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 This is the PbP thread for some short side stories that are opening up in the wake of A Slip In Riverside Drive (ORIGINAL THREAD), in which four demons living undercover in Manhattan went back in time to thwart a fifth demon from freeing a powerful, imprisoned cryptid and destroying the city for reasons unknown. Three weeks have passed and aside from provocative op-eds in the papers regarding a grisly standoff between police and a group of mysterious terrorists on the George Washington bridge, things in New York have gone (relatively) quiet, as each demon involved in the events leading to this point settles back into the rhythms of their cover.  Our protagonists, each with their own scenes and concerns, are: Mr. White (played by Terrorforge): A "young" demon, a destroyer in his angelic life, and as yet unaffiliated with any Agenda. He is intent on ferreting out threats to demonic cover and is extremely prejudicial about it. During ASIRD he drove (or suggested they drive) many a hostile to their death, and in the climactic battle he assumed demonic form and ate the group's adversary, Simon Flannery, alive. Query (played by Mistaya) is an Analyst Inquisitor. Through his cover as a NYPD detective, Query was invaluable in investigating Flannery's cult, the Fellowship of the Final Awakening, bringing its modern incarnation into disarray through legal means before they could stop the cell. Fidelity (played by ZiegeDame) is a Messenger Tempter. She was instrumental in discovering information that Gordon Reardon, another demon, had gained about Flannery before he was killed by the cult and negotiating information and assistance from the local demonic Agency. Mr. Face (played by Thesaurasaurus), a Messenger Integrator, was a late addition to the cell. A one-time associate of Flannery, his assistance was vital to bringing the cell to its inevitable confrontation with the mad loyalist. - - - - - - - - - Your first post should include your character's picture, cursory background, and their general activities during this downtime up to and including the scene that they are currently in. Where is the character, who else is there, and what are they doing? You don't have to go into detail if you don't want to, I can set the scene, but I should know what direction to move in. Basic Chunnel fucked around with this message at 21:56 on Dec 12, 2016 |
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Jul 22, 2016 20:33
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Query's Logs Processing... Displaying: Primum_Increase_1.0 ------- Recommendation Added; RE: Mr. White; "Do Not Allow Use of Bolthole For Future Interrogations" I found myself grateful that there was a sewer grate in the alley that concealed the Bolthole. All that blood would be difficult to dispose of if there weren't. Why so much of it? Messy, Mr. White. Very messy. My (repeated) requests for tidying up went unanswered. It wouldn't be difficult to dispose of the remains for someone with his devouring capacity, which meant he just couldn't be bothered. We'll see who can't be bothered in the future, Mr. White. I decided to burn the mop when I was finished, just to be safe. Not sure who, if anyone, would come looking for Fish, I meant Herring, I meant, whatever bits of Herring were left. I arranged them, like a macabre puzzle, curious if anything was missing. The blood would go down the grate, but the rest of him was a bit more problematic. I'd procured a box of black garbage bags and some bricks towards that endeavor. Ray Merriman, of course, would never have participated in body disposal. He was an upstanding police officer, even if he did always have stains on his tie. So I scrubbed down the walls in my natural shape, cursing my lack of thumbs. Again. If there was any reason to disconnect from the God-Machine, these stubby claw fingers, which lacked even the dexterity of a small human child, were it. Recommendation Added; RE: Comrade West; "Take That Offer For New Cover Designations" Having someone much less upstanding than Ray available would be useful, especially if I continued to associate with Mr. White. Fidelity and Mr. Face were much less likely to drag Ray out of line, but were also less capable of eating any particularly difficult problems I might have. Everything had a trade off. I dropped the mop again. It landed on the remains of the chair. Casamir, back at the pizza place, hadn't noticed it was missing, which was good, because there was no fixing it now. I looked at the splinters and envisioned how it'd come to be that way. The angle it must have fallen at. The weight of Herring, still intact at that point, snapping the legs off just so. The punch would have come from this direction, then, given the resulting bloodstain that had graced the wall behind it. My sensors played over the bits of Herring, finding the flaws, the contusions, everything that had happened to put him in that state. I'd done this with things, many times. Casing scenes, looking for the tell-tale signs of where and when someone had fled. I'd even done it with people a few times, when a homicide came across Ray's desk. But I hadn't seen this level of