defenseless. Nightmares can follow you into the real world. Now, surely you've both already noticed the power within, that churning abyss that lets you bend the world to your will? That's Madness, and it will only grow if you use it. It's also your only advantage, the one thing that sets you ahead of the pack. So by all means, sunder the world on a whim. If you ask me, it's easier to just admit that deep down you're one of us and to rip off that pesky band-aid of sanity. But I'm hardly an objective source, am I? Regardless, to some Nightmares, you represent prey, or future competition, or a threat. You are the only thing that can match most of us here in our Mad City, and you don't have to play by the rules that often govern our behavior. And other Nightmares see you as children of our kind, adorable little moppets to be broken in mind and spirit so that you can admit that this is your home and join us. Frankly, I take a third view: you're all of those things, but most of all, you're USEFUL things, and that's all that matters to me. There ARE ways to escape this Mad City forever, and frankly, I don't care what happens to Awakened. Join us, become a citizen, die, or escape, it's all the same to me. Why, you ask, do I differ from my brothers and sisters? It's just in my nature. I am that great paradox: contentedness in greed. I want for nothing, though I will happily take anything. I am, then, what you might call a reliable sort. I don't cheat and I don't lie. I have no reason to be stingy with my secrets or possessions because I already have it all, and I won't be running out, ever. So, here is my job offer for the two of you: there are two Nightmares in this city. The head of the Dog Catchers, who will no doubt be furious with you, Luna, and the being that has set its eyes and servants upon you, Gretchen. Both have wronged me. I cannot move against them myself. But Awakened can kill us, truly kill us, so that's what I want you to do. Destroy my two enemies, helping yourselves in the process, and I'll reveal to you a way you can escape back to the City Sleeping. I won't lie to you: both of them are extremely dangerous in their own right. If you want to leave... well, I'll let you go. But you'll be on your own in the hostile streets of a place that wants you either dead or a part of it, and you'll find few beings as generous and friendly as I." No pain. Luna and Gretchen are now in the same scene. Arthur Deschamps The detective's questions are basic enough. When did you last see him, did anything seem off about him, any suspicious characters around, that kind of thing. He seems bored and clearly wasn't expecting much from knocking on your door; he's just doing his due diligence by questioning the neighbors. After a few more minutes of specifics, he slips his notebook back into his coat, runs his hands through what's left of his hair, and sighs. "Well, thanks for talking to me. If you think of anything else or see anything else that's weird, either call the cops or me. Uh, here's my card." He has to pat down a few pockets before he finds one to give you. He turns to leave, then pauses and glances back at you "Uh, look, you didn't hear this from me, but... I can't just walk away from this one without saying something. I just got a bad feeling about this one and I don't want to see anybody else get hurt. There's something seriously off about that whole crime scene. There's burned footprints and handprints all over the place, all the fuses in his house were blown, and his PC's monitor blew up from the inside. We're not sure yet but it looks like there was some huge power surge that fried most of the electronics in his house. Weirdest goddamn thing I've ever seen in all my years on the force. So... hell, I don't know. I'm grasping at straws, shouldn't even be telling you this. But you see anything strange with the power around here, give me a call. Electrical weirdness is the only lead I've really got. And since you're the only one I've told, I'll know who to blame if this leaks to the press tomorrow, so please don't screw me over for tryin' to be nice. Stay safe, Arthur." He gives you a stiff handshake and he's off, powerwalking back to the street, hands in his pockets. You slip back into your house and let out a deep sigh. That was dealt with, but now you had to work on this goddamn mess. After about an hour, you manage to get the worst parts tidied up a bit. Nothing you can do about the burn marks in the carpet, and the place still looks like a hurricane went through it, but at least there isn't burnt paper strewn everywhere. You're about to take a well-deserved break when you hear a digitized chime from the computer room. An IM, probably. You freeze in the doorway when you see the face on your computer screen, but it's already too late. The same thing that had ransacked your house is staring at you, but it's much clearer when viewed through the computer screen. Nathan is in it, trapped inside the churning psychadelic body. You take step back, not sure what the hell you're planning on doing, when a few papers from the floor flutter past your feet. Then a few more. There's an unmistakable, growing suction coming through the computer screen somehow, and the dancing light that covers its skin is spreading out from the screen and into the air, filling the room with dancing rainbow light. A flurry of papers fly into the screen and then literally fly into it, fading into the distance as though they've been sucked through a window. The wind is picking up quickly; you can feel it tearing at your ankles, trying to drag you forward. The speakers crackle to life with the same buzzing voice it spoke in earlier. "COmE HOooOOOMe, ArTHuR." And the wind suddenly goes from strong to gale-force, filling your house with a deafening howl and nearly dragging you off your feet. It's only getting stronger. Pain 6. Incidentally, this seems like as good a time as any to point out that failure has nonspecific consequences, but in this case what's on the line is getting dragged into the Mad City, so rolling is optional. If you want to auto-fail, don't bother rolling, I won't be assessing any penalties beyond the forced scene change. Current Despair: 1 Current Hope: 2
