|
Post by order99 on Jul 18, 2021 5:00:37 GMT
Too wired and pressed for time to journal the adventure right now-but WATCH THIS SPACE!
|
|
|
Post by Adminenkainen on Jul 18, 2021 5:04:03 GMT
Gasp!
|
|
|
Post by order99 on Jul 20, 2021 2:15:02 GMT
Crossroads Illustrated Presents: Journey Towards The Light Issue#1 "Fear in a Handful of Dust" Writers: Black Alice and Dayspring Editor: order99 Pencils and Inks: Pure Imagination
The hangman was both gentle and precise as he fastened the hemp noose around the neck of Kelly Prentiss-and the priest was equally gentle as he asked for her Final Deposition. "Catherine Wilder Reade-what are your final words in this world?" Kelly's teeth chattered too much at first to speak-but she closed her eyes and pictured herself in her classroom, curled her fingers around an imaginary ruler, and the shaking ceased. " I hereby attest that Judge Leonard Walker has tried and condemned Catherine Walker to Death by Hanging without allowing for either a proper attorney for the Defense nor an actual jury-"
"GAG THE PRISONER!!!" Screamed the judge, but father Reynolds merely raised his hand, and the Hangman did nothing.
"-And may that young woman repent of her crimes in whatever time remains to her! My name is Kelly Prentiss, and as a last request I demand that name on the headstone-and to notify my half-sister Miriam Foster in Wichita, so that I may be buried in Holy Ground when your mistake becomes all too apparent! Do this for me and I will intercede with the Almighty on your behalves-for like Jefferson, I too 'tremble at the thought that God is Just'! Do this and I will pray He show mercy to you all." Kelly relaxed then, and let her imaginary ruler drop-she had run out of tears during her so called 'trial'-good enough that she'd her say....the Hangman offered her a hood but Kelly declined with a flip of her hair, preferring to gaze into the florid, sweating face of "judge" Walker.
Her skin erupted into gooseflesh and she began to shiver...why were they making her wait? All this talk of 'Swift Justice' and they were making her wait? Had her final words perhaps made a difference after all? Was the Judge actually reconsid-
***
It was not Heaven nor Hell nor any form of Purgatory she had read about. She peered out of the high windows, seeing pale forms walking aimlessly to and fro. Sometimes they met and appeared to be having conversations, sometimes greeting each other with violence, sometimes with...obscene lewdness. Sometimes she thought she heard them sing.
Her Keeper was tall and silent, with a fancy silk hat and dark glasses. He agreed, gesturing silently, that her situation was hardly normal, indicating by his pocket-watch that not one but many mistakes had been made in her processing...even so, all that he had was hers, endless rooms of artwork, books, plays, sculpture and music to occupy her time whilst mistakes were corrected.
Kelly took advantage of the silent man's offer, and by a dim, foggy twilight she read to her heart's content, all languages were one to her now. She listened to music beyond description, saw colors she had no name for,textures that made silk feel like burlap...but nothing eased the roughness in her throat or the pounding in her skull.
In the dim misty dusk the tall man dined with her, and dishes and beverages from a thousand thousand lands were placed before her. But she could not eat, could not drink or swallow or speak, so the silent man wafted them beneath her sinuses so that she would be comforted, and indicated with a tap to his forehead that the pain was not a physical one and would ease in time...
The skies lightened and darkened, lightened and darkened a thousand thousand times, and at last Kelly decided to escape. The most magnificent of prisons was a prison still, and perhaps on her wanderings Kelly would find some one in charge, someone to plead her case to, someone who would explain her situation to her, not knowing her final fate was eating at her like caustic lime...and so she tied together hundreds of bedsheets and descended at last to a flat, muddy bracken that sucked greedily at her bare feet but was-barely-walkable. She journeyed for miles and miles and miles through light and dark and light and dark and fog and mist and mud...and where were all the people? She had hoped to meet those pale ones, try to communicate-even violence would have been welcome, even...that other thing. She tried to sing a hymn to keep up her morale, but nothing would come, not even a whistle.
Eventually she came to a warm, still and steaming lake, not too broad and she could smell fresh-tilled soil on the other side. She sniffed it cautiously-and lost all memory of smell. She remembered roses and violets and lemons and grass but she couldn't remember how they smelled. And now she knew where she was. This was the Lethe. She swam it regardless, a slow dog-paddle that kept her mouth away from the water-and she was almost at the shore, safe and sound, until a dozen hands pulled her under. She struggled and spat and made her way to the bank, but water had trickled down her nose and the damage was done.
She stood at the bank for the longest time, her mind awash in darkness, not knowing where or why or who she was. At last a picture of a screaming red face arose to memory, calling...reed? There were no reeds here, not in this lake-this nice, warm soothing lake just made for bathing in...but as she knelt to drink and ease her burning throat she heard the laughter of-children? Yes, children, an entire room of them laughing and clapping and she had a book in her hand...did she really give birth to all of those little ones? Reed ran then, ran towards the laughter and the clapping of hands...
Another waterway, narrow and black and turbulent with crashing rocks in the bed. She couldn't possibly...but...forty , perhaps fifty feet. Surely she could make it! Reed attempted to scream defiance but nothing came out, she took a running leap and dove- Cold cold cold COLD she lost feeling in her toes and then her knees and her hands, she hit the rocks and they were like hammers across her skin but it was happening to someone else, it didn't even hurt...and the bank, sharp with gravel that did not pierce her numb, swollen fingers. ONWARD.
Her chest hurt. Reed's chest hurt so bad but here were two routes, and one of them was full of calm, soothing light and hints of green. She started towards the light, ignoring the other, lurking in darkness-but there was a breeze coming from the dark one. Moving air, that was where her Darlings were, they needed her...Reed walked through the darkness forever and ever and ever, and now crashed headlong into a wall of wet clay-but there was a tiny shaft of light above and so Reed dug and clawed and hit until that shaft enlarged and engulfed her. A large, muscular gleaming arm reached for her and Reed held on tight as it lifted and heaved and JERKED-
Black Alice-and at last the poor woman was still. Poor Kelly had slipped the knot with that last defiant flip of her hair, and it had condemned her to eighteen minutes of jerking at the end of the rope. Father Reynolds had wept like a baby the entire time-but his pocket-watch gave up her proper time of death.
order99-wait, WHAT? SERIOUSLY? BUT....
Dayspring-the Hangman had tried to interfere, to cut her down or at least put a bullet in the poor girl's head but Judge Walker gave a signal and two burly men wrestled him to the ground until it was over. At last the men let him up-and it was Walker's own son David, just as some had guessed. He crushed the hood under his boots, spat in his own Father's face and walked away. Never again would he touch a rope of any kind, nor bridle nor cinch, nor leather thong nor even a belt. He sewed hooks to his shoes and pants to hold them on...and began a love affair with the bottle.
order99-Oh my Grodd, you two planned this the whole time didn't you?
Dayspring-I didn't have a clue my man-once she started going I just held on for dear life and improvised, not unlike our engagement-OW!
order99-Ambrose Bierce. DANG. Ambrose Bierce! That was awesome! Okay, the unjust hanging provides the whole Prologue-so i'm guessing that the real Hero is that half-sister, Miriam?
Black Alice-Nope!
order99-ummmm...a member of the town, outraged at the injustice? Cowboy hero maybe?
Black Alice-NOPE!
order99-Oh give me a Clue here! You don't cut down the Protagonist in act one unless it's a misdirect! Who are you playing?
Black Alice-Oh, i'm playing the girl on my character sheet! I'm sure the Editor will find a way! Who wants coffee?
order99-(slides mug)
Black Alice-Holy Carp, that is a soup bowl-i'll put on two pots.
Dayspring-um, sorry Dude, I had no idea she was going for a Gothic Kamikazee...I guess you could make her roll up a new PC?
order99-nah, it's cool,what with that whole 'Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge' vibe she's probably angling to play a Ghost, and i've got rules for that. Oh and Day? I am sooooo glad I gave you Death as an SCM, I don't think Lon Chaney could have done a better job! Now scoot, i'ma brainstorm while that coffee is perking...
Dayspring-gotcha.
order99-Well.WELL. Time to see if i've still got the goods, I guess...Dang, girl...
END ACT I
|
|
|
Post by order99 on Jul 20, 2021 5:37:37 GMT
Weeeel, the General Lee just got totaled by the Flyin'saucer and all of Hazzard County is in the grip of the Black Death! How will the Duke Boys get out of this one, and will Enos have to live with his new plastic face-or will Boss Hogg have a change of heart and return the stolen Orphans to- (Shakes head vigorously) Time for some inspiration! A D6, a D20 and the Wandering Mobster Table on p 112-113 for my own personal Tarot reading... 4 Elements, 1st and 3rd Reversed. 1D6 for each Element to determine Hideout Level. Objects are-Detective(reversed). Zombie. Mad Scientist(reversed). Fake Spook. Need more Elements for the Pattern...1D3, one more. Bloodthirsty Hoodlum. Yes, a pattern emerges. I can use this...2D20 for the timeline- Dayspring-here's that cauldron of yours, I can't believe almost three cups went in there! Where do I get one of those?
order99-well, you must journey to the mountains of Peru, there to mine by hand a certain sacred blue clay. then you must have the Shaman glaze and fire it under a blood red moo....mmm. MMMMMmmm. Italian sweet cream and molasses! I'ma make love to this cup for awhile, you can all cover your eyes, 'kay?
Dayspring-Yeah, sure...who's the Note for?
order99-why, the Note is for thee dear Day! And now I must ask our darling Alice a question...
Black Alice-um, Orange, Twelve, I was in the basement when it happened and Day wasn't my first boyfriend....
Order99-Oh you clever girl you. No, I just need to what what Origin and Class you were angling for. Is Ghost a good guess?
Black Alice-Nah, I should have though-I kinda made an Android Mystic Hero. Here ya go. Um, I know it's going to be a bit of a Plot Jerk from Ambrose Bierce to 'Frankenstein Created Woman', but, well...
Dayspring-hey, this isn't a bodysn-
order99-Shush you. Shhhhh. Just read the note and give me more of that Emmy-winning improv! Now I didn't write the Mystic Hero Class for Androids, but as Editor i'll just override that, hahaha....
Black Alice-uhhhh..you aren't drinking all that coffee on an empty stomach again? You remember what happened last time-
order99- I regret nothing. Everyone knows that Smurfs are evil blue devils and they deserved a good genocide! Also, no one was using that refrigerator carton and folding it into a miniature Detention Camp was the Ultimate Test of our Origami-Fu! I can't believe you destroyed the phot-but enough of that! Let us begin a Journey, hahahahaaaa...
Dayspring-look out honey, Hannibal's On the Jazz again...
Black Alice-YAY! Bring It!
ACT II
Eleven days after Catherine Wilder Reade was lawfully hanged until dead, a lone rider crossed into Wellstone South Dakota-a former Pinkerton agent turned Bounty Hunter by the name of Gerald Casey, hard and capable. His horse was nearly dead and his left arm was still in an old ratty necktie sling, but he'd captured his quarry alive. The Sheriff's Deputy helped him with his neatly-wrapped and gagged prey as Casey grabbed the Wanted Poster ($2500.00 Alive, $2000.00 Dead for Horse Thievery, Assault and multiple Murders) and made his way into the Sheriff's Office-
The prisoner, once unwrapped and able to speak(and such language she used!) was none other than the notorious "Black" Cat Reade.
Later on, when Casey had to give deposition-many depositions, to a Federal Marshall, he took note of one David Walker, son of "Hangin" Leo Walker and gave personal testimony to his exact words-"That ain't Cat Reade", he spat, "and i'll tell you why. Because eleven days ago we hanged Cat Reade dead as a doorpost! AIN'T THAT RIGHT YOU S***S OF B******S??!!!!?"
Shocked silence prevailed-even Reade herself took a break. And David Walker marched away nevermore to speak to his Father , only promising that "if he ever laid eyes on that B******d again it would be over iron sights" and did not step foot in Wellstone ever again.
The news reached the rest of the town within hours-and suddenly perfectly satisfied townsfolk found themselves sick with remorse-many of them had cheered on the hangman-others had been calloused enough to make bets on the time of death when that poor girl's neck had failed to snap...but what could they do now? Some of them-not many-went to the courthouse to find the victim's name-but Catherine Wilder Reade was the only name in the ledger, and the Court Reporter had been too lazy to write down her Final Request. No one could remember her name and therefore could not fulfill the victim's request, nor even pray for her soul except in a vague way.
Five days later, the Gallows was erected again. Rather than wait for the Circuit Judge in November, Hangin' Leonard Walker had once again decided to do away with due process and ordered an execution. Wellstone was not very forgiving of that decision-it was decided via Town Meeting that this would be the last ruling from Walker-and while Catherine Reade admitted to her identity and had been tried in absentia for many of her misdeeds in other counties...this would.Not.Stand. Fifty-three separate telegrams were sent that day direct to the office of the Governor-and when the Sheriff and his men tried to stop the process they were blocked by a mass of unresisting bodies. Even so, the hanging would commence before ought could be done by Higher Powers.
On the morning of October 31st, Father Micah Reynolds hiked his way up the 400 foot hill to the Potter's field, a wooden crucifix on his back. He thought he had a decent memory for names, but after that poor child took so long to die he had gotten stupid drunk and now that name was gone no matter how hard he'd prayed. Even so, there was still once thing he could do for her-a Mason's hammer came down atop a small limestone marker a dozen times, twice that, until one then three then five cracks appeared. The Reverend hurled the bits of marker off the hillside, hammered his plain cross into the grave, grabbed salt and water and sage and his own tiny crucifix and laboriously sanctified the plot, making of it Holy Ground. It was early afternoon when he at last wiped his brow and trekked back to town-for a duty he utterly loathed yet must perform for the sake of another soul...
The tall, silent man with the fancy silk hat watched him go, and nodded quiet approval. The Reverend hadn't seen him, it wasn't time for the man to see him yet, not for another 31 years. Slowly and with great ceremony the tall man faced the West, opened his arms wide-and asked the silent question to That Which Listened. It was the question he had asked when an angry farmer murdered his younger shepherd brother with a rock. He had posed the question when a faithful, agonized father held a blade to his beloved son's throat. He had asked it when the Rabbi went to see his friend, gone four days hence. And he had asked it on bended knee before that Rabbi's tomb after the Passover...
And That Which Listened...did Answer, silently but with force enough to nearly tear apart the man's clothing and his silk hat-and the wind the Answer had made blew for precisely three days. The silent man grinned and grinned and even danced-all of Eternity he did Harvest, but how seldom-how very seldom-would he be allowed to plant?
The silent man adjusted his smoked lenses, reached behind him into Nowhere and grasped a spade-then began to meticulously excavate perfect dollop after perfect dollop of hardpan clay-yes, there were faster ways to do it, but ceremonies must be observed, and he was a craftsman after all...he carefully uncovered the casket-thick cardboard, not even cheap pine, gently lifted his charge to her feet and uncovered her soft, gelatinous form in all of its beauty. A large clay pot was given the man, and in it he mixed an amphora of black wine, dark and turbulent water from his favorite river, and myrrh. A delicate scalpel appeared from a pocket, and the quiet craftsman delicately severed each organ from its housing, washed it in the pot and replaced it with delicate stitchery, fresh silkworm and spider thread-the appendix and tonsils and two impacted wisdom teeth he tossed lightly over one shoulder-not needed.
And now for the bones. Her neck and spine were not severed per se by the hanging but many tiny fractures had sprouted along the vertebrae. Those he repaired lovingly with a hard, hard lacquer and gold flakes mixed into a paste-a lovely way to repair fractures that he had learned in Japan. The eyes were too far gone for any repair, so he lacquered in two perfect round pebbles of Smoky quartz and closed the lids.The silent man admired his handiwork for a moment-then brushed hyssop and olive oil into her soft gelid skin, and as she dried and cured in the heavy wind he cut open the canvas shroud and sewed it into a shift that would allow some movement.
The woman stood, pale yet whole, clad in a loose canvas shift, unresponsive-the tall man poured a tiny sip of wine into that poor ruined throat and popped some cartilage in place-then placed a hand on her back and filled her lungs with air, tapped a funeral cadence on her shoulder blades until her heart began to march along, and then did what he was almost never allowed to do, lean across the nape of her neck and speak precisely two words.