damage before. Hypothesis Added; RE: Mr. White; "Enjoys extreme violence." Initial Data Assessment: 96.62% proven. I leaned over and touched the body. It was cold, but not desiccated. Boltholes were small pockets of space outside reality, so things didn't rot in them. That had advantages and disadvantages. One could stay in a Bolthole without ever needing to eat or drink, but time still passed outside. I knew humans would suffer serious malfunctions if left in one for extended periods of time. Query Added; RE: Bolthole; "Will a Demon malfunction if trapped for an extended period?" Initial Data Assessment: Probability Low. While considering this, I felt a sudden flood of new information from both body and chair. It reinforced my original thoughts on how they were damaged, but doubled-then tripled-and so on, exponentially, my ability to reconstruct what had happened to them. My circuits sparked and my limbs went slack, dropping my main chassis onto the ground. I'd lost all control of myself, in a way that I never had before, not even as a tool of the God-machine. Negative feedback, terrible pain, drowned out all my sensors until I was blind and deaf to the world. !!!!!HELP!!!!! But I wasn't connected to anything anymore, and so my automated distress signal found no answer. (That was a relief. I didn't want to meet anything that would have answered it.) My systems rebooted one by one. Something had changed. I could tell even before visual or audio came back online. I pushed myself upright, feeling the new sensations in my hands. Yes, hands, actual hands, not the useless claws I'd been born with. They were modeled on human hands but with further improvements. Fingers that retracted or extended as needed, a thumb that could shift to the outside of the palm for a reverse grip. But those modifications were nothing compared to the tactile sensory capabilities of actual fingertips. Temperature, pressure, texture! I'd been able to discern these things before, through myriad other sensors, but never through touch, never in this way. Ocular finally came back online and I turned it off, I was so lost in the new tool I'd... spontaneously generated? Query; RE: Demonic Growth; "Spontaneous Generation of New Features, Common? Dangerous?" Initial Data Assessment: !UNKNOWN! I would ask the others at the first opportunity. After I finished tidying. _End of Simulation ----- (Part one of several scenes planned. This is where Query attains Primum 2!) mistaya fucked around with this message at 05:16 on Jul 24, 2016 |
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Jul 24, 2016 05:12
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Excellent! Looking forward to reading more.
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Jul 24, 2016 08:39
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 Jonathan Maines is a good-natured businessman and PR specialist. He’s hard in negotiations but soft on his friends, especially his loving wife Meredith. Mr. White is a ruthless troubleshooter for the mystical underground. Despite being distrusted for his unclear motivations and disliked for his extreme methods, his results are inarguable and many demons are finding themselves in his debt. Suriel is a roaring nightmare of fire and glass, malevolent oblivion given form. It kills. It destroys. It consumes. It is not always easy to be all of these things at once. Recent excursions on demonic business have caught Meredith’s attention and he’s having trouble covering his tracks. Moreover, this recent business with Simon Flannery has left Mr. White strangely troubled. Not by guilt, of course. Regret? Perhaps, in a way. He hadn’t planned to kill Simon Flannery. At least, not then and not there. But his hand was forced; Simon went loud, and the only way to resolve the situation was to end him. Mr. White Fell because he wanted the freedom to do whatever terrible things he chose with full comprehension of the consequences, and this reminder that he can still be forced to act without true intention does not sit well with him. ----- It’s only been a few days since then, and Jonathan Maines is sitting at the breakfast table, not reading the newspaper. He holds today’s copy of the Times up like a shield, hoping that the body language of “not today” will hold out another 24 hours. No such luck. “John?” Meredith tries to sound casual, but her voice cracks ever so slightly. “Hmph?” “Who’s Evelynn Chase?” Mr. White flinches. Not that she can see, of course. Not overtly. But he pauses for just an instant too long before answering. “A business associate,” he says, lowering the newspaper. “Why?” Meredith on the other hand answers almost too quickly. Too confidently. Too rehearsed. “A friend of mine knows Evelynn. She says you gave her a pretty large sum of money?” Lies. Blatant lies. Fidelity might be many things, but loose-lipped is not one of them. No, the only ones who know about that transfer are Mr. White, Fidelity and Query. And Meredith, of course. Her little cover story is cute, but he knows she’s been digging through his bank accounts. “Oh, that?” he chuckles. Hopefully, it doesn’t sound too forced. “Well, officially, Ms. Chase is starting up a little business, and she needed