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Apr 26, 2017 06:27
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Gretchen As she landed in the seat, Gretchen slumped backwards into it and held her side as the muscles cramped up. She had nothing left in her at the moment. If this place she found herself contained some new horror bent on her life, it would find no true opposition. "Just in time, Gretchen!" Her dazed eyes wandered from the cat to the woman and back. She managed a dull "Uh..." before the cat-man continued on. Nightmares. Mad City. Awakened. It was all a lot of words with implied capitalization that seemed very important yet made no real sense in this context. The only thing she could immediately latch onto was Jung and she was far too exhausted to dredge up her Psych 101 notes. Archetypes. Personas. Shadows. Not helpful right now anyway. Yet in her very slowly abating panic the things the...had he introduced himself? No, he hadn't. Fat Cat, Gretchen decided. He was a fat cat, so that was now his name. Fat Cat also made a strange sort of sense. Proof, no doubt, that she was entirely mad. But he also mentioned a way to escape. Her thoughts seized upon that like a lamprey. It was a lifeline. It didn't matter how tenuous or irrational such a lifeline might be. It was enough that it existed. Another part of her mind, detached from it all, idly mused that Fat Cat should very definitely be smiling. A great big grin full of a great many teeth. And maybe he should be purple. Yes. He should absolutely be purple. With where she found herself, and the way he was presenting himself, it seemed wrong for him not to be chiding an Alice Liddell. A Gretchen Lightfellow could also work in a pinch if no Alice's could be found. Dragging her gaze away from the fat cat, she took a moment to properly appraise her co-interviewee. She looked...absolutely normal in every respect. Not an animalistic feature to be seen. And this Luna also appeared to have been listening to the same conversation she herself had been. The ache in her side had abated somewhat, so she pulled herself upright as her mother's voice sternly rebuked her for sitting like an ill-mannered hooligan. Running for your life is no excuse, young lady. "Good even-" Gretchen choked on the whispered attempt at a greeting. She coughed into a fist, cleared her throat, and tried again. "I am very sorry. Good evening, ma'am. My name is Gretchen Lightfellow." She hesitated for a moment, unsure of how exactly to say what was on her mind. "I apologize if this sounds absurd, but did you see me fall through a hole into this chair, and are we actually sitting in front of a cat-headed man? I am willing to accept that I may have gone insane, but I would be overjoyed to know that I at least have company."
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Apr 26, 2017 11:26
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Luna Ross Something in Luna's brain clicked. "They're like extras in a movie." It wasn't a question. Something about this place, something about the Mad City, resonated with her. She didn't know what it was, she didn't know why, but she found herself liking it. It was... predictable in its unpredictability, like a work of fiction, somehow. Luna had never much cared for fantasy novels, but it was different when it was happening to her. Something about the novelty of it spoke to her. If the other people here were mostly shadows, then her actions mattered. What she said and did and thought mattered. Even if it came from the most painful parts of her mind, Luna could exert some real, tangible control over her situation here. Even if the situations themselves were more dangerous, she could do something. She'd built an entire career on bullshitting. Bullshitting who she was, bullshitting interest in clients' activities, bullshitting about the products and services her company offered. In the real world, in the City Sleeping, everything was about power, influence, and control. Here, it was much the same, but more overt. Here, for the first time ever, Luna felt like she could fight back when tragedy happened to her. The learned helplessness that had plagued her since she was a child, the psychological equivalent of the old cigarette burn scars that still dotted her thighs like a dalmatian's spots, started to ebb away a little. It probably said something unflattering about her that the first place she felt like she truly belonged was a literal world of madness. She couldn't save Holly, but maybe she could save herself. "You're not the first corporate big shot I've worked with, Mr. Cat, though I find your apparent relative honesty refreshing. I'm not sure how you learned about Holly, but I very much don't appreciate you bringing her up to try to manipulate me into working for you. Give me a bit of time to think it over. I'm likely to ask about the terms and conditions regarding the contract." And with that, she turned to Gretchen. "Hi there. Luna Ross. Pleased to meet you, miss Lightfellow." It was piss-easy to give a winning smile and a firm handshake, even if her hand was missing a couple fingers. "Yes, yes I did, and yes we are. I've been suffering a psychotic break myself. I'm honestly relieved to see I'm not the only normal one here... for a given definition of normal." God, this kid looked young. Late high school? Early college? She looked like she was about ready to have a heart attack. Luna felt her gut wrench a little, despite herself. This kid was someone's baby. This kid was probably someone's Holly. She knew she wasn't thinking clearly after the emotional rollercoaster she'd endured today, but it didn't make her drive to protect any less real.