The woman's eyes opened in shock at what she'd heard and her mind began to spark-she listened as intently as any newborn to the gestures of the quiet handsome stranger, nodded her understanding, and began to walk the path down the steep hill...only to be gently turned around and aimed at the nearby cliff.The lady nodded again, took a running start and made a leap of perfect faith-and was not dashed immediately to the ground. Indeed, with a near-gale force breeze at her back she was a mere hundred feet from the 'Welcome to Wellstone' sign ere her feet touched dust.
***
Cat Reade stood before the noose, calm at last. She had always known that she'd die of either a bullet or from hemp, and had planned to egg the crowd on, rile them up and leave some choice words blistering in the air to remember her by as she swung-but that Padre had spoken sincerely so genuinely concerned for her as if she could still be forgiven. And his eyes, so much like her Daddy's before the fever had taken him-those eyes had broken her. And so she spoke her Final Words with a simple, quiet intensity that she did not know she possessed:
"My very first criminal act," she said simply, "was a crime of passion. So was my second..and danged near all of them. I have an absolute murderous temper, worse than any man's, and it has ruined me. I prayed to the Almighty to remove it when I broke my best friend's nose and ruined her looks, I prayed after I shot the man I thought had stolen my mare only to find out that mine was still stabled, I begged Him on bended knee for weeks on end after I knifed my only Love over a drunken game of cards...so far He has done nothing to the Devil inside me. And now my life is done-and if the Lord will take my temper with this hemp then even in the Lake of Everlasting Fire I will be content! And I am done."
It was not the speech the town of Wellstone had expected from "Black" Cat Reade, and the town was silent as the lever was triggered. Catherine Wilder Reade felt the trap loose, her body fall, her own Devil pull free of her as she died, off to ruin some other poor soul, and fell to her knees in Hell. But why did Hell smell of dust and dung and fresh-sawn pine? And there were murmurs and whispers around her, and her neck wasn't even sore! Cat rubbed her hood against something rough until it fell, and looked upward towards Heaven-and she was below the Gallows, and above her was an Angel of the Lord.
The townsfolk saw the killer fall, the rope draw-and snap like rotten thread under the fingers of a strange pallid woman dressed in her underwear-but who makes underwear out of canvas? And why did it leave the neck bare like that-
Oh. Oh No, NO NO NO no no those were rope burns but it couldn't be it couldn't...over a dozen of the nearest citizens fell to their knees and began to pray, loudly. The strange pallid girl with the rope burns smiled a mad smile and conversationally knelt to the crowd. "So, who we hangin?" she began cheerfully, and her voice was an avalanche of broken windows-
(and the Editor leapt completely out of his chair, because Holy Carp Black Alice should not be able to make such noises!)
"Arrest that woman!" screamed Judge Walker, and a Deputy hastened to comply-but the pallid girl just grabbed his hand gently, snuggled up to the young man and bared her perfect white teeth-and the Deputy just fainted dead away! (Morale Check-perfect natural 12 on 2D6).
"We are hanging," bellowed the Sheriff in an attempt to regain control, "One Catherine Wilder Reade, duly convicted of-"
"OH No- NO NO NO nope!" intoned the strange creature. "As you can see in this ledger-Oh thank you Sir, I love that hat!-you have already hanged that person nearly sixteen days ago! You cannot possibly be thinking of hanging this one-no no NO that would be MURDER!!! And did either of them, " the woman intoned in a quieter gravelslide of a voice, "Have anything even close to a TRIAL? NO THEY DID NOT! REPENT, Else the Almighty send a cleansing FIRE-"
And that is when the Sheriff, sick of the trembling in his limbs and the cold sweat on his brow and that horrible creature mocking his town, send a bullet from his Walker Colt into the Hellspawn from less than eight feet away. The bullet bounces of of tough, leathery-
Black Alice-Nope! The bullet makes a perfect, tiny circle in her palm and a delicate spray of blood. The Dust Witch does not even notice!
order99-Oh, so it's that kind of bullet resistance!
Black Alice-Yep! Vital Organs or nothing!
The resurrected woman stops, completely annoyed at the rudeness of the shot, and gestures with the other-and the powder charge detonates inside the pistol, rendering it useless until cleaned-green flame and sparks shoot everywhere and the Sheriff passes out from the shock. More of the town kneel in prayer-others run. The woman glances at her hand, shrugs-reaches down and hauls the outlaw by her bound hands and begins to untie her. "Now," speaks the woman once more "this town will return what the falsely accused has had stolen from her-"
The crack of a Buffalo Rifle is heard, and the pallid woman's head snaps back- (Save vs Missles-17) And snaps forward again, a flower of gore on her forehead and spattering her hair and her shroud. "NOT ENOUGH GUN YOU W****'S GET!!!" screams the target, and the gallows is nearly next to the roof, easily accessed by one who treats gravity as a gentle suggestion...Judge Leonard Walker has the rifle ripped from his grip by the power a mere girl should not have. he swings but his fist feels like he hit a half-frozen slab of clay and then he is dangling from the roof and being back-handed until the darkness rises up and then he falls...
Leo Walker will be found guilty of multiple Misconduct charges by the State of South Dakota, and will remain in a state of House Arrest in the town of Wellstone-which hates him-until his dying day.
***
The bay gelding carried two women and a several saddlebags of supplies through a patch of desolate scrub pine. The second rider was dressed sensibly in denim and cotton, but the first seemed to be wearing a gunnysack dress and had no tan whatsoever. The beasts of the field ignored them both.
"Not that i'm not grateful," gently spoke Cat Reade, "Because I am. But where exactly are we going?"
"There is a place that I need to be," rasped the other,"And i'm not sure exactly-but we are close." And as she spoke a small clapboard house arose gently on the horizon, "Yes, there".
Neither of them knocked, the door was gently ajar-and within was a broad-shouldered man, the worse for a half-empty whiskey bottle, a pistol before him. "Well," the man slurred, "it's you. It's really you". And then the man held up the pistol, barely able to hold it steady-turned it over and handed it to the pallid woman. " I did nothing. I watched you suffer and suffer and suffer and I didn't fight hard enough. Pretty sure i'm Hell-bound...and i'm tired-so very tired. But suicide's the Unforgivable sin , and...i'm ready for Judgement. His.Yours. I'm ready."
The woman in her shroud regarded the man with eyes like stones. "David Walker," she rasped, "are you really ready to be judged? Are you truly willing to pay for your sins with your death?"
The man nodded, and she fired, once. The whisky bottle had been innocent of any crime, but it died anyway. and its killer disassembled the pistol and threw the parts into a waste bin. "Well then David,"growled his judge" You can D****d well LIVE WITH IT! That is my judgement!" And his judge stepped outside to see the sunset as Reade comforted the weeping man.
Night had fallen, and the nameless woman held her arms out as she had seen the silent man do, and questioned Those Who Listen in the manner she had learned from him. Am I done? she asked silently. Two lives saved, a town in turmoil, a demon gone...can I rest now? Is it time to return?
Those Who Listen did not answer in words-but a steady, soothing rain began to fall, and the woman shed her shroud and let it wash away the mud and dust and blood and grime, trickle down her nose and throat and ease the burning roughness a little, wash the scabs from her neck. She swayed in the rain, ready for the sun to rise and make her vanish with all of the other nightmares and restless spirits.
But when the dawn came and did not turn her to mist she found a gingham dress flung over her head, an then a sunbonnet. And her throat still hurt too much for food but there was coffee in the pot and buttermilk in the well and it tasted so good.
David Walker had hooked up a buckboard and decided that Wichita would be as good a home as any-and Reade had money, money enough to buy a ranch or a bank or most anything else she wanted-well over $4000.00. It was dishonestly taken, blood money-but how could she return it without swinging for it anew? And that is when the pallid woman had her idea...
"Kelly Prentiss," she whispered, fighting the dark spots in her mind,"left Miriam for awhile to settle her-uncle? Yes, her Uncle's estate-it was nothing, maybe a few chairs and some jewelry...but it could have been more. A lot more...and then there was a fever, and Kelly doesn't remember everyone so well now, but fevers can do that. She's a little darker than before, but a long trek in the sun has an effect...and the hair is a little less red, but maybe you were using henna-"
"I can't. I can't just take your name-I Can't..."
"You Must! You will. The other path ends in hemp for you! LOOK at me," scraped the pale woman with ashen hair and ashen eyes,"The name doesn't FIT me any more, I don't look like her, I don't remember her, I don't sound like her, I'm not-"
"You win," said Kelly Prentiss. "You Win. But who will you be then? Who are you?" And the pallid woman panicked for a moment-she was no one, nothing, no memory no voice no mission no...but then the memory of the tall, silent man with the truly lovely silk hat returned to her in a rush of power and feeling-and the two words he had spoken. My Persephone, he had said...
"Persephone. I am Persephone, the promised bride to Dis Pater, the father of the wealth of the earth. My throne is of Hades, my bathing pools the Styx and the Lethe, all knowledge and secrets are mine, and I know what the Dead know. But-it was too soon...too soon. I couldn't stay..."
*** In the end, Perri Reade decided to visit the nearest ocean, and that was East. Kelly and her sister and her betrothed (wait, David? When had that happened?) forced an entire saddlebag of gold and bills into her arms and over her objections. She felt burdened by the full bag, unable to travel well, and so the night before her train ride she broke into the house of a poor family of Freedmen and left half of it at the table with a note attached-"You who have labored so long in other's vineyards-here is wine. Drink Deeply".
The feeling stayed with her through four days of train travel, hoarse whispering, apologetic smiles, thin scarves fastened carefully. Four days of milk and juice and soup and a few very limp noodles that didn't go down too badly. Four days of cold, dreamless grey sleep.
But on the fifth night the loneliness and doubt crept in again, and Perri slept and the planet turned beneath her and the stars burned so far above-and she opened her arms to They and asked, Was it worth all of the pain? Does it matter? How long must I tarry? I don't know what to do next....
But a tall, silent man with astonishing taste in hats crept up behind her, kissed the nape of her aching neck. He broke the seal on the first scroll and unrolled three very happy people, a family, a gigantic new schoolhouse with a vast library, four adopted children and six puppies. And then he broke the Second seal and unrolled a town Repentant and slowly evolving. The Third seal he did break, and a strange stone tower arose from the sea, spilling light everywhere, and it was so lovely and she was headed there. And then her silent man kissed her, deeply and slowly as only old souls can kiss- Perri awoke smiling and with streams of salt tears watering her cheeks-and alive. And when she raised her hand to wipe her face there was... this perfect fruit, round and ruby red and dripping with morning dew-a pomegranate. She bit carefully, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed gingerly-and no pain, none. She devoured the entire fruit, every morsel of flesh, every seed, every inch of skin and licked the juice from her fingers-because now she knew, knew that in the fullness of time she would be welcomed back. It had been too soon before-but when next she returned, she could stay...forever.
(Whew. Sometimes things get-intense when we Improv... Okay, 150 XP for three <1 Lvl Mobsters, another 50 for terrifying the Editor with a "Possessed by Pazuzu" impersonation, Three Good Deeds and extra Karma for turning down a bloody Fortune because it 'wasn't her' - I gave her 2 Karma for helping with the previous World building but she's keeping those in reserve possibly for her other PC, and she wants everything converted to XP-Hm. Six Hundred XP, not bad for a short solo).
|
|
|
Post by order99 on Jul 31, 2021 5:02:07 GMT
Crossroads Illustrated Presents: Journey Toward the Light Issue#2 "And Indeed There Will Be Time" Writer: Per Negaton Editor: order99 Pencils and Inks: Pure Imagination
order99-So, still doing the Elemental as a 'Speedster' still?
Per Negaton-Absolutely! Oh, i've got two sets of Ability Scores, I rolled the same dice but one set is with and one without your Houserules, hope you don't mind-that "1's become 6's" made a huge difference in my case.
order99-Um, not really-are you trying for a Light City equivalent of an Alter Ego? I can handwave something but it might take a few minutes-
Per Negaton-Nah, i'm just picturing Eric pre-and-post Powers, like the Charles Atlas ads?
order99-oooooh, I love it! Okay, let me add a full spread of Random Encounter "Tarot" to surprise the both of-WHOA. Great fiery pit of vengeful smurfs, this is getting weird...never mind. this is your PC Per, so you just do what you want as always and i'll work things in...
Per Negation-great, here's where I want to start...
The baby was born underweight, cold blue and quite dead. The attending physician felt in vain for a pulse, found none, shook his head sadly, gently placed the bundle of flesh in its mother's arms and left quietly-and as soon as the door had clicked shut Goody Pierce snatched the infant out of Ada Porter's arms and started reaching for her purse. "Tobaccy". she muttered "and Foxy. I felt you kickin' in there baby boy, your light couldn't have dimmed that fast-yeah there we go, in the gums-i'll be right back Ada!"
Melissa Pierce ran to the watering trough, slammed her boot into the thin ice-and followed it with a tiny unresistant infant...and it twitched. She pulled her treasure back into the air listened to a thin burble, then a sputter, and at last a thin, reedy cry. Another breath and the baby screamed in pure holy rage-
"Shut UP", muttered Eric Porter as he blearily opened his eyes-but only the ticking of his Father's paperweight of a pocketwatch answered him, the chime not due for another ten minutes. Dr. Porter began his routine-pulse abnormal but strong, a heart with only three chambers doing its level best to keep him vital...a full minute of deep, easy breathing to energize his sluggish blood, a roll out of bed without a trace of dizziness, good sign, great sign actually. Not a trace of fluid in his lungs since January, Praise His Name, body as strong and supple as it would ever get nursing a malformed heart...
The gunpowder tea was ready before the watch even chimed 6AM. Two scrambled eggs and a bit of barley bread made a good breakfast, no need to strain his system overmuch. Another bag of the tea for lunch, folded in brown paper with a cheese and tomato sandwich, a bag of Mint if the patients ran until sunset or later...."Forgot the Blasted Foxy" muttered Eric to himself, turned back to the kettle and mixed one dram of powdered foxglove into a leather canteen with exactly three cups warm water-just in case, as Grammy Pierce would have said-and he'd promised his parents in Bristol.
A perfect April day, not cold nor hot nor even damp, perfect time for some much needed exercise-he patted the headstone of Melissa Ellen Pierce, gone nearly a year and still throbbing deep in his soul like a rotten tooth-gripped his light cane of hickory and started out on the three mile trip... A pallid, thin clammy wretch staggered into Ben Golding's practice, grinning ear to ear, and the GP prayed that this not be the day he dropped dead-but instead he popped off his coat and hat and sauntered over as if his skin wasn't turning the color of blue cheese. "Hey Ben! Best time ever today, three miles in under an hour, and only two rest breaks"-
"Digitalis, Porter! Now."
"What? I feel great-" But Dr. Golding held a mirror to Eric's face, and the man reluctantly pulled out the flask-but not until a half-minute of deep breathing and checking his own pulse. "Yeah", muttered Eric, "just a little thready...okay, one sip then"-
"Two. I'm the Senior Physician here, Sir."
"Ben, there is such a thing as overdose." But Eric took a second sip. "Happy?"
"Absolutely d****d ecstatic. I am seriously going to miss pulling out half my hair out when you leave, you know that?"
"It's only a month Ben. Think of it as time enough to grow more hair".
"The teaching job in Bristol is only four weeks?"
The two men each looked at the other and took a breath, let it out.
" I saw the Telegram Eric-they offered you a teaching position. It's twice the money you're making now."
Eric breathed deep, took his pulse again."Ben, you know that the Porter name is why they're offering me that position in Bristol. Do you know who I am in Bristol, Ben?"
"The son of affluent bankers-"
"I am an invalid. A cripple. A failure. Nothing in anyone's eyes but pity in Bristol. Do you know who I am here in the Bay?"
"Eric-" Golding swallowed. "They have a betting pool on you at Rahab's place. On when you're going to die. It's reprehensible."
"I know all about that pool Ben. I started it-I placed $50.00 on May 2099, haha...seriously though Ben, these people look at me and they just see a man dealt a bad hand, and playing it through-and i'll take respect over money any day. So who's our Eight O' Clock?"
Ben Golding put his hands to his temples and let out a deep breath. "Avery Griff. Again".
"Blast. His leg went septic again didn't it?"
"Stubborn mule let it get muddy again working the fields. He's not going to like it, but i'm putting you on the surgery-you've got the faster hands and we both know it, and if we have to resort to the maggot treatment after two failures with the boiled wine i'm strong enough to strap him down-wait a minute".