a quick loan to get a few fees and downpayments settled before deadline.” He leans in with mock conspiratorial look on his face and an attempt at a smile. “Unofficially, Ms. Chase has more friends in high places than she does money. And now, I’m friends with her.” A knowing wink. A hearty chuckle. Enough, apparently. Meredith relaxes a bit, pours a cup of coffee. “One of these days, one of those friends in high places is going to fall right on your head,” she says, jokingly. Mr. White does not find it funny. ---- I’ll be using Social Maneuvering to try to get Meredith off Mr. White’s case. Meredith’s suspicions have degraded her impression of Jonathan to “Average”, meaning he can roll to progress once every week. She’s kind of a hardass, and the lower of her Resolve and Composure is 3. “Find out what Jonathan is up to” is one of her Aspirations, so trying to convince her to give up on that adds one Door. The goal is not in opposition of her Virtue (because I haven’t decided what her Virtue is) and would not involve suffering a breaking point, so no further Doors are added. The total number of Doors is 4. The first roll is Mr. White lying to Meredith’s face about why he sent the money. Since Mr. White is a demon, it is impossible to tell if he is lying based on physical cues; he merely has to concoct and present a sufficiently convincing falsehood. Meredith could choose to push back, but she’s not yet confident enough in her conclusions to cause a scene at the breakfast table. Mr. White’s Manipulation + Subterfuge roll (5 dice) is neither contested nor resisted. The roll succeeds admirably (4 successes; check Roll20) and the story holds water. Meredith is still suspicious, but she can’t push this lead any further without seriously endangering their relationship. The first Door is opened. Mr. White scratches “Hide or explain away the $1300 dollar transfer” off his Aspirations and takes a Beat. Total Doors: 1/4 Failed rolls: 0
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Jul 24, 2016 23:56
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 Fidelity, aka Evelyn Chase Bernard was an easy mark. His position at Evelyn’s internship provided ample opportunity to scrutinize his desires, and his recent marital catastrophe left him with several desires that were well within Fidelity’s power to fulfill. She chose an upscale cocktail lounge for the meeting, a place frequented by woman the age Bernard was the last time he was single. Since Evelyn was friends with the bartender securing the best booth in the house was easy; out of the way enough to carry on a private conversation, but with a good view of the customers at the bar. Her own clothing was precisely chosen to cause him to think with the less rational parts of his brain. The trap was set, all that was needed was to wait for her prey. Bernard, always one for punctuality, arrived at 5:15 exactly. “So Ms. Chase, what is it you wanted to discuss?” Straight to the point. It meant he didn’t see Evelyn Chase as someone worth impressing. But no matter, Fidelity was glad to save the time. “I have an idea for a startup, and I’d like to hire you to help set up the business side of things.” “Always good to have ambitions beyond getting coffee. What sort of business are we talking?” “A matchmaking service.” “Are you talking another one of those apps?” “Oh no, nothing like that.” Fidelity was familiar with these internet-based interfaces where humans selected potential mates based almost entirely on a well-framed photograph. They had proven highly inefficient at finding love, though they had provided her ample opportunity to familiarize herself with the many variations on human male reproductive anatomy. “I’m thinking of something much more personal.” “And you think you can make a business out of that?” “If you doubt my skills I’d be happy to demonstrate. And besides, your payment, which is quite generous by the way, is guaranteed even if the company fails.” She could tell by the way he paused that her clothing was having the desired effect. “A demonstration you say?” “Sure, pick anyone at the bar and I promise you’ll leave with them tonight. That is,” she slid the contract across the table, “if you sign.” ---- A much more direct example of social maneuvering. The goal is “Get Bernard to sign this pact.” The lower of Bernard’s Composure and Resolve is 3, so 3 doors. Fortunately Bernard has the aspirations “Pay off the divorce settlement” and “Get laid” and since Fidelity has indicated how she can help him with both of those, two doors open for free. Fidelity then makes a Manipulation + Persuasion roll and gets 3 successes (see Roll20) opening the last door. And thus Bernard Fortesque signs the totally normal looking supernaturally binding contract and begins to gather a cult in the form of a professional matchmaking service, and Fidelity spends a point of willpower. Reposting the terms of the pact for reference: Bernard gets - (1) Asset: Resources +1, (2) Skill: Socialize +2, (1) Skill Specialty: Socialize: Flirting Fidelity gets- (2) Cult 2, (2) Duration: Year
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Jul 27, 2016 23:14