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Apr 29, 2017 05:45
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Arthur Deschamps Shock took him for a couple of moments, followed by overwhelming anger. This vile intruder had killed or absorbed his neighbour, ruined their homes and was right now in his sanctum sanctorum, occupying the principal focus of his day to day life. Now it was trying to draw him in, snare and trap him? No. Whatever this monster was, whatever it was trying to do, it was clear that if he ever wanted even the faintest hint of normality ever again, he had to take it out in its own lair. Focusing his anger into cold, rational fury, he picked up a hand-held circuit-board spot-welder and a pair of insulating gloves, he braced himself against the increasing storm as he donned them, then strode with purpose and intent right into the trap, with his eyes open. After all, slaying monsters inside his computer was what he did for fun. Get out of my computer, get out of my home, get out of my life! (D3 E1 M6 P6) : D: 6, 2, 1 E:1 M: 5, 4, 4, 2, 2, 2 P: 5, 3, 3, 3, 2, 2 Success, Discipline dominant.
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Apr 29, 2017 14:22
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Gretchen Gretchen very tactfully made no reaction to Luna's missing fingers. She only lowered her eyes as she shook the woman's hand. "Pleased to meet you." Letting go, her eyes shifted back to the Cat. "So, um. Sir. I have classes in the morning. It is very very important that I... ... What I mean is I need to get out of here or there will be hell to pay." She went pale as she considered the repercussions of all this. Even if she could get back to sanity right this moment, she was going to be a nervous wreck and at risk of relapse. Someone was going to find out and she'd be committed and.... Gretchen's mind spiraled off, her future unfolding and unraveling in her head. She blanched away from the vision and determinedly shoved those thoughts into a mental closet. "If you can help me, I will help you. Please tell us where we have to go, sir." It was a ragged whisper but there was some steel hiding behind the words. Her anger was starting to rise. Anger at the unfairness of having this happen to her of all people. And if doing something about that Thing that had tried to devour her was needed to try and fix this? She could get behind that.
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May 4, 2017 02:07
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Ashley Schneider Exhaustion 3; Responses [x] Fight [ ] [ ] Flight It doesn't take long for my brief burst of relief to fade back into numb, faintly revulsed despair. The thugs are gone, but... this woman... no, this isn't right. I can't smell anything on her, but I'm not trying, am I? She's... she's as wrong as those boys were. Maybe wronger. Just not hurt as much... Abby seems delighted, but I just snuggle her closer, trying to look concerned and not terrified. Some instinct in me says do not show fear around this woman. "Ma'am, we'd be grateful for the help, but... how did Aaron reach you? What did he say?" She's got to be lying about Aaron. Aaron's probably dead. But if she isn't... we'll see. I'll be polite, give her a chance. Maybe I'm wrong? If she's really friend, really, actually... I need that. I'm so tired. I'm not as tired as I should be, but I'm so tired everything's dull. I'll let her answer. I'll let her give me a reason to trust her. (You idiot, says the voice in my head. Be ready to run.)