Eric Porter obediently waited.
"If you aren't going to Bristol for that position", muttered the doctor,"Then where in Blazes are you going, Eric?"
Doctor Porter leaned in close, face to face with his colleague. "Boston. The FAIR. I am going to see everything, do everything, eat everything in sight, take in the exhibits, maybe a play...good night's rest in a fine hotel, walk slow and hoard my strength-or maybe throw it all to the wind, take a triple dose of Foxglove and finally visit one of these luxury Brothels i've heard so much about...Ben, no, no that was just a joke hey...." Sacred Heart, when had they become close enough friends that Golding would cry over him?
Ben wiped his eyes with cloth, looking ashamed at his outburst. "Eric-don't go. Just-there's too many things that can happen, that far away from the Bay at least hire a caregiver"-
"No Ben. No."
"D**n it Eric, you are going to die."
It took every ounce of strength in his frail form to turn his partner around, but Eric did just that. "That's right Ben-I am going to die. So are you, so is everyone we know. Even Jesus died for a bit Ben. And do you know what I will do on that glorious day?"
Unable to speak, Golding just shook his head.
" I will march up to that Throne, look up at Him, and say 'See all of these precious moments! Look at the boundless treasure of Time you gave to me! I spent it all! I have not wasted a single moment! Thank you!' And then I will be judged, and His will, not mine-always."
"I wish-I wish I had a tenth of your faith Eric. Just a tenth".
"You spend your entire childhood fighting for wind Ben, and I guarantee that you will see His hand in all things. Now let's get to Mr. Griff before he decides to gnaw his own leg off or something."
order99-so, the 1885 Fair?
Per Negaton-absolutely! That's not going to toss you any screwballs is it?
order99-oh heck no-in fact, most of those Random Encounters make much more sense now! I'm just curious why you picked it.
Per Negaton-well, am I going to find any Radioactive Spiders, Extra-dimensional Rifts or Gamma Bombs in rural Rhode Island? I mean, I guess I could find an Infinity Stone in a goose or something-
order99-GAAAAH! I will never look at 'The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle' the same way ever again, thanks for that...
End Prelude
|
|
|
Post by order99 on Aug 1, 2021 0:33:40 GMT
Allegro
The train ride to Boston was long, arduous and exciting beyond belief. He had been far too miserable to enjoy trains when he'd moved to the Bay at the age of 19-but at 25 he was stronger now, and this luxurious iron beast was a far cry from the barebones rattletrap that he'd ridden in back then. A comfortable sleeper, deep sleep, light exercise, good food(not too much) one ridiculous encounter with a so-called 'railway nurse' who mistook a heart ailment for cholera of all things...Eric had taken a deep and abiding pleasure in taking the imbecile to task for terrifying his fellow passengers like that, and he hadn't needed a single sip of Foxglove brew afterwards-
April 6th arrived and faded, and that night Eric ordered a tiny, tiny glass of sherry, little more than a large spoonful, diluted it in a teacup of pure spring water, and raised his glass in a toast. "Here's to twenty-five years of You failing to get me-line up for another swing you SOB, and i'll keep spitting in your face."
A tall, silent man with an impeccable silk hat and dark glasses peered curiously over his paper, and Eric suddenly felt foolish. "Sorry Sir, just thinking aloud. I was born with a congenital cardiac disorder, my Aunt Melissa fought the Reaper tooth and nail to keep me in this world and i've fought tooth and nail to stay. I even became a physician to rip people out of the Scythe's path-Life is worth fighting for, every second. I know I take it too personally, I know it's all part of His Plan-but try feeling that way when you can't get any air, or when your loved ones pass on..."
The tall man simply nodded in agreement, tipped his hat Goodnight and patted the doctor's shoulder in sympathy as he left-and not for the first time Eric Porter chastised himself for bothering others with his burdens. Besides, that poor soul was no doubt close to the grave himself-between those smoked lenses and those freezing hands he was probably in Stage 2 Syphilis...
The first day in Boston was a whirlwind riot of exhibits and displays, and try as he might Eric could not force himself to slow down...he collapsed in a nearby bench, practiced his deep, cleansing breaths, glanced down the hallway-and burst into tears. Eric's tears dried soon enough, but it was sunset before he moved from that bench...and for the rest of his days he would never forget The Great Wave off Kanagawa by Hokusai...
On the second day Eric paced himself, took his time, marveled at the balloon rides while keeping both feet firmly on the ground himself, attended some of the (sadly quite few) medical displays and talks, snacked on exotic foods and somehow escaped indigestion, listened to an impromptu gathering of six hurdy-gurdys playing "How Great Thou Art" in perfect harmony...
On the fifth day Eric needed his Physicians Kit, though not for himself.
"Are you alright?" muttered the lanky gentleman through a haze of pain.
"I am not the one" replied Dr. Porter, "who backed The Magnificent Steam Titan into the Ethereal Energies tent, landed on a badly-buckled leg and stalled his engine. Now hold still, I need to twist this knee free of the straps."
"Much obliged Sir," replied the man through pained grunts,"But you're the color of buttermilk right now".
"A minor heart condition Sir. I'll tend it as soon as I make sure that leg doesn't need setting".
"Huh...Mister, you are the very first man with a bum ticker I have ever seen come charging down the cobbles like Johnny Reb at Bull Run and rip me out of the Titan like I was a ragdoll."
"I am known for my enthusiasm," grinned Eric. "Doctor Eric Porter, Practitioner and Surgeon, Lighthouse Bay Rhode Island. Wiggle your toes if you can."
"Eli Vance, Maker of Defective Prototypes, Langley Virginia" replied the sandy-haired man. "So what's the damage?"
"Multiple sprains of lower phalanges and ankle, strain on three ligaments, possible tear of one, hairline stress fractures but those should heal on their own...now for the bad news."
"Your bill."
"Hang the bill, i'm on vacation. No, I need to paint the extremity in willow-paste, give you some willow tea-and I guarantee that you will utterly despise the taste-and cut some slits in the lower pants-leg to allow for swelling. And, uh...you have to walk on it a little so I can spot any possible edemas-if I spot them I have to let them bleed out, no blood clots allowed."
Eli groaned-then groaned again and pointed. A well-dressed and groomed man was slowly approaching the area of devastation, the expression on his face bleaker by the second. "Eric? Help me up. That's the man whose entire exhibit I just destroyed. Get me up so I can die on my feet".
"This is a really bad idea".
" Yeah. Sir? You sir...i'm Eli Vance. I am completely, utterly responsible for every bit of this. Now i'll bet that you feel like kicking seven different types of excrement out of me right now, and you have every right-so i'm just going to put these hands deep in my pockets and let you have at me, good enough?"
The well-dressed man with the well-groomed thin mustache looked Eli in the eye and cleared his throat. "Are...are you alright?" he asked gently...
****
And so on the eighth day of his vacation, Eric Porter found himself in a re-built tent with Eli Vance and Raymond Ibarra ("Puerto Rico by way of Philadelphia," he'd explained casually with a shrug) having a light lunch together while Eli's adorable blond waif of a daughter hawked the value of her Dad's invention nearby:
-"and contrary to the colorful sobriquet of 'Steam Titan', the Advanced Humanoid Tractor is powered by a patented Electric Sliding Piston, capable of precision movement equal to that of an ocular Surgeon! And even though the AHT prototype is made out of easily-acquired tooling and sheet metal, it can already out-pull any tractor of its own size or less, trudge through terrain that a giraffe would not tackle, lift more than twenty men with block-and-tackle...all powered by a single electric dynamo kept spinning by a compact, low-pressure tube boiler that an 11-year old child can operate!"
"That's my Violet," laughed Eli Vance with a nod of his head. "Loud as her Daddy, pretty as her Mama and smarter than the both of them put together! And if she were a boy, the world would swoon at her feet in a couple of years...but...maybe things'll change by the time she's grown."
"She held her own well enough when Gibberish came out to complain," noted Ibarra. "Gibberne," corrected Porter. "Frankly, that man and his so-called "stimulant-A" terrifies me. I've seen it work-and the human body, even perfectly-functioning, is not built to withstand the stress"-
"It's a trick," replied Vance. "He spoofs the readings and dims the lights and and suddenly that assistant of his appears to be running 30 miles an hour. It ain't hard"-
"Gibberne's assistant Lana Cross," replied Eric mournfully, "collapsed at 3:00 PM yesterday. She's currently hanging on to life by the thinnest of margins. Her age, before corrections,was listed in the "60-70" column. She's only 19."
"How do you know this?"
"A certain amount of professional courtesy. What's worse, that stimulant of his is in an unstable, gaseous form, can penetrate the skin and is-by Gibberne's own admission-highly flammable. If that compound of his isn't treated with absolute respect-we could have a city-wide catastrophe."
Eli chewed his lip thoughtfully."So have you taken this up with-him?"
"Worry later", said Ibarra. " For now, move your tea." And Raymond placed a small electric motor on the table, its leads replaced with delicate antenna. A tiny hum from the cabinet full of quartz crystals and emitters-and the motor began to spin.
"The worst part," continued the swarthy man, "is that any illusionist could make a display like this-and so I am a charlatan. Even I don't know exactly how it works-I certainly don't believe in the discredited "Luminous Ether" theory...and I have no degrees and so they cry 'charlatan'. All I know is that the energy transfer destabilizes at over 12V 25A, so all this is really just a toy I run at 10V 15A...but think of what it could mean if someone important investigated the phen..."
"Now currently, the operator must walk the AHT with a leash-a panel so simple that a child can learn it! In the future we plan to keep the operator inside the machine, controlling the AHT through Haptic Feedback. Unfortunately, as I reminded someone three days ago, we do not currently have sensors that are both sensitive and robust enough for effective control-nice try with the Body English and the valve springs though, Daddy-"
"Gnnnn, give it a rest Punkin"-
"Hold on, that motor sounds wrong, the pitch is too high-"
" But in the Future, with enough funding, we hope to have SPIDERS AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"
"I need a tuning fork"-but then the tent was full of spiders the size of dinner plates in all the colors of the rainbow, ropes of thick fluids snaked down canvas and there air was thick with ozone and too late for tuning forks.
Eric had unknowingly trained for this moment his entire life. His heart complained almost immediately (ignore) two toes on his right foot fractured when he stomped down and his left boot flew away(ignore) and his body moved the way Eric had always known it could move if he stopped caring enough, fast as an arrow down the cul-de-sac and the other boot bid farewell (don't care), a sharp turn on stone bloodies both his feet(so?) the flap on the gaudy purple tent like a septic wound (keep beating little one, tea for you later)-
"Stop the Experiment!" screams Eric Porter-and then his weak traitor's heart stabs him in the chest and Eric can't talk anymore. A moment passes, still can't breathe-and a voice reeking of London privilege sneers, "Get this D****d crackpot away from my project". and Eric Porter was out of moments-
(cherish every one)
-No more-
(cherish them all)
-Eric wasn't even wearing his own flesh anymore so much as haunting it like a house, and he dusted and scraped and wrung himself for a sliver more time-
(please don't let this be my fault Lord, please don't)
-and an icy cold hand, colder than a trough in an unexpected April frost, plunged into his heart from behind and filled Eric with Holy fury, and there was his moment-
"FIREEEEEE!!!!" screamed Eric Porter. "OPEN FLAME NEXT DOOR! CONTAIN THE GAS!!!"
Eric sank to the floor unbreathing, and Doctor Gibberne moved to obey-but there were spiders everywhere, and one bit Eric Porter in the arm and seven more knocked over the lamps into the curtains.
****
It didn't hurt. There was no pain.
Everything was on fire.
Everything alive was burning from the inside but nothing was moving but Eric. Eric moved his fingers and now he was here but the flames were there. Huh.
No one was moving. There was no way out of the tent except through human bodies and that was just...rude?
(THUD) No way but up. Maybe he could catch the edge of the tent, pull himself-
-upwards? Over 50 feet straight up?
Falling took so much longer than the leap up, time enough to calculate the broken legs and cracked spine and pierced skull)
(THUD THUD)
-but already his legs were churning the slow air into a froth, turning vertical into horizontal, and by the time his feet met cobblestone he ran on a thin layer of air on top of a burbling brook of molten glass. He reached out for an iron post and every single bone in his body fractured, fingers to shoulder blade but Eric held on an pulled anyway. It was like moving a barn , but he held on and the bones began to knit and the reluctant iron at last followed, glowing cherry red then white and then bursting into flame-
(THUD)
Eric Porter had pitted himself against death every moment of his life, and had expected-what? Darkness, Judgement-maybe an answer or two? But no, here he was a flying Holy angel with a flaming sword, gloria in excelsis deo...
A swift path across exploding spiders, seven strokes of a flaming blade across a perfidious machine, a waving of arms to force the explosions away from his colleagues, a jog through bursting spiders and away past an iron giant with a terrified child holding inside for dear life...the iron was liquid and uncomfortable now, so Eric splashed it across the black marble fountain, steaming cooling pearls to mystify future generations-
(thud thurmp)
It was time to go back now, time to rest. Eric Porter reached a hand down to the earth, and imagined flipping and disintegrating into a fine red mist-and if that didn't kill him he'd probably split his sides laughing...but the cold air beneath cushioned him as he spun, and when he flopped to the cobbles there was no heat or impact at all.
Oh. right in front of Hokusai.
(thurshh)
Thank you for my life.
|
|
|
Post by order99 on Aug 7, 2021 22:26:57 GMT
Accelerando "Hokusai" muttered Eric faintly. "Valerie," corrected the slim blond woman, not unkindly. "Now lie still. You show signs of tissue burns and dehydration. I've got water on the way"- "Water would be lovely," replied Eric, leveraging up on his elbows, "But I need my Kit bag too, I spotted at least a dozen bodies from here and I know d****d well we don't have enough hands for this kind of crisis-" "You're in the Trade?" "Eric Porter, GP, MD, surgery when I have to. Lighthouse Bay Rhode Island. I recognize that pin too-Boston General Rapid Response?" "Valerie Moss, 4 years RR Technical-and we were here before the bodies even finished falling. Is this your bag?" A quick glance showed that it was indeed his kit. "Bandages," Eric muttered. " Saline, syringes, tubing, willow paste, blades-not much good if the casualties are anything like Lana Cross is-" "Was-" "Blast it. Was. Cross had a 105 temp, BP 200/191, Resting heart rate 250 BPM and showed signs of jaundice and possible organ failure. If the rest are like her we need ice, cold compresses lots of saline and any kind of anti-inflammatory we can safely inject. Morphine might slow the system, but too much could lead to full systemic shock...I need you with me, Valerie". The responder made a face."Are you sure you're up to this? You were out like a light less than three minutes ago". "I'm fine," lied Eric, just like he always did-except that it wasn't a lie today. His breath came easy, his heart was like an engine right now, he felt fantastic...and he let Valerie introduce him to the responders as a Qualified Practitioner, and then every one of them lost themselves in triage. Five hours. Only seven patients made it out of the Fair alive. Just seven out of forty-one...not counting himself. And how he was even standing upright himself was-it was unnatural....
Everything was on fire thought Eric. I ran on molten glass, threw molten iron into stone. Died gazing at a painted ocean.
Absolute horse manure. There was no molten glass, no iron, not a trace of fire anywhere-and he'd passed out less than six feet from the Ethereal Energies tent. Just another fainting spell in a lifetime of them, and dreams fueled by oxygen starvation. So why did he feel like he'd just had a refreshing nap and hot tea?
Valerie Moss took a moment from loading the wagons for a spot of conversation. "Hey, Porter-guess what? High body temps, high BP, organs inflamed into shutting down-but the ones that lived? Covered in insect bites.Venomous ones-we're asking Fair Security to find out about any escaped exhibits...what?
"That might be the key we need-I know of several snake venoms that thin the blood, and at least one colleague in Arizona found a Scorpion venom that expands the vascular system...is Gibberne among your patients? We need a sample of that poison of his for any future cases."
Valerie just shook her head sadly. "He was the first to die-bigger dose than anyone, and he-he looks like somebody roasted him over a campfire. Whatever horrible drug he concocted, there's not a trace of it to analyze. Maybe it's for the best."
"Blast it," muttered Eric as he scratched at his left arm again. "It doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense! I was right next to him! How in blazes am I alive when everybody else in that tent is-"
-and too late Eric Porter realized that he'd been thinking out loud.
"You," exclaimed Moss. "Were in. That tent. With that poison. Did you not think that was important?"