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Query's Logs Processing... Displaying: Visit_#18_Subject_"Janet Merriman" ------------- The elevator opened in front of me, and I stepped inside. A nurse in colorful scrubs followed, pressing the number above mine. Machinery whirred quietly as we went up, a familiar sound that I found soothing. The lights on the display ticked forwards.Two, three, four... "Oh Mr. Merriman, I almost didn't see you!" the nurse exclaimed. I blinked, displaying the requisite amount of surprise at her outburst, but internally I actually was surprised. Normally people didn't notice me, unless I wanted them to. "Here to see Janet?" she continued, oblivious. "She's always so glad when you visit." "Yes," I answered. I held up the small flowerpot I'd brought as a gift, to prove it. "Oh, how lovely, she'll..." The nurse, (I'd seen her here before, her nametag said Cindy,) paused and her eyebrows narrowed. "Is that a cactus?" "I thought it would be simple to take care of." I said, proud of my own idea. I'd seen flowers of all kinds sitting on the bedside tables in this building, and researched the tradition of giving plants to the ill, to 'cheer them up.' I liked the idea, but cut flowers would expire in a matter of a few days, and most potted plants required much more care than Janet Merriman could be expected to give them. So I'd settled on the small round cactus in my hands. It would outlast Janet, and required little enough watering that I could take care of it myself on my visits. So I could fulfill the terms of the tradition without adding any burden to her. "I'm sure she'll like it." Cindy said. I wasn't the best judge of smiles, but even I knew that one was bullshit. Had I done something wrong? The elevator door opened before I could inquire further. I stepped out, automatically. Cindy said something that sounded like goodbye and I raised a hand in a slight wave without turning back. I hadn't seen anything in my research indicating that a cactus would be a poor choice. What had I overlooked? I walked down the hall, towards 7B, glancing into some of the other open doors on my way by. The flowers I saw were brightly colored, and reeked of natural perfume. My cactus had neither of those attributes. I'd thought that was a benefit, as the constant assault on Ray's nose of dying flowers had often made me wish I could disable his olfactory sensors. But... maybe that was the point? The human nose could only process so many scents at once, and gave priority to the flower-scent. It was potent enough to mask the smell of chemicals and medicine and cleaning products that was otherwise omnipresent here. "Oh," I said aloud, suddenly understanding. It was psychological. Making someone 'feel better' by triggering pleasant memory recollection, by confusing the senses to make them believe they were not in a hospice, waiting to die. Therapeutic self-delusion. My cactus was not well suited to that task. Query; RE: Human Behavior; "Do other common human traditions have an undisclosed biological basis?" Initial Data Assessment; Probability; HIGHLY LIKELY I thought about throwing it out, but I didn't like the idea of wasting a life that way, even the life of a small and apparently useless cactus. So I held onto it and knocked on the door of 7B. "Raymond? Is that you?" The voice on the other side of the door was so quiet that I could barely hear it. I smiled. Ever since my Fall, she was the only person who could always hear me coming. She was also the only person who ever used Ray's full given name. I unlocked the door and entered, holding the cactus behind my back. "Hello, Mother." --------------- Her mechanical bed faced the single small, boxy window in the otherwise plain-walled room. The curtains were open and the sun bathed her in a halo of golden light. Janet Merriman was 67 years old. Her face was wrinkled and liver spotted, but her blue eyes sparkled when she saw me, and she raised both shaky hands in my direction. She was dressed in a white nightgown, with a light pink bandanna tied over her bare head. "My baby, come here, come here." I went to her side and hugged her as tightly as I dared with one arm. She weighed so little that I felt that she might break in half if I wasn't careful. She planted a wet kiss on the side of my cheek and Ray's cheeks flushed in response. I could control those physical reactions, if I wanted to. But here, I never did. "Are you doing well?" I asked. When most people said it, they weren't actually requesting a response. I'd discovered that the hard way. But I was, and she knew it. "Better than last time," she said, letting me up. I sat on the side of the bed, and she rested one hand on my arm. She had soft fingers, almost as thin as my claws had been. With her other hand she pushed the scarf up her scalp. White fuzz escaped, only a few centimeters long. "Look, I've started to get my hair back. And I can finally keep my dinner down." I nodded. She'd stopped the chemotherapy then. Agitation spread from deep in Ray's... my... stomach. I wanted to protest, but we had argued this point before and I'd found no new information to change the outcome if we were to argue again. "Are you afraid for me?" Janet asked, stroking my arm gently. "I am confused," I