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May 6, 2017 05:38
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Gretchen Lightfellow and Luna Ross "Oh, by all means, take your time. In fact, I don't even need to be present for you to make your decision." Fat Cat claps twice. A waiter appears between the two of you within a second, bearing a covered metal platter. He raises it ceremoniously, revealing... two tiny smartphones, one for each of you. No brand, no markings, not even any obvious lines where they were put together. The screens display a short contract. A few seconds of scrolling reveal a blank at the bottom for a signature. Your host chuckles. "I might be old money, but some modern innovations are too good to pass up. You may keep those until you decide to sign. If you do sign, then consider them your signing bonus. There's network coverage across the entire Mad City, so you can stay in touch if you get separated. Of course, your calls may be monitored, and not just by me, so do be careful. Or you could just throw them away if you decide you don't need my help, it hardly matters to me." Suddenly, the words on the contracts begin to twitch and squirm together, resolving themselves into something that distressingly resembles a face. The mouth is moving, but all that comes out of the phone speakers is a series of buzzing sounds and clicks. Fat Cat yowls and leaps to his feet, ears folded back, and snatches Luna's phone. Holding the screen out at arm's length, he hisses at the face, then begins to speak in a low, furious tone. "This is your last warning, new money. Meddle in my affairs again and it'll just be your head on the block instead of The Master and Beloved Smother. You've already made enemies of half the Nightmares in the City. Don't think the patience of the remaining half is unlimited. You are not untouchable." All at once, the distortion vanishes from the screen and the words swim back into place, like the face was never there. Fat Cat hands the phone back and sits down with a grunt of exertion, breathing heavy from anger. "Ignore that. He seems to think he can run roughshod over every modern technological device and butt in on matters that don't concern him. His end will be most unpleasant. Now, as you just heard, the Nightmares I'm sending you to destroy are The Master, who leads the Dog Catchers, and Beloved Smother, whose minions Gretchen has encountered. Smother's Nightmares are less uniform, but I think you see the way it works. Expectations and demands, pressure both in a physical and mental sense. The locations of both are of no use to you if you aren't going to work with me, so they won't be revealed until you sign. If you have any further questions before signing, my number is the top of the contacts list. Now, I have other matters to attend to here, so please, feel free to show yourselves out." He points behind you, revealing a door on the wall that wasn't there a minute ago. You can make out a cobblestone street with shadowy figures passing by. No Pain. Arthur Deschamps Spending Despair to remove the 6 in Discipline, causing Madness to dominate. Throwing fear aside in favor of cold rage, you fling yourself at the screen with a spot welder in hand. There's a small numbing crackle up your arm as you jam the welder into the computer-thing's eye up to the hilt, but not nearly as painful as it was before. The speakers screech with feedback and it stumbles backwards, fumbling at the tool stuck in its head. But you're not done, oh no. You've had more than enough of this poo poo. It's no different from climbing through a small window. Except, of course, that you've never climbed through a small window into a seemingly infinite plane of colors before. There's no sound except a slow, rhythmic thudding that comes from everywhere and nowhere, like a heartbeat. It takes you a half-second to find your footing, or rather to realize that you don't need to: your will alone can carry you through the air. You've almost caught up to your quarry when it manages to dislodge the welder from its eye with an ugly, meaty sound. It throws it aside, but a quick gesture on your part brings it back to your hand. The thing controlling Nathan stares at you blankly; a small part of you notices with relief that his eye is restitching itself, sustained by whatever has taken hold of him. The rest of you is feeling very gratified that for the first time, the fear is on the face of the energy around Nathan too. It speaks, its voice clear and monotone now that you've entered its world. "Warning: subject exceeding expected parameters. Likelihood of failure approaching 100%. Possible benefit no longer justifies potential and incurred costs. Drone: return to Wetwork Central pending recalculation and reassignment. Subject name Arthur Deschamps: you will be mine. Your Awakening has only enhanced your potential value. Terminate connection." Nathan begins to fly backwards again, faster. You know you can catch him, and right now you want to pin that thing down and slaughter it for all the pain it's put you through. Somehow, in this place, you know you possess incredible power. But before you can act, you feel a gut-wrenching sensation that you can immediately identify. The Wetwork is trying to cut the connection, timing it so that the drone escapes and you don't. You could easily hold it open yourself for a few more seconds, but you have to choose which way you're running. You look back and the window back to your house is tiny and distant. You can get back home or you can sustain the connection long enough to follow the drone to wherever it's going. Basically, Fight or Flight to determine what you do. Pain 4 to sustain the connection long enough to escape unharmed, either way. Ashley Schneider Mother When smiles thinly, lips pursed. She seems to know you've seen through her kindly old woman act. "Well, perhaps 'got out' isn't the best way to put it. He's with me because my Girls took him out of the house. He's fine and healthy and whole, but a bit confused. You see, your husband and daughter have been dragged into all this, and... well, this world just isn't for them. I'd hate to see either of them come to a bad fate because of that. You can defend yourself here, but Aaron and Abby aren't in the right state of mind to accept this place for what it is, so they're vulnerable as kittens. You turned the vileness in those Lost Boys against them. I knew there was a new arrival as soon as I felt that fury in the air. I just wish I'd arrived soon enough to deal with those pests once and for all. They're quite the thorn in my side. But I've got all the time in the world to do that. So please, come along, and we can discuss getting your child and husband back to their rightful place." The threats in what she's saying couldn't be more obvious. If you had to guess, you're certain you could outpace her easily... but then again, she's clearly not an ordinary old lady, so who knows what she's capable. No Pain. Current Despair: 0 Current Hope: 3