"Honestly slipped my mind right then-" started Eric, but her hands ripped open the sleeve he'd been scratching-and six inflamed sores were on his wrist, a network of angry and inflamed blood vessels nested around them. and of course she had to take his pulse, and-
"Oh God, lie down Porter. You're having a heart attack."
"Valerie, it's fine-"
"It is not fine Porter, Holy Mary Magdalen please lie down-"
With difficulty Eric tore Valerie's fingers from his neck. "No," he sighed heavily, "It is not fine. But it is normal. I have a birth defect. Three-chambered heart, I was in a dozen medical journals growing up-and that irregular beat? One of my good days today."
Valerie Moss simply grabbed Eric by the wrist and half-dragged him into the emptying Crisis Tent and pointed at a table-and the Doctor meekly sat.
"So I am to understand-" began Moss, pitching her voice so that every one of her Team would hear,"that before joining in with my Team on triage for five hours, you didn't think it important enough to let the Lead Responder know that you were...bitten by scorpions and centipedes and God only knows what else that escaped the Brazil exhibit...at Ground Zero for the poison that killed 34 victims and crippled 7 more, and Oh-suffer from crippling, lifelong Heart Disease? Have I left anything out, Doctor Porter?"
There was nothing that Eric could add to that really-so he just gestured expansively with his hands-things are what they are, he attempted to shrug.
Valerie simply sat down heavily and sighed. "So," she muttered at last,"what in Sam Hill do they feed you Rhode Island doctors anyway? And does it come in barrels?"
****
"Okay, this is amazing." admitted Valerie over her bowl. "So what is it?"
"That," replied Eric over the teapot, "is called egg-flower soup. My cousin Jamie learned it from this lovely family of Chinese farmers-and when she wasn't causing me to keel over encouraging me to play like the other kids she was forcing the stuff down my gullet like a Momma Bird and her chick." Eric ran two more bowls under the near-boiling water, cracked two eggs and stirred. "You can flavor it with a bit of dried chicken skin or pork skin or herbs-but in the end it's just hot water, a hen's egg and three minutes of dripping and stirring. I gave this to a patient with a bullet in his belly and it kept him alive long enough for solids again-i've had two women with ulcers survive long enough to heal back up. When our patients run past Sundown or we get a run-off from the Hospital, Madeline Hopkins from the grocery next door mixes us up a batch-it keeps us going all night."
"Real high-energy food," commented Tim Edwards the toxicologist, holding out his hands for a bowl. "You realize of course that we are officially stealing this recipe."
"You're welcome," grinned Eric with a mild bow.
"On to business though," replied Tim. "I have a theory about this inexplicable survival of yours. The bad news is that it won't help the other patients any."
"That is a shame-let's have it though."
"Right. Before we get into it though-" Tim handed over a freshly-cleaned leather flask. "No more Foxglove tea. Not ever. I did a full breakdown of the toxins in your blood-and guess what your fatty tissues told me? Digitalis buildup, all the way to LD 35".
"But that's-"
"If you suffer a major coronary event and take digitalis-either one might kill you. I want you to sweat that Foxglove out of you for at least five years. No tea."
Eric just sighed and put down the flask. "Ok Doctor, no more Foxglove-i'll go back to filling it with Nitroglycerin and wearing pillows for boots again..."
"Not. Funny." replied the toxicologist, trying in vain not to laugh. "Onward though. From what you saw of the Cross case, effects were immediate within-what, ten seconds?" Eric nodded. "So given the volatility of the chemical we can say roughly an effectiveness of fifteen minutes or less?"
Eric nodded again. "Exactly sixteen minutes to the second-I was timing it. Then she collapsed, and Gibberne wouldn't let anyone near her. Then she arrived here and-you have all the data there in your folders."
Tim took another sip of his soup and reached for crackers."So let's go back to yesterday. A number of venomous animals escaped one of the exhibits, bit several onlookers including yourself. You experienced a major vascular dilation and a mild delirium-"
"I hallucinated that I was an avenging angel of God with a flaming sword out to defeat an alien incursion of giant spiders-but by all means we'll call that MILD, shall we?"
"Point taken-but you were concerned about Gibberne's work, went to warn him...and those same venomous animals had effected the audience, the gas escaped and everyone was...i'm going to say Accelerated. And while everybody around you spasmed and literally ran themselves to death.."
Everyone at the table winced in sympathy.
Tim continued, albeit more gently. "While all that happened-you were Accelerated as well-right into your own frailty. Despite all your therapy, your heart still couldn't meet the oxygen demands that were suddenly placed upon it. I'd say you were active for twenty, thirty seconds before you passed into a dead faint-and by the time you woke up the drug had passed harmlessly out of your system."
Eric nodded slowly. "You were right Doctor Edwards. This doesn't help the survivors one d****d bit."
"No. No it does not. But if, Almightly God forbid, we run into any similar cases later on-we have a possible treatment. Vascular dilation, massive sedatives and choke them unconscious if we have to. Anything to keep them still and let the toxin pass. I may have better news for you though Doctor Porter."
"Good news? Out of this?"
"How's your heart action right now Eric?"
Eric Porter breathed in deep, once, twice. "Worst blasted day of of my life and career-and I feel like I could wrestle a bear."
Tim nodded."You might be keeping that healthy heartbeat. I pulled a lot of the articles they wrote on you-it wasn't just a missing chamber and a mild arrhythmia, you were lacking in capillary action and the aorta was undeveloped, the experts gave you what, six months at best?"
Eric grabbed a second bowl of soup, much to his own surprise. "That's right. And every member of my family told them all to go to Blazes and made me reach and crawl and walk until I turned blue, over and over. And there that article sits and here I am just twenty-six this week."
"Exactly. Now, I didn't have Susannah over there strip off your shirt and put her head on your chest for a solid hour just to flirt with you-" Tim stopped long enough to dodge a rain of crackers. "Aside from her deadly aim, Susie has the best ears in the entire Cardiology department-and until someone invents a camera that sees through flesh she's the best we've got. Now here's the illustrations from some of the articles, and here's the one Susie drew from her ears-notice the vast, vast differences?"
Eric nodded."Aside from differences in size we have two dozen or more extra capillaries, stronger aortic action, more muscle-like a lifetime of therapy and training actually did a little good. Nice to know it payed out a little-"
"And then your overworked system-a handcart you somehow forced into doing the work of a steam train-gets hit by the mother of all Vascular dilators and a stimulant that makes cocaine look like water, some blood vessels expand and some nearly-closed ones open up for the first time in forever...your heart was pushed into a new threshold of performance-and i'm pretty sure that you get to keep it. Now i'm not saying you should start climbing mountains or anything-but i'll bet you could take that hickory switch of yours, walk from one end of your hometown to the other and get no worse out of it than a healthy appetite. If i'm wrong i'll return my consulting fee."
Eric thought about it for a moment-and burst into tears. And no one said much of anything for awhile, until Valerie brought him a wet towel. "Better?" she asked.
"NO. I feel sick. I get a new lease on life-and all it cost was thirty-four dead people and seven injured! What kind of a God would make that kind of a bargain-"
The rest of the water splashed against his face, cutting off his thoughts.
"Listen. This event didn't need you here to happen. But you were there, and lives were saved that wouldn't have been."
"You can't be so sure-"
" I CAN. We wrote off four of the patients you saved because we couldn't reduce vascular pressure-and then you remembered bloodletting. They don't even teach that outmoded technique anymore-but you drained two bowls each out of them, slapped a patch on the incision and they all survived. That's when I knew you would die in your sleep."
Eric Porter dried his tears and attempted to laugh. "So you predict futures now do you Moss?"
" I saw you in that tent," replied Valerie evenly. "Five hours. And I know for a fact that if Death tries for you awake-well, he's going to think he's tangled with a hundred angry Grizzly bears and a dozen forest fires and the entire U.S. Army including the Artillery! I watched you slap those cold hands away from seven patients and you were literally growling under your breath the entire time-do you do that at home?"
Eric just placed his head in his hands. "Oh God I certainly hope not. Nobody's said anything if I have. And-you're right. I was here, lives were saved and I shouldn't feel guilty...but. BUT. This vacation is over. I'm headed home."
There was nothing more to be said to that, just nods all around-and then Dean stopped by with a cafeteria menu with "Eric's Egg Soup" as a line item, and Eric Porter didn't know whether to laugh or cry and ended up doing a tiny bit of both...
****
BEN
TERRIBLE ACCIDENT IN BOSTON STOP I WAS UNHARMED BUT OTHERS DIED STOP IN PAPERS SOON STOP GOING TO BRISTOL BUT NOT TO STAY STOP NEED MY FAMILY
ERIC
****
Any idiot with a watch could have predicted that the Express wouldn't make it to Bristol until after sunset. Still, Eric had packed light and he could leave most of it for tomorrow. Or he could sleep here, and wait until morning for a jitney to take him seven miles to the Porter estate...
Seven miles. An impossible trek for an invalid.A cripple. A wounded gasping freak.
Let's find out, thought Eric Porter, and began his trek.
The first mile flew by in the darkness-but a Full Moon gave Eric all the light he needed so he put the Bullseye lantern away. The second mile he took at a jog, because his heart was as calm as a moonlit lake. The third mile he jogged as well-but there were people behind him now, faces who would never jog or laugh or move again, and Eric broke into a run. He tried out-running them on the fourth and fifth miles as well but he knew he couldn't, and there nipping at his boots was Rags, playful Rags who knew when he could chase his Master around the house and when to snooze at Master's feet...a runaway buckboard had ended the beagle's life and eleven-year-old Eric had howled and howled until the Doctor had been forced to give him opium lest Eric follow his puppy into the darkness-
STOP STOP STOP
Eric stopped a few hundred yards before the sixth mile marker, utterly exhausted and out of breath, streaming with sweat like a overworked racehorse-and his heart ticking along like a three-chambered metronome. He sat, uncorked a bottle of brew (mint tea, and who had ever thought that he would miss the bitter, acid taste of Foxglove?) and rested as he sipped.
What kind of incompetent Doctor, thought Eric, can't say goodbye to his patients? And what was the point of trying to outrun or outfight Death when it always won in the end?
An old, old argument. The whole point of living was the Race. It had to be. Eric stretched his joints, sore from the unaccustomed activity, closed his eyes and briefly wished he were under the Porter roof with all of his might-
-and when he opened them again everything was moving and everything was on fire. Eric lost his balance and fell to his knees and still he moved faster than any train on a surface like warm greased ice-then struggled to his feet still moving. This is skating thought Eric hurtling at impossible speeds, I wonder how fast I can learn? And Eric leaned forward, then gently side-to-side , and yes, it was just like that time Jamie had bundled him into a sled and raced him down the hill and he had very nearly died from the excitement but oh what fun, and Eric realized that it wasn't so much fire as a red, glowing mist....and by the time Eric had mastered this new bizarre form of travel he realized that he'd passed the Porter estate four miles ago, and stopped-
-halfway across Sutler's Pond. And as the glow faded from beneath his feet Eric looked down and thought-did I actually run on water? That isn't poss-
(SPLOOSH)
Eric had never learned to swim. What an utterly stupid way to die.
Yes it would be, Eric agreed with himself, since bodies float. And he held out his arms, leaned back and broke the surface, rested gently on his back and kicked to the other side. "Swimming lessons" he muttered to himself, wringing out his hat-and there was the eleven mile marker, and Eric swigged down the last of his cold mint tea and pondered.
He was a man of Science first and foremost-he could believe that a lifetime of training and medicine could alleviate a chronic illness, happened all the time. He could even believe that an unlikely congruence of poisons could lead to better health-what was that if not the birthplace of Pharmacology? But only one man had walked on water in over 2000 years...
Two men, corrected his inner pedant. Peter was walking on water too, right until he looked down and lost his nerve...
Impossible. Angel-with-a-flaming-sword-flying-through-the-air-fighting-an-army-of-alien-spiders-impossible...and a Doctor appeared with a dead blue baby to lay at his feet, and more Doctors walking by shaking their heads and saying 'non-viable' and 'never stood a chance' and 'retarded' and 'crippled' and 'bedridden'...and on the other side, armed only with their faith, stood James and Ada Porter and Melissa Pierce, and they willed a cold dead infant into life and into laughter and into walking and then waltzing him right into Med School, leaning on a stick and gasping for breath but very much alive thank you-
"I AM THE IMPOSSIBLE!" screamed Eric Porter, who'd gone into medicine to show those faithless louts the proper way to treat a patient-and a glowing scarlet figure skimmed across water as easily as skiing down snow and flew down the road as fast as any horse God had ever assembled.
****
Jim Porter was not going to be sleeping tonight. Ben Golding had forwarded a very disturbing telegram-something had happened to Eric in Boston, and he was headed home. Eric was still alive and mobile if he was headed to Bristol, so surely nothing too terrible-still parents worry, don't they? Eric probably had one of his rare attacks of common sense and boarded at a motel tonight...
But when he heard the knock at the door he ran to it-and it was both Eric and...not. This Eric stood ramrod straight, moved without effort and glowed with good health. "Eric, where did you find a coach this late at night? And where are your bags? I know you packed..."
His only son-who had so many brushes with Death before Med School that literally everyone had lost count-just smiled.
"Oh," said Jim Porter dully, "you idiot. You proud stupid suicidal idiot. You walked it, or course you did."
Eric only smiled wider, that hard, almost angry smile that (in the confines of his own head) Jim had labeled the 'Not Today DEATH!' smile. "Worse than that Sir, worse than that. Your proud stupid suicidal idiot son...ran it."
Jim Porter had been right-he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight-but Eric forwent sleep to keep him company, so that was just fine.