admitted. "Your physical state is deteriorating rapidly, but you choose to do nothing. Isn't self-preservation important to you?" Janet laughed. It was a quiet laugh, followed by an even quieter sigh. "It's my time, Raymond. I've lived a full life. I had my work, and I had you." "But..." We both knew that was a lie. "What are you hiding behind your back?" she asked, trying to lean over and peek. "Oh... right." I'd deprioritized the cactus. Reluctantly, I revealed it. "I've seen so many people bring plants. I thought it would be nice." She smiled that wonderful smile that flooded Ray's systems with endorphins. "Oh, It's perfect! Here, put it on my table, where I can see it." She pointed to the wooden nightstand, that held pictures of people she knew and loved. Ray was in several, as a small baby, then a child, and more recently a young policeman. Fake images of a child who'd never been born, a young man who'd never graduated from school. The God-Machine had invented all of it as part of my angelic cover. Only the most recent, taken by a nurse here at the hospice, was really me. I set the cactus beside that one, blocking some of the others. "I don't think Cindy approved," I said. Janet shook her head. "Cindy doesn't know you like I do." Hypothesis; RE; Human Gifting Traditions; "Contents of a gift may be irrelevant if the gift-reciever is sufficiently fond of the gift-giver." Initial Data Assessment: 64.22% proven. "I could fix this," I offered, looking back at her. I wasn't talking about the cactus. "I've learned things, I could just make it go away." She squeezed my arm. "It's alright, Raymond. Even without the cancer, I'm old. And I don't want to end up so old that I don't remember my own name, or how to go to the toilet. I've made my peace." I didn't understand this kind of argument. Shouting I understood. I'd seen that kind of argument a thousand times. But this stoic refusal to consider another alternative was beyond my experience. I realized I had never watched someone die slowly before. Of age or illness. I had seen uncounted violent deaths, every one of them earmarked by the subject desperately clinging to life even after probabilities dropped to the infinitesimal. But this... this... The human body had a finite period of function. How does one react to reaching the end of one's functional lifespan? I had heard the term 'dying with dignity' before, but never understood it. Acceptance and peace in the face of death were alien concepts. Was it just despair, hidden under a veil? I didn't know, and it might be a question I could never answer satisfactorily. That was the worst part. This was outside my experience, as an immortal being, unchained to the flesh I now wore. "Did you have an adventure?" Janet... Mother asked me. "You look like you have. Was it another of those strange cases from work?" "I did," I said. "It's a very long story." "Well, there's nothing on TV until later," she said, and settled back on her pillow. I pulled up one of the uncomfortable chairs and considered my words. "I was out with Evelyn and John, again..." _End of Simulation mistaya fucked around with this message at 02:48 on Jul 28, 2016 |
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Jul 28, 2016 02:19
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 Graham Robinson aka Ms. Sharp Graham was the last to enter, and so he quietly drew the doors to the Penthouse shut. Two dozen floors below the seminar was still ongoing, Mason having made a show of attending and giving a short speech about the effects of tariff on his business over the past few decades. He sat at the polished mahogany table centering the room, his bow tie loosened and draped around the neck of his suit. From the kitchen his grandson, Jesse, walked out with a tray of fine spirits at the ready. Mason poured a glass for himself, for Jesse, and held the bottle out to Graham, who shook his head from the Penthouse entrance. Mason sighed.  "I have to say I wish I saw more of you at home, maybe there I could compel you to partake." he chuckled, dry and deep. "I don't have to remind you that my father built the whole estate in tribute to you. It would remind the children what was passed down to them, what they fight for now, if you appeared." Graham glanced out to the far window, to the bright glow of midtown at night. "Enough of them have sight that they don't need my reminder. But I do wish I saw more of the family. Do you have reports?" Mason nodded, sipping. "Of course. Jesse, if you would." Jesse stepped into the light of the chandelier, hands behind him. One of the youngest of a large family - Jesse was a third generation Child of Avalon, 27, with three toddlers waiting in the wings for the fourth generation to come of age. Thinking of the Deitels in this way didn't particularly bother Sharp, underneath Graham's skin. They were in good hands. Her hands. They all wanted to be. Jesse cleared his throat. "Lady, I have begun personally supervising our Tri-State industrial courier routes, per your request. Three new instances of the machinery were sighted along the eastern New Jersey route, though only one facility was directly contracted to us for service. One was visited on behalf of clients