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May 17, 2017 03:50
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Luna Ross "Excellent. I'm a reader-- caught a few scams that way. I also learned that iTunes doesn't let you use its data for terrorist activity-- as if someone was going to use Katy Perry as an alternative to waterboarding. Which, come to think of it..." She shook her head to clear it. Luna reached for the phone, only to pull her hand back when the face formed. Stupid lovely face. She was trying to see just how much of her soul was at stake. Luna tilted her head a bit, feeling the madness throbbing just below the surface, like a recently scabbed over gash threatening to reopen at any time. Like her scars did for almost a year after Holly died. It was right there, trying to heal, radiating the heat of a body desperately trying to mend itself... but she could reopen it herself. She could let the pain and horror wash through her, let it tear her open and bleed, and she could take control this way. She had power this way. Luna wondered if Fat Cat could see it in her. She wondered if he could see her wavering. Did she really want to go back to her lovely one bedroom apartment? Did she really want to go back to being alone? To failing the only people she'd ever loved? He probably could, she decided. Any businessman learned to read his opponent's weak spots... but was wanting to take charge really a weakness? Questions, questions. Luna had to wrench herself back to the present. Gretchen didn't know what she was getting herself into, Luna decided. The drive to protect hadn't waned a bit. "Excellent chat, Mr. Cat. I have to ask, though, who was that?" she asked, a concerned look on her face. "He seems to be a thorn in your side." Her posture was open, inviting, a small sympathetic smile on her face. "Call me old fashioned, but I'm used to a bit of privacy in communication. I don't even like to bank online." Playing to his old money sensibilities, just a touch. "Maybe if we take you up on your offer, and we complete your contract... he could be a potential next step?" Luna smiled at Gretchen. "If we do this, I suggest we group up on one at a time. Out of curiosity, what happens here in the Mad City when you reach for the more broken parts of your brain? I get..." She swallowed, paling a little bit. Knowing they meant power didn't make them much less unbearable to think about. Oh it was fine thinking about it in the abstract, but when she actually looked at what she was doing? Awful. Maybe it would be enough to keep her from reaching for it. Maybe. "...beasts. Horrible ones. I don't know if there's a limit to how many I can pull out of thin air. Strategizing might be the best plan here." Adding an Exhaustion to make myself/ my pitch more convincing so I can maybe pull more info out of kittyface.
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May 17, 2017 05:12
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Arthur Deschamps Ex 1, Fight 1/2 Flight 0/1 Oh, there was no question as to which way to go. Whatever this 'wetwork thing was, it had stated a claim over him. It wanted to own him. "Listen to yourself! Likelihood of failure a hundred per cent, benefit no longer justifies costs, and you still want a piece of me? Oh, you don't get to cut the connection, oh, no. You don't do what you just did and get to run away scot free. Boost the signal!" His anger was making him impulsive, but he knew what he had to do. Reaching out in a way that defied explanation, he grabbed hold of the conduit and forced more power into it, even as that energy coruscated up, around and through him. It was an exquisite agony, somewhere between touching a live wire and swimming against the current, but it was worth it, his screams of pain morphing into a triumphant exultation. "I'm coming for you! You are going to renounce any and all claims over me in perpetuity or I'll start making it cost more than you can bear, bit by bit, piece by piece! You invaded my home, invaded my life, thought yourself oh-so-powerful, oh-so-superior, well, guess what? I'm returning the favour! You don't own me, you won't get to own me and I'm not going to stop until you acknowledge that and back the hell off forever!" He went after the 'drone', following it to whatever place of power it called home. Signal boosting (D3 E1 M4 P4) D: 4, 1 6 E: 6 M: 6, 5, 4, 3 P:6, 6, 1 3 Success, pain dominates
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May 17, 2017 12:15
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| # ? Apr 19, 2024 18:58 |
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Gretchen Gretchen hesitated before finally taking the phone. Fat Cat had immediately lost his cool at the interruption, and that was worrying. A man who claimed to be able to help them losing control of himself that quickly did not inspire confidence. On the other hand there were no other options presenting themselves. As he continued speaking she scrolled over the contract, making certain to double check every line for hidden catches and obscured intentions. She was absolutely not going to sign on to anything without fully understanding the consequences. At Luna's words, she glanced up with a shy look. "Um. Yes. One at a time." Her question about broken brains, though, only brought a look of confusion. "I am...not sure I follow, ma'am." Yes you do. Fat Cat had said something about power. Bending the world to her will. And though she had exhibited no capacity for such a thing, deep inside her soul there was a twinge of recognition. An understanding that there was something she could do, untapped as yet, but terrifyingly potent. All she had to do was let go, stop fretting over this and that and simply put her thoughts and desires down in the way she was most comfortable with. "...Do you have a pen on you?"
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May 17, 2017 22:26
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