|
|
|
Post by order99 on Aug 9, 2021 23:21:37 GMT
Crescendo Fact-Ben Golding, by this near-incomprehensible excuse for a Telegram, had either completely lost his mind, didn't know how to send a telegram, or both. Fact-Eric Porter could not spend seven blessed days in the arms of his loving family without some kind of crisis being dumped on his head. Breakfast had been a lovely chaotic mess as Ada Porter had spotted her husband and son cooking crepes in the kitchen-her fingers had aimed straight at his throat, a habit she'd gotten into over twenty-five, no, twenty-six years now, because her baby boy's pulse would never lie to her-and today that pulse told Ada an impossible thing. All through breakfast Eric hand-fed his mother crepes with Boysenberry as she kept taking his pulse out of habit, until about twenty minutes in his Mother erupted in this ear-shattering War Whoop grabbed her baby boy and danced around the table with him... (dancing lessons, right after the swimming lessons. Eric was going to need a notebook) Seven blissful days of stretches, push-ups, sit-ups and pull-ups to put some much needed muscle on his frame now that he could fuel it, seven days to find out that his cousin Jamie had fallen head-over-heels in love with some well-spoken hard-working young man...and was promptly Disowned because Gary Porter was a racist who thought the man was too... swarthy for his tastes. And neither half-Cherokee Jim Porter nor his wife thought much of that at all. Seven days. And then this telegram.Of course he left-The Bay was his home too. **** Solomon Cortner marveled at the young Doctor's improved grip. "Eric! you're looking good-really good! There were rumors of a rest cure, but I didn't put any stock in it." "As a rule I don't either-but this is a business call Sol. This telegraph I received is absolute gibberish, Ben is at Rahab's drinking his lunch and Ben hates alcohol-what in blazes am I looking at here?" Cortner took a deep breath. "Okay. Short and sweet like those medical write-ups of yours. Your clinic burned to the ground almost two weeks ago-and Hopkins Grocery caught up right next to it." "Not good. But we have insurance." "Insurance won't pay. It was arson." "But what kind of a monster would-no, never mind. Why didn't Ben tell me this two weeks ago?" "Because Ben thought he had a solution." The attorney tossed a flier at Eric. "I know that Ben Golding didn't come up with this on his own, these...Zuckner Brothers had to have talked him into it. I'm pretty sure they used Ben to get the Council's approval for permits, and Clancy Raines wouldn't have left his field fallow for anybody else." Eric did some math in his head, nodded. "There's...a lot of money floating around this event. And if we're getting a cut then this is...good news, right?" "No." "Of course it is," replied Eric Porter slowly and cautiously. "Because we have one of the best attorneys in the State, and he cut us a decent deal with these people..." Cortland just lowered his head into his hands."Ben didn't notify me in time-he just signed it, and as attorneys go Ben makes a fine Doctor! Twenty percent gate, five percent profits-and it's iron clad. I can't prove coercion-and the Law doesn't recognize My client is a dumbass as a legal strategy." "Dang it. Bottom line Sol". "We give it all to the Widow Hopkins and she just barely gets her store back. All she needs is shelving, paint and a fresh roof. And it's all she has." Eric Porter stood, tried to keep calm. “We can still dispute the Insurance Adjuster.” “Yes. Yes we can. And we’ll run out of money, and They will count on Jesus Christ Eric!” Eric Porter just stood numbly, utterly mortified. “I saw blood, there was blood,” muttered the attorney-but there was no trace of red now. “Sol. Oh Sol, I am so g*******d sorry-” “Eric- what did they do to you in Boston?” Eric took a long, shaky breath. “Got me healthy enough to develop a temper I guess.” “Yeah, watch that in the future. That blow could have killed a d****d buffalo.” “I’ll pay for the repair on that wall-” “No.” “Sol, I insist-” “ Not until I photograph this crater-” replied the attorney with a grin”-append it to your file and mail it to the Insurance Adjusters!” “Oh Sol, that is so wrong. I approve”. “Why yes Gentlemen-my client, a respected physician and rather frail individual, casually left a hole the size of a cannonball in the plaster. Please have the suicidal courage to deny his claim in person. I dare you.” Eric left the office shaking his head. I can punch through plaster now. I’m...going to need to be careful about this... **** “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice Mrs. Sim.” “I always,” replied the dark-haired proprietress of the House of Rahab, “agree to meet with gallant young men who are buying me dinner. I’m afraid that Doctor Golding-is indisposed, or I would have invited him as well.” “That didn’t take long,” muttered Eric. “Ben’s not very much of a drinker-” “Ben Golding is an alcoholic.” Eric sipped his coffee to chase the coldness running into his gut. “Ah. I...didn’t know that.” “Neither did my servers-but they do now. That man has been bone-dry for nineteen years, and I never thought i’d see him slip up like that.” “I know what knocked him off the wagon” stated Eric simply. “In fact, that’s why i’m here. I hear that sometimes you...make inquiries into things when they interest you, and-” Rachel Sims slipped over a plain manila folder. “I do-and did. And i’m not charging you a rusty washer for the news-mostly because there’s nothing either one of us can do about it. Arthur and Niles Zuckner, born confidence men both, smart enough to either stay on the right side of the Law or cunning enough to bribe the right ones, some hangers-on and ‘associates’...and one of them once served a sentence for insurance fraud. Fire was involved.” “So There’s-” “Nothing we can prove. We can speculate that a tiny bit of Arson opened up a vulnerable man with connections to open up Lighthouse Bay for a massive ‘charity’ event-but we have no proof, and the Zuckners are going to make a killing, look like heroes and get away with it. All I can do is notify some... associates of my own to keep watch on them in the future. They will make mistakes eventually-but until then just take what you can get out of the deal. I know that it isn’t what you want to hear-but these people are, well, dangerous. Let it go.” Eric poured himself a second coffee. “ I could care less if a bunch of low-lifes make bank on us...as long as we get our practice back. The Bay only has twelve medical practitioners and the Hospital can’t afford to take the two of us on. Ben might make ten hours a week consulting with Ebsen or house calls but...I don’t suppose you have any betting tips?” “ Thirty entrants so far and more to come-and an army of fixers, touts, dopers and odds-makers to go with them. I’m certainly not placing any bets. You could try to Fix a race or two, but better than you have failed-and I don’t want them fishing you out of the Bay with the crabs. Just let it-Blessed Mary, is Jacob March back on that Penny-farthing of his? He’s going to need a second cast again!”
Eric hid a grin behind his hand. "Oh, it's worse than that. He's got his kid sister Kayley wanting one!"
"Oh, somebody put little wheels on her hobby horse! That is so adorable-" (a glowing scarlet figure skimmed across water as easily as skiing down snow and flew down the road as fast as any horse God had ever assembled) ( I AM THE IMPOSSIBLE) ( I know that Death won't dare take you awake)
Rachel Sim covered the young Doctor's hand with her own, "I do NOT like the look that crossed your face just now. That is one of those 'I am about to do something really stupid and get killed' looks, Lord knows I had enough of those myself-"
"Sorry. I ordered the mousse but you'll just have to eat mine-I have to go see a man about a horse."
****
Niles Zuckner checked his final list of participants-an even fifty, five events of ten each...and the First (and only) Raines Charity Cup was going to be the event of the year! Money was coming in like a mighty green tide, and in two days it would be leaving on the next train. Niles recognized some of the named on the list-Midnight Blaze? Seventh in the Preakness in '83? A nice 'post-retirement' event in the making then...and three colts from King Oberon's bloodline, untested but sure to make a showing, and...Red Wind? Ten hands high? Weight listed at...eleven pounds two ounces? WHAT in Sam Hill?
"So from what I hear from his owner," said the jockey to his audience as tea was sipped and pencils brandished "Red Wind started out as a healthy young Hickory tree. Now how he decided to try his hand at being a horse is beyond anybody's guess, but sure 's shootin' the head began to sprout a set of ears and teeth and by the end of the month the young stallion had upended his roots and was jest inchin' his way around like a snake, so the owner of the property put some wheels on him. Now even with the wheels our colt was way too light to pull a jitney or a plow, so the owner calls up Jack Tarby and says 'Jack my boy, I want to see this tiny monster in a race.' So sure i'll race him-but then what? I mean, nobody in his right mind is gonna pay stud fees no matter how fast he runs..."
As the room erupted in unearthly howls of laughter Niles motioned the slim ragged man over. "A question over the Entry sheet good sir".
"Let's do this outside Mister, a bit loud in here. Oh right, I fudged the weight by a few ounces, but the saddle is literally screwed on, so-"
"Mister Tarby. You are playing a very childish prank on this organization. But try as I might I cannot fathom what you think you are getting out of it-so enlighten me please."
"Hold on now-didn't you set this up yourself?"
"Rest assured Mister Tarby, we did not."
"Huh. HUH." The jockey sat on a nearby bale of straw. "Well now.....it does make more sense now. Some rich fella from the Bay set this up. I'll bet this is one of those Banking firms on Kent Hill."
Neil leaned forward. " Now I am completely lost."
"Gambling is illegal in Lighthouse Bay-you lot are outside City limits-and most of the citizens here wouldn't place a bet at gunpoint, thinks it's a Devil's snare. But suddenly we've got a major event for charity going on, and the more betting the better. Suddenly I get a telegram from this 'X' who wants me to jog a hobby horse down the track and look stupid-and I laugh it off , but suddenly somebody slips $200 in my bank account-"
"TWO HUNDR-"
" SHHHHHHH! That's private! So the joke is, yes Jack Tarby will make an ass of himself for charity if you pay him enough! There's also the fact that over a hundred people bet on me so far at a thousand-to-one odds."
"That's ridiculous. Let me see that sheet-Oh Satan's Genitals, somebody put $200 to place and $50 to win?"
"Some young Doctor, said it was for charity and his parents are in Banking-and look at the rest of them at 1$ each! Remember what I said about most of the Bay dead set against a bet?"
"Only,"replied Neil, is isn't even a real bet with Tarby and his joke horse now is it? You can't even place."
"Exactly. That's why I figured it was you lot at first. I've seen you working an audience-you know how to convince people to do good, and I figured this had your footprints all over it."
No...wasn't us. You know, i'm tempted to disqualify".
The tattered jockey shrugged. "There's nothing in the bylaws saying I can't ride a stick horse. And there might be some hard feelings when you give all that money back. Also, I was really looking forward to being 'The Jockey What Will Ride Anything If You Pay Him Enough'. But my $200 is already in the bank, so please yourselves."
"HM. Hmmmm...yeah, a little comedy relief and extra donations....yeah. One change though-follow me." Neil lead the jockey back to his paddock. "GENTLEMEN," boomed Neil Zuckner, "May I have your attention? We are quite impressed with Mister Tarby and his young colt and have decided on a scheduling change! I hope this does not skew the odds overmuch-"
A wall of derisive laughter greeted him.
"Because we have decided to move Red Wind, that Highland colt of Hickory, from the Third race to the Fifth! Red Wind will know competition from Preakness veteran Midnight Blaze!! YOU ARE WELCOME!"
The noise in the paddocks was deafening-and Jack Tarby danced in victory while inside Eric Porter wondered just how fast he actually was...
****
The day of the Raines Charity Cup was upon scenic Lighthouse Bay, and food and drink were consumed, races were run and an amazing, guilt-free time was had by all the participants...
The fifth and final race of the day was begun, and all the jockeys and their charges lined up-and a small man in red tatters dragged out a hobby horse-hindered by three feet of chain and a sailing anchor.
"THIS IS AN OUTRAGE!" screamed the slim rider. "I DEMAND AN OFFICIAL RIGHT NOW!"
The entire field erupted into peals of mirth. Some of the other jockeys dismounted before they fell off their mounts. This was just...too much.
Eventually Neil Zuckner ambled his way onto the scene, thumbs in his pockets and a grin on his face. "Mr Tarby! Are you hoping your mysterious Patron will wire you even more money?"
"I'm hoping," replied the jockey, while pointing at the chain and jumping up and down like a children's illustration come to life. "to give the best return on Investment I can get! What do you think?"
"I think," answered Neil, pretending to look at the chain,"that you were born for the stage! Interested in some traveling after this? I might could use a decent actor on staff."
"I might consider it," responded Tarby , pointing one arm at the chain and the other at the audience-who cheered him on. "So, does the Good official cut the chain or does the Bad official leave it on? Go with whatever is funnier."
Neil pondered. "Misfortune is usually funnier," he decided, and made dismissive motions with his arms as the stands erupted into laughter and some good-natured hisses.
"Good call." opined the jockey, falling to his knees in supplication. But the official pointed imperiously at the booth and Tarby slumped dejectedly back and re-mounted his steed. The other jockeys gave him surreptitious 'thumbs-up' signs, and he winked back while keeping his expression downcast.
(Why the anchor chain? Because Eric Porter had an entire pot of coffee with his omelet that morning and had decided to gild the lily. Oh, if only Jamie could see this glorious prank right now, he thought, trying not to jiggle too hard lest the thin twine on the chain break too soon)
The great Iron bell clanged, the gates fell and nine horses thundered out of the gates, Midnight Blaze leaping ahead by three lengths in less than a moment-
-but suddenly a tiny rigid thing on wheels came spewing forth from gate #7 with a terrified man holding on for dear life-and both of them spewing flames. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!" screamed the rider in obvious terror-and took fourth place by the first turn.
"PLEEEASE HEEEELP ME!!!" Shouted the poor wretch, barely hanging on to the wheeled demon-steed. But the horses and their riders gave the unholy duo a wide berth, and by the second turn Red Wing was in third place.
So much for the amateurs thought Eric. These other two are actual racehorses. Well, the Plan works if I even place fifth, so good enough....NO. No, it was not.
Per Negaton-so, these Karma points you gave me for the stuff I created...can I spend these?
order99-of course you can, that's what they are for!
Per Negaton-Awesome. Two Sprint Checks please. (Modified Checks 6 and 6) (opposing checks 2, 1)
Blue Fury was a child of champions-but this was his first race, and he was unprepared for a fiery thing with flashing spinning round feet. He struggled but the fear weakened his legs and he dropped to a wheezing respectable third place. He would later run many fine races and found a line of amazing colts.
Midnight Blaze was a powerful tireless engine of flesh afraid of no horse, wolf or man. But this...thing. It frightened him. So when it got too close he shied left and fell to second place. Years later, bicycles would become more common, and the stallion would avenge its dishonor by destroying every single one it could get its hooves on.
Red Wind the wheeled demon steed hit the tape five lengths ahead of any competitors and vanished in a cloud of dust...and when the dust cleared a shaking rider carefully dismounted, deployed the kickstand, backed away from the hobby horse very very slowly...and picked up a clod of common earth and kissed it.
"Did-did you see it?" he asked he gathering crowd "Did you see that it was really live it moved I'M NOT CRAZY IT MOVED hey I wonder what else it can do-HEY RED OLD BUDDY CAN YOU TALK? " The jockey placed his hand gently on his steed-
-and it fell over with a gentle clunk! and didn't move.
"AAAAAAHHH!! OH GOD I KILLED IT! I'M SORRRREEEEEEEEE!!!!" . No one else said a word-no one knew what to say.
****
"So who the Devil do you really work for?" muttered Neil under his breath as they approached the Winner's platform.
"Do you think he's just sleeping?" replied Tarby in an apparent daze.
Neil reached for his holster, but Arthur blocked the motion, "Witnesses!" he hissed holding up his arm at the crowd.
"Okay, jockey, listen up! I am going to hand you this check. You are going to wave it around.Then later, you give it back. Savvy?"
"Do you think maybe he's thirsty? Do magic horses need water? And what do they eat?"
"Listen carefully," growled Arthur. " That check will never clear. If you even try I WILL KILL YOU. Do you understand me?"
The jockey's face suddenly dissolved into a wide, mad grin and every man on the platform suddenly reached inside his jacket. "I understand completely," stated the slim man, holding the check above his head to scattered applause...and marching over to a giant wooden barrel marked "RX" filled with part of the money from admissions. With a flourish, the tattered man in red donated the entire $5000 check to the Charity Fund.
Wave after wave of applause washed over the disguised Eric Porter, and if he closed his eyes he could imagine that Hokusai was drawing the stands. "I am going to skin you alive!" screamed Niles over the din-but a wave of red mist and a crack of thunder and Red Wind and his rider were the only things standing upright on the platform-
(First use of Radial Blast LC power! YAY!)
"He's alive!" screamed the jockey. "RED WIND LIVES! TAKE DADDY HOME NOW!!" And the glowing horse and rider skated down a vertical support beam, hit the mud without stopping and sped away...into legend.
(almost done folks! Next- Adagio.)
|
|
|
Post by order99 on Aug 10, 2021 22:40:20 GMT
Adagio
Doctor Eric Porter was ambling down the track with a bowl of cornbread and gravy when he heard the screams. Four men held down a screaming man-and another soul dressed in red tatters lay face down in hay. "we need a Doctor!" screamed one of the men.
"MMmnn a Noctor!" muttered Eric around his cornbread, and examined the patient...and then pulled his head completely off. "It's just a dummy!" he replied waving the hat, "see?"
"JAAAAAAACK TAAARBYYYYYY!!!!" screamed the large man as the others sat on him again.
"Jack Tarbaby?" inquired the confused physician. "Wasn't he in the Uncle Remus books? I liked those as a kid."
"AAAAAAAAAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!" screamed the man over and over until Eric gave him a sedative free of charge and the man finally collapsed. "Huh. So-I take it the wrong horse won?"
One of the bookies slapped the young doctor on the back. "You mean to say you didn't see that last race?"
"Um, I was hungry. Besides, I dropped my Eagles on a kid's toy-I already knew I wasn't going to-"
"You. YOU are Eric Porter!"
"Guilty. But I don't see-"
"We need you at the Betting Booth, right now!"
"But...but my cornbread...."
****
The bookies placed leather bag after leather bag of bills on a literal wheelbarrow, near to overflowing, while most of Lighthouse Bay looked on nervously. Young Porter was well-liked, and some of the crowd worried for his poor, weak heart. But Eric seemed more confused than excited, shrugging his shoulders while the official pointed at the track and windmilled his arms-and soon word got out that the beloved doctor hadn't even seen the race- in the end, the winner just picked one bag off of the pile, and gestured to the Donations barrel with his other arm...and as officials complied with the request the applause exploded from the sky like cannonfire on a battlefield.
Mary Avliss was next, her joke donation now a Thousand dollars-she and her husband were set for life! But her hand shook and she whispered "Half-half in the barrel please. I'm sorry Bill. I just can't..." And then Bill Avliss pushed his Mary against the wall and kissed her like they were still children amid whoops and cheers, so Mary figured she'd done the right thing.
Not a single winner kept more than half their winnings, and the rain barrel marked (RX) grew to three...
In the weeks to come, miracle compounded miracle-the Charity Fund had been big enough for two Clinics and three Groceries...Ben Golding and Eric Porter and Solomon Cortner had foisted a $1000 "Nest Egg" onto Madeline Hopkins to enjoy as she wished-and then released the remaining massive amount of money to the Lighthouse Bay's own Mercy Hospital. Equipment was repaired and three students were now sponsored to Boston General for advanced training.