outsourcing our services, and the third was... random." A manila folder slid from him to Graham over the table, and Graham glanced at the contents. Graham nodded. "Excellent work. How close did you get?" "Only close enough to confirm. A food testing lab off the Turnpike, which is our contracted facility, a group of four turbines in a wind farm near the northern Hudson shore, and a... taco truck, near a Greyhound stop on the way to Philadelphia." Graham raised an eyebrow. "The truck was coincidence, Lady. We passed it on the highway. Hard to miss with these eyes." "Of course. Thank you Jesse." He tapped the folder and slid it back over. "Go ahead and burn this." Jesse balked. "Are you sur-" Mason held up a hand, cutting him off. "My lighter's on the dresser, child. Just disable the smoke alarm in the bathroom and mind the corners first. The bin there will be fine." Graham smiled sleepily at the young Deitel. "Thank you Jesse. It's alright." As Jesse shut the bathroom door and got to work, Graham took a seat. Mason peered through his empty glass to Graham. Graham spoke. "He's eager." "Why wouldn't he be? Martha is the most steadfast of my daughters, and she raised him. There's also the matter of his not having to wait too long for your return." Mason's smile was slight but warm behind the glass. "Where is Charles on the Donahue girl?" "Keeping tabs. I won't ask who turned you on to her, but I think it's interesting to him, shadowing someone outside the family with our sight. She went on a tear again in Harlem, got arrested and released. She's unstable. Charles is ready to go if a pick up is in order." "We shouldn't get ahead of ourselves. Donahue can see through God's lies, in a fashion. But... we need to be clear where her resentments lie. She's had contact with other agents who used her to their own ends. We need to be absolutely sure she hasn't been driven to the other side." Mason nodded, pausing for a moment. Graham poured him another drink. "These other agents... Servants of the machine?" "Not in any conscious capacity, I'm sure. The only way to resist influence is to stay very tightly bound with one another, which is... difficult, with my kind. One never knows." Mason's look was sidelong as he took the drink. "It would suit me better if we had more allies with your power." "We don't need an army, Mason. Avalon will be an enclave, that's the best we can hope for. And the fewer elements in play, the closer we are to our friends and collaborators, the better we can stay out of sight." "You know my grandfather was a partisan in the Great War." "I did know that." "He was Swiss but he came over to fight in Yugoslavia. Followed his cousins there, fought out of the woods. I think about him sometimes, you know. It must have seemed... impossible. The Nazis never stopped coming." "We're not fighting the Nazis." Mason hunched over toward Graham, determination plain on his face. "But they were pushed out. The Allies didn't care and they still pushed the Germans out." Graham sighed, and shook his head ruefully. "The Germans didn't have these kinds of collaborators, Mason. They hadn't already won." Mason slouched and finished his glass, then looked straight at Graham. "I know. And I'm with you, until the Deitel name dies, it's with you. But there will come a time when we have to reckon with the fact that you, and us, will not be enough to keep God out of our lives forever." "I'm working on it." "Good." At that moment Jesse emerged from the bathroom, blowing on his fingers. "I didn't get the smoke alarm back on, you'll have to fix it if you don't want to get charged." Mason waved his hand without looking. Graham stood up and strode over to the young man. "Jesse?" "Yes lady?" Graham held up his hand and snapped his fingers. Jesse's eyes glazed over and became vacant. Graham began buttoning his coat as he moved to the door. Mason called out from his seat. "One last thing." "Yes?" The old man turned around. "I wanted you to know. Cynthia got into Stonybrook and starts in the Spring. Her name is Cynthia Tobin now. It was her choice, maybe you can ask her. I'll personally ensure her ties to the family are thoroughly severed." "It's for a good cause, Mason." He chuckled. "The best cause. She practically jumped at the chance to serve - another of Martha's children. You should pay her a visit." "I will. And I'll take good care of Cynthia, friend." They shared a nod, and Graham walked out the door. Basic Chunnel fucked around with this message at 04:58 on Jul 28, 2016 |
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Jul 28, 2016 02:27