Neither the attorney nor the two doctors would ever be allowed to buy their own meals, drinks or groceries in Lighthouse Bay ever again.
****
" I really like this one the best," remarked Rachel Sims over dinner-and held the paper so Eric could see it. The illustration showed a little dwarf walking a hobby horse made of ten shotguns, explosions blasting behind him as he sauntered slowly to the finish line. In the background, terrified jockeys had picked up their mounts and were fleeing the scene.
"That one," agreed Eric Porter,"would make an amazing wall hanging. But you didn't invite me to dinner for my taste in decorations, did you?"
"Nope. I asked you here because the Clinic opens back up tomorrow, and you will be busy. And I have a question."
"We've been plenty busy on housecalls...but the patients deserve better care than that. Your question though?"
Rachel leaned casually over the table "Eric Porter," she whispered, "why in God's own Name did you ruin a perfect Caper by using your own walking stick for that toy horse?"
Eric froze, breathed in, breathed out..."Rachel," he said at last,"Please tell me that you did not steal a toy from a child."
" I did not-and little Kayley Marsh was overjoyed to find that Miss Pinkie Rouncy had a Gentleman Caller. But Kayley also worried that Mister Horsey might also be lost, and she was a very good girl and went to find Mister Policeman. And then Auntie Rachel told a little fib about her childhood, adjusted the saddle two inches to cover up your carved initials, and now Kaley has two horseys forever and ever..."
"I apologize, Mrs. Sim. You didn't deserve the accusation. And-Thank You."
Rachel just raised her brows and waited.
"I was nine years old," began Eric heavily. "I couldn't walk ten steps without falling over. And that is when Daddy put this giant stick in my hands. It was too tall for me and I could barely drag it along the ground. But Jim Porter looked me in the eye and told his little boy-" You are strong enough for this stick right now. And in a few years you will be tall enough to swing it like a twig." That walking stick was hand-carved by my Daddy, and it never chipped or cracked or failed me-nor did his Promise."
"I still don't quite get it."
"Rachel, three weeks ago I concocted the stupidest plan in the Lord's own Creation, and steeled my will to carry it out. And in order to do that-I needed my Parents' Love and Promise under my hand, in hickory where I could feel it."
"Ah," replied Rachel at last-and handed him a card. "Some dear friends of mine meet monthly at the Lantern. We have snacks and coffee and talk about local issues-and solutions. We could use you."
"Freak Talent and all?"
"Your Talent is also welcome.But we need Eric Porter, smart enough to outwit dangerous criminals and brave enough to do it with toys. We need the young man who wouldn't dance for fear of heart failure but then trudges four miles in a thunderstorm-clutching his chest the whole blasted time-to correct a breech birth and give Laura Hanley her baby girl."
"I-"
"We want the child born under a Death Sentence, who gritted his teeth and stomped his way into Med School! We need the man last month's Boston Herald reported on Page Three-woke up from an actual heart attack, took over a Medical Tent and guarded those within like a Mama Bear! Do you have the faintest, foggiest notion how special Eric Porter is? That Steam-engine mind and that Barbed-wire will of yours-we want it."
Eric tried to reply but he too was just too choked up with emotion to talk, and Rachel Sim just poured the tea and gave him time to compose himself. "I may have worded my invitation a bit strongly," she said at last."I deeply apologize-"
"No need," sniffed Eric,"and I accept. One condition,"
"Name it."
"A soup bowl full of water just under boiling, and a single egg. I am about to reveal to your Secret Society a Trade Secret of my own...."
CODA.
****
(Okay, a few Notes. Light City PCs don't get XP, but collect Adventures. Red Wind will achieve Lvl 2 with one more Adventure, then three more for Lvl 3, etc. Per Negaton rang that Good Deeds mechanic until it nearly broke though, and between saving many lives, giving away money like it was water, outwitting six Hoodlums with tactics from the Looney Tunes playbook and giving away a cherished heirloom to an adorable moppet...he gets 8 Karma. He banks 5 on Red Wind's character sheet and keeps 3, possibly for another PC.)
|
|
|
Post by order99 on Aug 23, 2021 7:08:15 GMT
Crossroads Illustrated Presents: Journey Towards the Light Issue#3 "The Voices Below and Within Us Forever" Writers: Dayspring and Black Alice Editor: order99 Pencils and Inks: Pure Imagination
Pain. His every moment was red hot agony. Bones were molten-hot wires, skin was itchy scaly scrapes, muscles cramped into dull iron weights. His ears strained to make sense of the cacophony of hums and buzzes and whines-to no avail.
His eyes were dazzled by the soft white lights at first-everything was blur upon blur. But he blinked away the tears and the sweat until a figure resolved itself. It was Verona Lake, calm as her namesake, and gazing gently at him with a mild, clinical detachment-
(she had thrown herself at him, begging him to shoot her in the face and make the Voices stop and the orderlies had pulled her away)
"Hello Bert," she said gently. "Do you know where you are yet?"
"We....were under the Willowbrook Institute. There was...a chasm of some kind under your, um, apartment-"
"My cell you mean," corrected Verona, not unkindly."But do go on. I need to test your memory."
Albert Lake swallowed."The...sinkhole? It shouldn't have been there. No quakes, no explosives. There was no groundwater below to evaporate and leave a void under the cell. It was inexplicable. So naturally I hired a team of climbers and came to find you, and...we ran out of rope. Three times. The crack in Willowbrook's foundations ran for nearly a thousand feet."
"Something like that. And then my loving brother, understanding that his sister could not have possibly lived through the fall, abandoned the search-"
"Like Blazes I did Venn. I was going to find you dead or alive, to rescue or to bury. I owed you that much. And there were-men. In the tunnels. Strong, squat men of some kind. With nets and guns and...I tried to fight them but I couldn't move, I couldn't think, the entire planet pressed down upon me, and...and..."
"Ah," replied Verona gently. "They used the Black setting-I remember that one so very well. Despair. You didn't stand a chance before the Influencer, not on the Black setting. They used that one on me so often I would forget to eat or sleep and then they would switch to the Vrilcasters and teach me their ways...it wouldn't have been so painful if I hadn't been resisting all of the time...but the Tyrants like the resisting ones, they last so much longer after they are broken...."
"Venn. The Influencers-they aren't real. The Tyrants Below aren't real. The Voices are not real. The miles and miles of tunnels and the supermen who breed monsters and the stone cities below the earth. None of it is real. Humanity would have found them by now if they were real-I promise you that. Now...where the Devil are we?"
Albert's sister said not a word-she simply elevated her brother's bed slightly-and opened thick metal shutters. And Albert Lake was struck completely dumb as he beheld the gleaming obsidian spires, spun steel cabling, elevated roads and grotesque lurching creatures...it was all real, completely real, he could hear the whine of ungreased wheels and smell cooking smells and ground stone.It was too complete to be a conjurer's trick.
"How is it," remarked Albert when he could speak at last,"that you are so...calm about this? How could anyone be?"
"Because it is real Bert. I'm calm about this because it's all completely true. I'm not delusional Bert. I have no illusions concerning my sanity Bert-but this is...real."
Albert Lake remembered all the the things she had told him from months past and his entire body began to shiver, bringing hot flashes of pain. "Venn? If everything you told me about the Tyrants is true...then we have to leave this place right now. I'm sure i'm injured, but i'll keep up somehuuurffff!"
Verona finished gagging her brother with the Dental Restraint, brushed his face gently...and lowered the mirror so her brother could see everything. And as the Restraint muffled his screams she just caressed his face gently until at last they ceased. "Now do you see why I can't release you?" she asked gently. "The slightest movement could jostle the organs loose and then we would have such a mess. No Bert, you stay here while I improve you-and when you are fully recovered you will my most brilliant Project, just as I am Master Xenious' greatest creation-and we will have Status and Slaves and even the Lesser Tyrants will kneel to us! It...will...be...GLORIOUS!"
Albert whimpered around the Restraint, but Venn ignored him. "No Bert, I think that you'd better keep it in. I need to spread your ribs nearly a full inch in order to place and assemble the Reactor in the cavity. There will be a bit of discomfort-not as much as i'm going to suffer assembling the blasted thing through your ribs, mind..."
****
The tiny twin golden plugs in his wrists didn't hurt a bit-or perhaps Albert's pain tolerance had grown. Verona plugged tiny wires into the plugs and it tickled, and when she fastened the other ends to a strange grey box he could feel it, the insides of the box itself vibrated gently in his bones. "Off," commanded Venn, and the tingling stopped. "On," ordered Venn and the tingling resumed. "Left. Right. Up. Down," Venn intoned, and the vibrations changed pitch and blinking lights changed direction and color. "Off," finished his sister, and the Box shut down. "Perfect," she chortled. "Perfect."
"What is perfect, Slave?" inquired the broad-shouldered man with twin-irised eyes.
Verona Lake bowed deeply before the odd man. "The tests I have run on your newest acquisition, Master Xenious," explained the woman. "It has just learned to interface and operate with our latest model of drilling machine.Before that, a Mining Harness, and before that, a mineral extractor and emulsifier! Picture a mere Secutor Master-with a lifespan of decades rather than months, all the obedience of it's kind...but with the full training of a DeRo Field Commander! The units will take longer to train and outfit-but with decades of service the cost in resources per unit will decline exponentially! Such a contribution," crowed Venn, "could propel you as high as the Ten!"
"The Ten?" mocked Xenious. "What an ambitious little Humanslave you are! A bit too ambitious perhaps. Should I fear your defection to another Patron and a blade in my spine?"
"I am ambitious," replied Verona,"because you made me so. Only you had the imagination to craft a Humanslave into something very nearly DeRo. No other dweller here would see the usefulness of a Humanslave the way you do-and without Patronage I am nothing. If I shame you Master, then speak your orders-I will take this scalpel and cut the Secutor's brain open, program the Machine Surgeon to likewise destroy mine...we will serve you as parts for the next Chimerae if you so desire."
The DeRo stroked his cheek thoughtfully. "No-not yet. Your altered mind still interests me.Continue your projects and I will see if they are of use to me."
"This slave obeys, Master."
It, thought Albert behind closed eyes. It. He said nothing, and prayed for a scalpel to the brain.
****
Albert Lake had watched her assemble the custom Secutor body for him, hand-stitching the silk muscles, inserting the bundles into the galvanizing bath, replacing metal parts with the ooblek cloth of the DeRo, making it lighter and more flexible.
"-and best of all," finished Verona Lake, "your Cavorite reactor will power the entire harness, and with room for added Tool/Weapons modules. You suffer none of the reduced lifespan of a Secutor, will have most of the protection, greater flexibility and mobility. And your reactor will give you even more benefits-"
"Leukemia?"
"Reduction of personal gravity-just like the Cavorite Lift Packs. And the very best of all Bert," Venn leaned over and dropped her voice to a whisper,"is that it isn't even your new body. The Thraex pulls on and off like one of those heavy winter suits of yours.Consider."
Bert considered. "Venn-how does it benefit your loathsome Master to let me in and out of this mockery?"
"It doesn't. It benefits you and you alone." Verona gently dragged her fingers across her brother's face. "You must truly hate me," she whispered,"for all that I have done to you."
Albert had nothing at all to lose by being honest. "Venn, you have utterly desecrated my body with this...alien filth. My mind is-I will never be as I was. I utterly despise the fact that you could do this to me-and I utterly detest the vermin that turned you into this! If I could murder every denizen of this city, and melt the rock of it to boot-I would. But most of all-I hate that I never believed you, and let our parents shove you into a cell while they traipsed off to South Carolina to die of cholera...and I hate that I didn't steal you back from Willowbrook and care for you at home."
"That...will have to be enough," replied Venn gently-and released all of his restraints. "Now listen carefully," she instructed as her brother stretched his limbs."These will be my last orders. Don and activate the Thraex. Kill me. Escape. Revenge yourself upon this horrible race forever."
"Kill you," muttered Bert under his breath.
"Yes Bert. I hate them too-they utterly ruined me. They destroyed me. I will never be fit for Humanity again Bert-not with the horrible voices and the sharp broken edges and the things that I know. I hated them enough to do-this. To you.My only brother. You just-promise me Bert-after I am dead, you will create a mountain out of their broken dead bodies."
Aye thought Albert, but i'm not killing you-but the gloves of the Thraex were already on her head and flexing. No no no non NO NO thought Albert and his hands dropped firmly to his sides. "Your plan," he began, "has a flaw. I don't know the way out."
Verona frowned. "Of course you do Bert," she began. "I wireless-ed you the city maps-"
Already helmeted, Albert just shook his head.
"Oh. Oh. All right then." Venn brightened. " I suppose that I can see Outside again before I perish. It's more than I deserve Bert-Thank You."
****
Albert Lake washed his gloves and sleeves in the nearest creek until all of the blood was gone. The four scouts and warriors he'd dispatched with his bare hands-he had felt their necks under his powerful muscles and they had torn like paper...
My sister has infected me with her hatred, thought Albert glumly.
"Did you see that Bert? Eight Hundred feet straight into the air, and a perfect landing! You aren't a monster Bert-you are a miracle. MY miracle. Think of the things you will be able to do now."
Albert just nodded his head-then removed his helmet so Venn could see his face in the morning sun.
"This," whispered Verona Lake, "is perfect. I wish I could have seen this view more often. Well-let's finish it."
"Finish-"
"Finish me. We agreed to this-"
"I didn't agree to any of this Venn. Not the plan, not the surgery-none of it. NONE."
Verona Lake looked her brother straight in the eye. "If you don't, then...i'll do it myself, later."
Albert Lake remembered the cold, rasping voices of the DeRo and did his level best to imitate them. "Your Plan is flawed, slave. Your logic is flawed. Your madness consumes you and you can no longer see the Truth."
His sister flinched as if he had struck her.
"You hate them for what those Vermin did to you."
"Yes."
"You hated them enough to master their technology and steal it. You hated them enough to mutilate your own brother the way they mutilated you."
"That's...yes. Yes."
"You made the only remaining member of your family into a weapon against those that hurt you-and now you will cause him even more pain by dying."
"Yes," Verona Whispered.
"Logic dictates that you hate the DeRo enough to live-and help your weapon succeed."
His sister tried to reply but only a gurgle came out.
"Logic," dictated Albert with the cold voice of the Tyrants,"demands that you live, in order that as many of the vermin perish as possible. You will be the arms-man to his weaponry, and together you will cause the underground cities to burn."
"Y-yes," muttered Verona, but her head shook 'no-no-no' and her eyes teared up.
"You must," grated Albert."You will. Logic demands it. The Plan demands it. Your bother deserves it."
"I...I can't go back to Willowbrook. I just can't."
"You are going back home with your brother, who still loves you.We will take precautions. You will learn to be human again, and so will he. Obey."
She nods. "I-I just..." she faintly whispers.
Albert waits.
"I JUST WANT THE VOICES TO STOP!!" screams Verona, and Bert holds her close-
****
order99-Stop. STOP. Sweet Zombie Jesus, just...stop.
Black Alice-What? ACTING, huzzah!
Dayspring-So what gives? Too intense?
order99-Too intense? Well let's see, you've got my Richard Sharpe Shaver contaminated with I never Promised You a Rose Garden and the Maquis De Sade's Justine...and i'm not doing that without calories. I'm calling a quick break and make a Coffee Float.
Black Alice-Coffee Float?
order99-Two scoops French Vanilla ice cream in this cup-top it up with hot coffee.
Black Alice-Oooooh, I want that. Make it three, Day? Let me get the pot started...
Dayspring-Okay Order...what was that really about? You're shaking like a leaf.
order99-Well, yeah, i'm hungry, low-blood sugar happens, y'know-
Dayspring-NO. Listen, we do this for fun.When somebody stops having fun we stop. And if you don't give me a straight answer we call it an early night and pop in a movie, capiche?
order99-Dirty Pool, you SOB.
Dayspring-(waits patiently)
order99-Fine."I just want the voices to stop." That's...it's the last line on a...suicide note I read one time.
Dayspring-Just 'happened' to read? I'm assuming it was someone you actually knew...
order99-Yeah. And that's all you're getting. Listen-we were all having a great time, I heard something and suddenly i'm back in 1988 for a moment...it's done. I'm going to have something rich and yummy and we'll be back in Game in half an hour...and if not? Then movies are an option...fair enough?
Dayspring-Fair.
order99-Okay. And Day? Don't tell your wife about this...what?
Black Alice-Too G*****n late Baby. C'mere.
order99-Day? If your wife isn't done snuggling in two minutes I expect you with a crowbar-seriously...
END PART I
|
|
|
Post by order99 on Aug 26, 2021 4:57:57 GMT
PART II
Black Alice-So...better?
order99-Absolutely better. Nothing like ice cream and coffee to overwhelm a minor little "Goose Walked Over my Grave" moment. So how do you like the Coffee Float?
Black Alice-I think that Day and I are going to get so fat that we put a loading bay in the house, and it will be completely your fault. Yum.
order99-Hey, just save it for once a week and you'll both be fine. Ready for more gaming fun?
Dayspring-We could still do the movie if you prefer...
order99-Too late, i'm full of caffeine and sugar and vibrating in place...oh and fair warning, I have access to the Lifepath Generator from R.Talsorian Games' Cyberpunk RPG...
Black Alice-Ruh Roh,Raggy...
****
"WHY IN THE NAME OF ALL THE DEVILS IN PERDITION IS MY HOUSE FOR SALE?"
Albert Lake could literally not believe his eyes. He and his sister had wandered the woods for three days, desperately looking for landmarks before finding the Algonquin trading post near...Our People at Peace? He just couldn't wrap his ears around the Algonquin name, he'd barely mastered French. His sister Verona had surprised him yet again, bargaining with these strange crystals that shone odd swooping pictures on the wall when a candle shone upon them in darkness, bronze-colored craft blades that could etch steel as if it were glass and a small silvery flower of some kind that opened in the sunlight and closed in the shade...
In the end Albert and Verona had ended up with a full change of clothing each (and Bert could divest himself of his odd suit and the heavy coat that hid it), a small leather-bound trunk for storage, a small digging spade, a week's worth of pemmican, two skins of water, a roll of 20 gold dollars, a small willow dragging sled to carry it all and-best of all!-a map!
Four days of hard hiking had brought them to the Lighthouse Bay Railroad, a dollar brought them safely home by jitney and now...there was a 'FOR SALE' sign nailed to his very door. As if his Father had not purchased this place with cold, hard cash! Very nearly Albert kicked in the door-realized how very stupid he would look and simply used his key.
All of the furniture was gone. His Mother's Vermeer was gone from the mantelpiece. A thorough search upstairs and downstairs began-the good silver and the good china were gone from the kitchen, only a battered copper kettle and some wooden implements remained. The beds were gone, the maple dressers were gone-the clothing was gone.
"Verona my dear?"
"Oh Bert, you've got that edge to your voice again...do we get to kill our enemies so soon?"
Albert Lake forced his voice into a gentler tone. "No Venn, not for a while. Right now I need you to watch this fire, and soak the pemmican when the kettle has boiled. I'm going out to the shed and see if we have any hammocks and camping equipment left-perhaps our burglars didn't bother with it yet. And then i'm going to the Courthouse after lunch and see why our house is not only vandalized but being sold! There may be some arrests in the making before i'm done!"
Inventory from the shed proved fruitful indeed-three hammocks, several bolts of waterproofed canvas for tents, waxed twine and large needles for stitching canvas, a small boat that might eventually be water-worthy again, a handful of carpentry and gardening tools and two work benches. Everything but the canvas and the boat he transferred to the den...the benches made a decent table and seat, the hammocks were strung from the iron hooks that once held maple bookshelves, the smell of pemmican stew wafting from the kitchen...things could be worse-
-A scream echoed from the kitchen, and things were worse. Albert barrelled into the kitchen clutching a trowel and ready to sell his life dearly-but Verona already had the intruder pinned against the wall, a slender blond woman in a sensible dress, and a large purse and a derringer tossed carelessly on the floor.
"Very well dressed for a house-breaker", remarked Albert upon recovering his breath. " I suppose after stealing Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring, literal tons of valuable maple and silverware created by John Adams, it was only logical that you should return to the scene to see if you had missed anything. But you didn't find the place empty this time, did you, Miss..."
"Lessig," replied the woman."Abigail Lessig. And if I were you sir, I would take your associate and leave quickly-the Police know my schedule and may come looking for me."
"All the better for us then," replied Albert casually,"since I can have them arrest you for Trespass, Burglary and Vandalism, eat our lunch before it gets cold and have Gerald file the paperwork before we arrive."
"And why would Commissioner Gerald Moore," returned Abigail with venom, "care that a pair of squatters wish to charge me on imaginary crimes?"
"Well for one thing, he owes me $9 from our last poker game. And for another, i'm the owner of this house."
" A well-played bluff sir-but I know for a fact that the owner is deceased. I am authorized by the attorney to settle the estate-"
"And would that attorney be Mark Fromme, and said estate belonging to Albert Lake, co-owner of the Broad Street Trust? Because I can assure you Miss Lessig, it isn't going to be a ghost that marches you up those courthouse steps-it is going to be Albert Lake in the very flesh!"
****
"And then my sister convinced her to drop her firearm, I placed her under arrest as is my right as the property owner-and here we are. Also, I may need that $9 back until my bank recognizes my specific lack of rigor mortis."
Commissioner Moore scratched his chin as he winced. "I can definitely do that Bert-but this lady does actually work for your attorney. And you were declared dead three weeks ago."
"It changes nothing Gerald. One: I am alive. Two: My attorney is attempting to liquidate my estate without my permission and without attestation. Three: this woman burglarized my house, vandalized my door with unwanted signage, and-most importantly-assaulted my family with a firearm! I am officially pressing charges, and she will be detained pending a hearing."
"I would really prefer you didn't do that Bert," spoke a voice from the doorway-followed by Mark Fromme, silk suit, bowler, freshly-trimmed Van Dyke and his ever-present ebony cane. "Miss Lessig was only following my instructions. And you were missing for six months, Albert"-
"I have gone on vacation for longer than six months, Mark! What was the point of trying to sell my house out from under me? It's not you had any instructions-"
" I did, actually." The attorney unrolled a sheaf of documents. "As you can see, your instructions were very specific. In the event of your death, lacking family-"
"Did you forget I had a sister, Mister Fromme?"
"-Lacking competent family, you have instructed me to liquidate all assets, stocks, bonds and controlling interests and turn it over to Broad Street Trust as your legacy. Signed, dated and witnessed."
"I never signed that document, the signature has to be a forgery, and no reliable witness would-"
" I watched you sign it, the signature is valid, and the witness is your own partner Dennis Halsted."
"So you and Dennis decided to defraud my entire estate while I went to find Verona-"
"Careful, Mister Lake-that could be construed as slander."
Albert Lake abandoned his chair and stood nose to nose with the attorney. "None of this matters. Collusion with my business partner, attempted theft, forgery-it was for nothing. Because I am alive-and that invalidates any document you have, valid or otherwise. I hope this attempt to steal everything I own is worth your Disbarment, Fromme, because the Courts will force you to return every single penny and every single bangle and every single dust mote that I own! You will be penniless and your reputation will be ruined!"
"Perhaps," returned the attorney,"you are correct. But all of those deliberations take time-and money. And rumor has it, Lake-that you are destitute. Good Day, gentlemen-and when you are done with Abigail-I have need of her-"
"Fromme. I have more funds than you know about. And I have more kinds of power than you could possibly imagine. You will never see your ruination until you are drowning in it."
"As you wish," replied Fromme, and left-never seeing his former client's grin.
"Idiot," muttered Albert. "He all but confessed his sins in front of the Police Commissioner, he blatantly violates every regulation, flouts his ethics, uses a fake signature that wouldn't fool a ten-year-old...and now he's identified all of the conspirators in this idiot play of his because he thinks i'm helpless. Idiot."
Gerald Moore stirred from his desk. "That really isn't enough of a confession to get a conviction-you know that don't you? And since it's a Civil matter...it's going to be expensive. Do you really have the money?"
"I've got more than he knows about-enough to start the ball rolling at least.And I have allies he hasn't met. So, once we process Miss Lessig and I find a new attorney-"
"Wait!" Abigail Lessig pled." I didn't know....I didn't know any of this, I swear!"
"I know you didn't Abigail," replied Lake sadly. "But this isn't personal anymore-this is business. Your employer is trying to ruin me-and i'm going to deny him every asset I can.Including you. The longer you stay here, the more Fromme will worry-about what you know and about what you will tell us. If we let you go free right now...well, he might be tempted to get rid of you."
Abigail Lessig turned the color of milk.
"So what we do now," continued Albert, "is keep you in custody. You tell the Police-and my attorney once I hire one-every single thing you know about Mark Fromme, his methods and what you do for him. And in less than two weeks' time I will drop the charges and you go free-and safe. Understood?"
****
"So we get our things back? And the house and the furniture and my dolls and your books and the Vermeer that Mama loved and-"
"Shhhhhh," said Albert to his sister. "We've started the process. Solomon Cortner declared us officially alive as of today, any attestations are frozen in probate and no one can take the house or anything on the grounds now. But reversing all of those transfers of funds and stocks-that's going to take time...and money. And we don't really have enough to do what I need just yet-"
"I'm sorry it's my fault Bert I spent some of the money."
Albert drew a slow, steady breath."You didn't spend all of it did you Venn?"
"No. I spent four dollars though."
That's a bit much but-well, we didn't exactly have any food in the house did we?"
Verona Lake cast her eyes towards her feet as she spoke. "I...spent some money on food and I paid the Ice Man because we needed the food to stay cold and I bought a good knife for the kitchen and two big bowls to wash in, and then a bought some watchmaker's tools but I need them for the Thraex suit and they were 60% off and...I bought a doll."
You-that's fine Venn. They took your whole collection, there's nothing wrong with one doll. When we get enough money back you can have more-and i'll try to get the others back too.If your dolls make you happy then you deserve to be happy-"
"I DO NOT DESERVE TO BE HAPPY I AM A MONSTER I ruin everything I TOUCH I hurt my BROTHER AND I DON'T DESERVE TO LIVE WhY dId YoU MaKe me PROMISE NOT TO DIE-"
Albert put her hand over her mouth, and if she ended up biting him then so be it-"LISTEN! Listen Venn, listen, shhhhh just listen. Do you know why I made you promise to live? Can't you guess?"
"Because...you need me. You need me to help you fight the Tyrants."
"That's right Sister, that's right. But I want you here too. I want you with me, your the only family I have left. When I know you exist I fight twice as hard, twice as long. And do you know what hurts those shriveled black hearts of the DeRo the most?"
Verona shook her head.
"You. Getting away. Getting a little better, every day-both of us. Every step away from the Tyrants Below is a kick in their teeth. Every time we feel happy is like broken glass in their bellies. We will live better every day, and when we are he most like us and the least like them? They will burn, Venn, they will twist in misery as we live and laugh...because we took everything they had and we escaped and we shamed them. They never had you Venn, not completely-you used everything possible to escape them-"
"I used you," Verona moaned.
"Y-yes, you used me too...and...I...forgive you. If I had believed you even a bit you might not have...needed to do what you did. But we are what we are now, and we will heal and enjoy our lives. Now, go find your doll, because i'd like to meet-is it a him or a her?"
"Her."
"Good. I saw some tea in with the dry goods, i'm going to make us a few cups, and you and I and your dolly-"
"Emma."
"Emma-the three of us are going to figure out our next step."
****
Eighteen dirty mason jars lay before the modest fireplace, surrounding a pile of gold and silver. "Ummmm...Bert?" asked Verona Lake.
"Hm?" Bert looked up from counting, waiting.
"That Pirate Story that Daddy used to tell us? I thought that it wasn't real."
"It wasn't," Bert replied, making small piles on the floor. "But the Treasure Map? That part was real. Mom and Dad had emergency funds all over the property-we found eighteen out of twenty so far, and if we still had the sofa I could grab the actual map and find the other two. The map in my memory...i've forgotten a few landmarks i'm sure."
"So what do we have?"
"As of now-a total of $295. Enough to live frugally for a year and pursue Legal redress at the same time. If we are careful-enough to win. And then hope that Fromme and Halstead haven't spent or hidden all of our funds."
Verona shifted in her hammock. "I don't know a lot about investing-but wouldn't it be better to, well-invest what we have?"
"It's a good point Venn. But there are three reasons why I don't. Could you build me another Thraex suit? With just what you have at hand right now?"
"No, not nearly! I need supplies, tools and...oh."
"Exactly. An investor with no money is like a runner with a broken leg. Now this $295 gets me back to hobbling on a cane-we could make it grow, live like paupers for 15, maybe 20 years-then we reach the threshold I need to run again. Now the second reason-that b*****d Fromme liquidated all of our stock in Sunrise Fishery-now Jacob Gretz is nearly bankrupt. The other investors followed what they thought was my decision, and now nobody will loan him funds. Sunrise wasn't my only nest egg either...parts of Lighthouse Bay could suffer if those two greedy children undo all of my work. It's like our parents taught us-we invest in where we live-money, time, effort, skill, love-whatever we have, we invest, and where we live becomes worth living in.
"All right, that's two reasons. What's the third one?"
Albert reached for a second cup of tea."The third reason? It's honestly a bit selfish-but Broad Street Trust is our bank. That bank is a legacy. I own 41% interest in that bank-as much as the other five Directors combined-and that jackass Halsted won't even let me in to access my own Savings account! He's going to drain me dry, sell my stock and crook the ledgers so it looks like I never had anything in the first place-he was bragging about it to my face, the idiot...our father built that bank, hired the draftsmen, even laid the bricks by hand with the laborers-and when I was 12 I joined him! I know every working of that bank, I know how and where they invest, I know every flaw in the architecture that never got...."
There it was. The Plan. Every detail and every facet of it, sparkling in his mind like a rare diamond...
"Bert? Bert? BERT!"
"HM?"
"That look on your face just now-you told me I wasn't supposed to get those looks. This doesn't involve setting people on fire and measuring pupil dilation while they burn, does it?"
"Certainly not! Why would anyone-never mind.I have a question for you Venn-when is it both ethical and moral to rob a bank?"
"When someone locked a dozen children in the Vault in order to measure blood pressure deviation as they asphyxiate?"
"Why would-er, that too I suppose. My answer however Venn is...when you already own the bank! Can you have Mister Thraex ready by midnight tomorrow?"
Venn grinned that slow, hungry grin. "Absolutely, Bert!"
****
order99-Hate to interrupt the play- but that timer says Dinner's ready!
Dayspring-Awesome. What did you cook?
order99-Barbecued lamb with onions, garlic and cabbage, straight from the crockpot!
Black Alice-Out of the way, Slowpokes!
Dayspring-ah, I guess we'd better hustle!
order99-Day, I brought the BIG pot-ten servings! we'll be freezing half of it...
END PART II
|
|
|
Post by order99 on Aug 29, 2021 8:01:06 GMT
PART III
Albert Lake could literally not remember being abroad in Lighthouse Bay past Midnight before, nor could he imagine a scenario where any honest or God-fearing person would be...well, Doctors and Priests perhaps. The taverns and public houses had closed an hour before-even the criminal element that the papers howled imprecations at had apparently found better things to do with their time-just as well, as Bert could easily picture himself killing any erstwhile attackers by mistake-this suit was easily as strong or stronger than a dozen men and the investor could easily picture himself beheading some poor wretch with a casual backhand... Such morbid thoughts occupied him until the Broad Street Trust rose before him, two stories of brick squatting by the street like an overstuffed giant at leisure. Robert Lake and his child had scored no marks for beauty when building it, but for the limited budget they and the work crews had built as strong as they could afford to...Albert crossed past the bright gas-lamps, over to the South wall, and then to the very back where there were no windows. He divested himself of his hat and oversized coat, donned the strange bronze-colored helmet and activated the Thraex with a mental command. Now to see if Venn's Gravitic clamp works as advertised he thought-and moments later he placed his hands against the wall and climbed the walls of the Trust with a full pack as easily as if he were walking along the seashore. Once on the roof he acted with haste-Venn had told him that the clamp had a limited span, and while the roof was only slightly pitched Albert would need every edge. The investor took his gardening trowel, sharpened to a deadly edge, and used the pressure of his titanic artificial muscles to score a deep line in the tar-papered roof. As he continued to work Albert fretted over all the compromises they had been forced to make in the designs of the Trust-tar paper over wood instead of asphalt and slate shingles, plain brick instead of stone and of course the Vault itself. Lake Investiture could never have afforded a thick steel vault like any Bank should have-and so they had layered the entire back room in red brick, six layers deep, and a door comprised of four-foot-thick iron-banded oak like some ancient fortress, and of course it was the Devil to get into on damp days...Albert had argued later to upgrade the roof, clad the red brick with white limestone, replace the oak door with steel-and the other four Partners had blocked his vote every single time. They particularly didn't understand why Bert had wanted a steel roof spiked onto the thick brick vault-after all, they had reasoned, unless some foreign power built some army of armored War Balloons who could possibly attack the Trust from the sky? I could, grinned the investor behind his helmet-and lifted a perfect 4'X4' section of roof, setting it gently aside.