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 Pouring rain turned the great city of New York into a dismal concrete rainforest. The overcast skies and relentless rainfall blended with the towering skyline into a haze of indistinguishable grey. Through this morass Mr. White was walking nowhere. He was restless, having for days been unable to still the roiling disquiet that permeated both his mind and the superposed quantum function that could charitably be called his soul. As he walked, he reached out with the parts of him that weren’t quite there and weren’t quite not; the tendrils of him that could touch and poke and prod the building blocks of reality. He’d been doing this for hours now, searching for - something. Something at the tip of his metaphysical tongue, something he couldn’t quite grasp but desperately needed to. A young woman sprinted past him, head feebly shielded from the rain with a fake leather bag. He sensed her as she passed, feeling for a brief moment the familiar pressure points that would have let him become who he needed to be in her eyes. And - something. It was there, just beyond his reach, just as it had been since he started walking. “Hey, man. You look a little lost.” For the first time in forever, Mr. White slipped back fully into the human world, allowing himself to view it with eyes of flesh. He had wandered into an alley. The rain barely touched him here and the relative silence was palpable. Two young men leaned against a dumpster in front of him. The one who had spoken peeled himself away and casually, almost as if by accident, stepped into the narrow band between dumpster and wall, blocking the way forward. “How about you make little donation and we’ll make sure you get home safe?” Mr. White observed the deliberate confidence in his stance, saw the other man size him up, heard the footsteps behind him as their third cut off his escape route. “Are you robbing me?” Casual confidence turned instantly into calculated aggression as the tough pulled the knife out of his pocket. “Just hand over your loving wallet, man.” And there it was. This cockroach of a human being had laid himself bare, and in that instant, Mr. White saw who this hoodlum was. He saw the cords that bound him into society, the underlying foundation that allowed him to exist as a person. He saw it, and he smashed it to pieces. The would-be robbers friends blinked in momentary confusion as they suddenly found they no longer recognized the man with the knife. Mr. White stepped forward. “Who the gently caress do you think you are?” The roil was changing. Not abating, but intensifying, stirring into a white-hot frenzy. Before the man had a chance to respond, Mr. White pressed on. “Who the gently caress do you think I am?” Driven by the roaring in his ears, he reached into the cracks where he had unmoored this creature’s existence and he poured himself into them. His entire being flowed into the holes like molten steel, and something gave. First, in the world. Then, in him. “You are but a worm under my boot, and you dare to put yourself above me?” The thug looked back to his comrades for support, but found them pointing their weapons squarely at him rather than the stranger. And suddenly, that stranger was there, just inches in front of him. He seemed to be the size of the universe, and the fires of Hell burned in his eyes. “Kneel of your own volition,” he commanded. “Or I will crush your legs and take the choice from you.” And as that petty criminal fell to his knees in a filthy New York alley, the demon Suriel took one step closer to perfection.
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Sep 9, 2016 21:47
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I love it
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Sep 12, 2016 21:17
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Tuesday Evening, Manhattan General Hospital As the incredibly suspicious bird gives of it's surveillance of the hospital room, Fidelity tears out a page from a small notebook and begins writing. "I can't promise anything you can do will keep you safe anymore, but if you want to know the truth, and you want revenge on the ones who did this to you, hang on to this." She shows Abigail the page with 保真度 written on it, tears it in half through the center, and hands one half to the stigmatic. "That'll be your sign." With that she hurriedly left the room to deal with the slowly building epiphany that was about to burst. As she walked through halls of the hospital the truth of humanity was laid bare before her. So many lives turning on such tiny events; a 30 second conversation with a doctor forever altering the course of a life. Moreover, forever altering the response that person has to even thinking about that doctor hinges entirely on such a small moment. "The Operation was a success." "I'm sorry, we did everything we could." "I'm afraid you only have six months." "Full remission." Human beings could love or hate, for the rest of their lives, based on a single sentence. How easy then to mold someone with one tiny addition. How much they could change based on many. Such a fragile thing, a human's reality. ZiegeDame fucked around with this message at 18:06 on Dec 11, 2016 |
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Dec 4, 2016 06:03
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The look on Carmen's face - the ecstatic hope and validation - is returned by a smile that feels rubbery and alien on Miriam Foster's face. The embed had worked its occult magic and she has been and will be, for a short time longer, a seasoned glad-hander, conscious of the small details that leaked Carmen's hope away from her and capable in plugging them with reassurances. Carmen loved Rockwell and chases him, gamely if haphazardly, with her brush. If Weaver really cared she would feel pity for the woman, a mediocre talent whose hopes dwarf her ability o fulfill them. She is ripe fruit for the picking. This must be what it's like to be Fidelity, Weaver thinks, producing the contract from her bag. The parchment is heavier than common printing paper, textured slightly with a light blue hue that pleased Weaver's eye, and while it had been blank sitting in the bag, the words populate themselves in a stately serif as she frees it, as though it were written by the light falling upon it. She sets it down in front of Carmen and delicately places a cheap Bic beside it. The DiLetto Pact posted:A Promise Made In Exchange with Carmen DiLetto by Mara Thalia. Let Signatures To Follow Serve As Final Affirmation To Its Justice And Propriety, Predicated on Fulfillment of Given Promises with all Possible Expedience And Judgment. Weaver will be expending two willpower to bring this pact into existence, as the terms are lopsided, 5-6. The mark is receiving a 3-dot retainer (talent agent), a 2-dot mentor (artist) and 3-dot Status (Artist) in exchange for a permanent relinquishment of her college experience, worth a full dot of cover. Basic Chunnel fucked around with this message at 10:33 on Dec 11, 2016 |
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Dec 11, 2016 10:04
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Friday - The Nightcap, Hell's Kitchen When Fidelity got the emergency message that hunter angels were coming, she knew there was a cover in need of some patching, so it was time to get to work. The bar, colloquially known as The Nightstick, was a hangout for the police in lower Manhattan, and one Fidelity had been frequenting for occasions just such as this. Judy, the bartender, considers Evelyn a friend so it isn't hard to grill her for any sob stories drinking away their troubles tonight. From there it's just a matter of a few rounds of drinks for the house, a few hastily scrawled contracts on bar napkins, and some hippy woo-woo bullshit for misdirection. It is an exhausting night, but fruitful. quote:Frank used to be a good shot. Back in the academy he won all kinds of awards for marksmanship, but that was 30 years ago. Five years ago he made local papers for a day as part of a big drug bust that went south, he took one in the shoulder when one of the perps was quicker on the draw. For several minutes while the bullets were flying, he was convinced he was going to die. His arm healed up fine, but he still gets flashbacks whenever he pulls out his gun, and he just can't shoot like he used to. He never wants someone to get the drop on him again. The Pact posted:I hereby relinquish to this napkin* all past marksmanship awards or recognition, as well as all involvement in the Galvez shootout, in order that the universe may grant me the skills and reflexes of a master marksman quote:Lenny made the mistake of dating a Captain's daughter. More precisely, Lenny made the mistake of breaking up with a Captain's daughter. Since then Lenny has been passed over for a number of promotions, and his career shows no signs of starting up again. Lenny just wishes he'd never met the woman. The Pact posted:I hereby relinquish to this napkin* all my history with Victoria Sanchez, as well as any grudge held by Captain Ricardo Sanchez, in order that the universe may grant me a promotion and all the professional advancement that comes with it Spending all my willpower on these. ZiegeDame fucked around with this message at 00:20 on Dec 13, 2016 |
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Dec 12, 2016 07:29
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| # ? Apr 23, 2024 14:40 |
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Finding a mark to shore up her cover was easy; the city had no shortage of panhandlers, and plenty of them had faithful canine companions. Ultimately she made her choice based on who she'd seen enough times to reliably predict where they'd be. Negotiations opened with a simple bribe: $5 for the man to buy a meal of his choice, a fresh bag of dog treats for his companion. Then she strikes up a conversation about the man's life, about his dog, about all the dangers of living on the streets. No ask yet, just laying the groundwork, establishing trust. The next day she comes back with good news: she talked to a friend and found a housing program he could get into that would put a roof over his head, help him find a job, get back on his feet. All he has to do is sign his name to the paperwork. Only problem is they don't allow pets. She offers to take care of the dog for him, make sure he has good home and a comfortable life. It's a tough sell, but the panhandler agrees, on condition that he be allowed to visit his dog from time to time; Fidelity agrees to give him her contact information so they can schedule visitation. He doesn't read the fine-print of the document he signs, but there's nothing in it he didn't already agree to, more or less. The Pact posted:Panhandler - Asset (Safe Place 1) 1; Asset (Resources 1) 1; Asset (Mentor 1) 1; Asset (Contacts (Fidelity)) 1
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Dec 15, 2016 22:52
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