(Wrecking Roll with Stealth Check!-Editor)
He felt a slight slippage as he did so-it seems the Gravitic Clamp was exhausted. Oh well, that's what the fifty feet of hemp rope was for. Feet hit brick floor with little noise, a tiny candle-lamp provided adequate light, and a rolled-up coat was sufficient that no prying eyes would spot anything under the vault door. The deposit boxes had numbers rather than names, but anyone authorized to guide a client into the edifice knew the filing system-particularly if he was the Majority partner at the Trust. His own box, laden with spare cash and stocks, was- Completely empty. Huh, those two had worked fast hadn't they? Well, Albert Lake knew for a fact that both attorney Mark Fromme and partner Dennis Halsted had boxes in the vault-let's see how they like being swindled! The investor didn't think that they would be stupid enough to store his own materials in those boxes, but-wait. Good Lord, they were that dense...because in Fromme's Deposit Box lay the entirety of Albert's stock certificates for Broad Street Trust-and neither signed nor transferred! Over $2000 to the right buyer, and proof of ownership of 41% of the Trust itself...of his coinage and gems there were no sign, obviously the attorney had quietly liquidated them-Halsted's box had nearly no money at all, the young fool spent it like water. But in the far corner was his sister's ivory brooch, his great-grandmother's silver toilette set and-letters? Correspondence between one Mark Fromme and one Dennis Halsted, judging by the seals on the envelopes-into the heavy valise with all of it! And now to make an exit-no. An idea struck Albert like one of his sibling's fits-and like a fit he could not resist it. He opened every single box, procured $50 here, a silver certificate there, a brooch, a gold watch, pearls-mixed it into two plies, and placed one pile apiece into both the attorney's and the his former partner's boxes-and locked everything up tight. What he had just done would have been unthinkable six months ago-but these two were monsters- (No-not monsters, only wicked, greedy men. You've met real monsters-those you kill. Never forget the difference) Albert Lake listened so very carefully-but not a suspicious motion from the two night watchmen on duty. Probably asleep or drunk, thought the investor savagely. Well they'd get no references from him...coat and valise and trowel and candle were gathered up, an easy shimmy up the rope, slice the knot, carefully replace the roof section and smooth down the tar paper. The Broad Street Trust had been successfully burgled, and not a soul would know until the next heavy storm... Now for the escape thought Albert, and strained his eyes against the night. And less than 2 miles from the Trust, he could see it-four lit lamps gently moving as in a gavotte. Bert estimated, remembered the City Map-and activated the power lazily seeping through his blood...and leapt into the night. The first mighty leap carried him all the way past Madam Rahab's place, and not a light shone in any window as he landed just past the vegetable gardens. A moment to orient himself, another leap-and he overshot the dirt road and landed knee-deep in a pigsty...good thing that the Cassadys had stabled all their animals for the night. A final, weaker leap and he was only 50 yards from his house, with Venn slowly rotating a clothes-rack with four lit lamps. His blood tingling with exhausted energies, Mister Thraex (so Venn had insisted calling him) waved tiredly. "Success?" Verona Lake asked, dousing the lamps. "Victory," replied her brother. "I'll take those in then. You need to wash that ordure off by the well..." **** "I'm glad you can see me on such short notice George." George Hawkins, president of the Light City Savings and Loan met Albert Lake with his usual firm handshake. "Bad news travels fast Bert. I'm sorry that you trusted that serpent Fromme." "So am I George, so am I. I only hope that you aren't in business with him, you'll need to count your fingers-" "I did actually have the loathsome creature on retainer-but no more. And he's lost other business as well-word gets around. Sherry?"
"Thank you. If I have my way Fromme will be disbarred for this-but he and his partner can do quite a bit of damage on the way down-and I mean to stop them." "That worm actually has a partner?" "Dennis Halsted-witnessed a false document, and now the whole mess is tied up in probate. Worse-I suspected irregularities in the cash flow. I was about to call for a full audit when I had a...Family emergency-" Hawkins sipped his sherry thoughtfully. "I heard...about that too, a bit. I'm glad that you found her again. So-you suspect Halsted for an embezzler, you disappear before you can audit the books and now you've been locked out of Broad Street Trust until the legal knots are untied." The banker sighed heavily. " I know that we're technically Rivals-but that never stopped us from being friends. If you need a loan to get back into Investing again, I know that you're good for it-" "I don't need a loan, George," hissed Albert quietly. "Pull down the shades please-thank you. Now listen carefully-the BST has pulled the Sunrise Cannery account. Jacob Gretz was making every payment and then some-and they just pulled the rug out from under him. I have a feeling this is only a first step-if Halsted starts calling loans due and then scarpers with the funds, Lighthouse Bay itself could hit a recession. We need to stop them George." "Well, you're locked out of BST, LBS&L is your official competitor and Ted Walker's little Grange Farm Loans isn't big enough to play in the same pond yet. What do you propose?" Albert opened his bag a dumped the contents over the banker's desk. "My proposal is-you buy me out. This is 41% control of the BST-and for this week and part of the next I know for a fact that two of our stockholders are on vacation, in Texas and North Carolina respectively. Buy me out and tomorrow you can walk into the Trust, call a Stockholder's meeting and make that bank a satellite of LB&SL! Or if the rot goes too deep-you can order a liquidation and offer my clients a home at the Lighthouse Bay Saving and Loan." George frowned. "If I have to do that your stock becomes worthless, and I take a huge loss-" "Did I mention that the majority stockholder owns the actual building and the land it sits on? Worst case scenario George, is that you become the only major bank in the Bay, and then sell the real estate for a profit. Best case-the bank is mostly sound, you sack a few greedy b******s and you have two banks under the LB&SL umbrella. Buy me out, George." Hawkins sighed heavily."Albert-you know I can't give you even close to fair value on those-the bank is too heavily invested to just liquidate the amount these stocks are worth. Any offer I make you is going to be...completely insulting." "I know George. Make it anyway." The banker swallowed."If I start liquidation right now-I can get you 50% by the end of the day. I'm sorry." The investor held out his hand. "Deal. This isn't about money anymore George-this is for The Bay. I'll take it." Hawkins hesitated. "Wait. Can you take an official IOU from this bank? For, say, three days?" "Well, I think Jacob Gretz can hold on for another week at most-he isn't going to give up his cannery without a fight-" "So you're making a personal loan to him?" " A full grant, equal to the loan the bank took back from him-in exchange for a modest 10% partnership. I think that he'll go for it." "All right then. If you can wait three days-I can go up to 60% of value on these. It's still a d****d insult to you, but-" "Just shake on it George. And let's get some coffee instead of the sherry. And some witnesses."
****
"Good Evening , Mister Fromme."
Mark Fromme sat behind his desk and looked at Albert Lake with undisguised contempt. "So is this an attempt at a mutual agreement-or have you simply come to harass me?"
"Neither one," replied Albert Cheerfully. " I've decided to earn some extra coin working the Post-your mail, Good Sir."
"Is this a joke? These aren't even in envelopes..." but the attorney began to read the letters then, and slowly assumed the color of chalk.
"What I cannot imagine," began Albert conversationally,"Is why either of you would be stupid enough to place your intentions in correspondence to begin with."
Fromme waved his hand over the letters "Halsted thought that I would cross him without-mutual evidence of our enterprise. I needed him badly enough to agree. I don't suppose that you are selling these?"
"I am not. Those are mimeographs-other copies have been mailed to the Rhode Island Bar, the Lighthouse Bay Press-and the originals are at the Courthouse."
"I see. Did you come to see me beg then, Bert?"
The banker shook his head. "In honor of our old association Mark-i'm giving you enough time to run-and never come back. Understand?"
The lawyer sighed. " I'm too old to run, too old for prison and too old to start over...I suppose Mister Halsted is already telling all within hearing that he is an innocent little lamb and I, the devious mastermind?"
"No Mark-Dennis was present during a Banking Audit-and when given the Trust's findings...he went into his office and...took the Gentleman's way out.
" There is that," replied the attorney,"and I do have the means nearby. Thank you for your courtesy Bert-but I am a busy man today."
"Au Revoir Mark."
" No. Good-bye, Bert."
The banker was nearly at the ground floor of the office when he heard the shot.
****
The living room had one maple bookshelf, a few decent volumes housed therein, a few comfortable chairs, the kitchen had some decent stoneware plates and mugs, an actual table and chairs and a well-stocked pantry. Albert Lake had a bed and a nightstand in his room-but Verona had insisted on the hammock instead for some reason. The Lake home wasn't completely refurnished yet-and it wouldn't be as opulent as before-but it was quite livable. And with Abigail Lessig no longer needing to hide in a prison cell in fear of her life-and paid $100 for the recovery of any Lake property she could trace-things were looking up.
I only hope, thought Albert, that she finds Father's books, Mother's Vermeer and Verona's dolls-the rest can frankly go hang.
"AAAAAUUUUUGGHH!!!" screamed Verona Lake, and Bert had knife in hand by the time he hit the kitchen. But Venn was just screaming at the morning paper as if it could hear her. "The Lantern Tribune! We need to KILL THEM Bert!"
"Oh for Heaven's Sake Venn-" Bert took the paper and skimmed it. "Well, what do you know? Our 'Mysterious Insider Tells All' article made Page Four."
"That's not the point,"sulked Verona. "They got your name wrong. Threax! It's Latin for a gladiator! Ignorant fools, I need to pry open their skulls and pour some Latin in! YNNNeeearrggg....."
"So i'm Mister Tricks, am I?" chuckled Albert. "Let's just allow it, shall we...Venn? Those packages-did you go shopping again?"
"Noooo...not until we agree to the list, you said we were on a budget."
"Correct. So where did-"
"A woman came by-I thought that she was a burglar so I was going to tie her up and maybe examine her brain but-she had two of my dolls.And some books. And Mama's Vermeer...so we had tea instead and she was really nice."
Albert swallowed heavily. "Yes. I'm very glad you didn't examine her brain. Did she leave a message?"
"What? Oh yes. She said you were going to be mad about the Vermeer though, because, ummmm-"
"It's a forgery Venn. I've known for years-but it's lovely and Mother owned it. I don't care about its worth."
" Oh that's good! And these books are about people who live under mountains and hills, and how sometimes people can find their cities and sometimes the cities aren't there when people go to burn them down-I think we need more of these."
"Hmm? Yes...the Lantern on the first Saturday of the month? Venn-I think we might need to go to this. Will you be all right meeting other people?"
Verona pondered the question."Can I carry one of my dolls? Sometimes I want a scalpel or a tissue extractor or a corkscrew in my hand and if I have a doll I squeeze her and the feeling goes away."
"Venn, you may absolutely carry a doll-I insist. Just...not that one." Albert pointed at Verona's current companion-her porcelain head cracked open and stitched closed with wire, hair burned away and two black marbles for eyes.
"Oh no, no Eliza isn't good at traveling-the last time she left she cracked open and all of her sanity leaked out. But now she's home and I did some surgery on her and now she's just like us. Isn't that wonderful?"
...and that's when Albert realized that the doll's eyes were following him, and that it was far too early in the day for whiskey, Blast it...
END
***
(Okay...Albert Lake gets XP for defeating four DeRo warriors, and half of the money he 'liberated' from the bank...+1 Karma for saving his sister's life, another for recruiting and activating her, one for saving the Sunrise Cannery...he had three from previous World building, spent two on a Wreck Silently check ) spent some to bring his XP up to 500 and kept a few points for his next PC. Overall not a bad session, Soap Opera withstanding.-Editor)
|
|
|
Post by order99 on Sept 13, 2021 7:48:43 GMT
Crossroads Illustrated Presents: Journey Towards the Light Issue #5 "Down the Passage Which we Did Not Take" Writers: order99 and Dayspring Editor: Black Alice Pencils and Inks: Pure Imagination
order99-So, we've got all the Main Cast made, we just need the backups now...so is it Black Alice or Dayspring for an Origin Issue tonight?
Black Alice-Hey...missed one, didn't you? Or did you change your mind about wanting to play?
order99-I...OH GRODD YES I WOULD! I just didn't know if you were-still wanting to do the multiple Editors bit. I mean, yes I would love to but if-
Black Alice-(Grins and cracks knuckles) Oh I am SO ready...still got the stats we all rolled before the first game?
order99-Absolutely. I bought down his INT and WIS down a touch and boosted his STR up, hope you don't mind.
Black Alice-Not at all. A straight-up Fighter will be a nice change!
order99-Oops! Apologies in advance then. Not doing a Fighter.
Black Alice-Well, okay. Bring on whatever twisted weirdness you have in mind-i'm not afraid!
order99-(turns gigantic coffee mug to show that it's already empty) You will be. You will be.
Black Alice-eep. (clicks imaginary seatbelt).
****
This tea is amazing. I didn't get much tea at the Monastery, and it was really watery when we got it but this is wonderful! It's going to be so great being back in Scotland again, especially if everyone is as generous and kind as you are. It's going to be hard finding my parents' families again, I mean I hear that Connor is a really common name here, but i'm sure that eventually-
I'm sorry...you look really confused. My parents were definitely from here. I mean, I don't know if they were Nobility or anything important, but i'm sure that they were well-off. I was very young when they died, but before then I remember light and warm arms and a full belly-they were really tall but when you're young everybody's tall, so...
Oh yes, quite dead. There was a journey over water-I was too young to know the why of it...and when the Angel Men found me on the shores of Shamballa there were no other...survivors. I suppose the ship sank with all hands-all of those poor souls...
[Panel-on the shore of the Thames,a man and a woman, threadbare and malnourished, clutch desperately at a valise full of pound notes...they cannot look anywhere but the ground. The woman is in tears, the man nearly so. Exiting the panel is a clean-shaven man in a grey flannel suit, carrying a toddler as if he were a sack of meal. The auburn-haired infant has no idea what is going on but is terrified beyond his comprehension and screaming... .]
It was really a shock to lose my parents at that age and i'm pretty sure that I was really, really upset-but the Angel Man-the one who patrols the shores to warn away stray vessels-he just passed his fingers in front of my face and I remember being so calm, so very very calm and I knew that I was safe with him. And when I awoke? The others had made a special apartment, just for me! I was so, so very grateful to them!
[Panel-a tiny toddler with an ether-soaked rag on his face lies on a straw bed in a tiny, windowless stone cell. Iron bars mark the foreground. A hand in the Right portion of the panel is making notes on a pad-the watermark on the pad reads 'Bethlem Royal Hospital'. The Notes read-"Behavioral Study #13-begin with full physical examination, Bertillion Identification then mark subject as per"-the rest of the Notes are off-panel]
It was decided that I would be taught the ways of the Angel Men-be privy to their greatest secrets. No mere Scots lad had ever been so honored to behold such things, and no one was certain if I could become as they were-but wouldn't it be wonderful, they reasoned, if I could? It was decided that I would be trained as they were, and released back to Scotland when my training was finished in order to bring the culture and techniques of Shamballa to the uninitiated-I only hoped I was worthy!
[Panel-the auburn-haired waif is measured with tape measure, calipers and his teeth looked at by white-coated men as a grey-coated orderly hangs him by his wrists-he has no idea what is happening or what they are saying but the tears won't stop running down his face. A place behind his left ear has been shaved and a tiny, freshly-inked '13' is now visible there.]
The diet was pretty bland-nourishing gruel, hardtack to help my teeth grow in strong, a watery tea to keep me hydrated and active-and lots of exercise to make me strong and fit as a grew. I mean, lots of exercise-walking, stretching, pushing heavy objects-it was quite a workout for a growing boy! But i'll bet that there was no one stronger for my size by the end of the year, not even the Angel Men themselves! Even if I couldn't learn their ways I at least had all this healthy training...
[Panel-a boy of six or seven years is manacled to the post of a treadmill and pushing with all of his might. Sweat drips from him like a river, washing away streams of pink from a sliced-open back. an orderly with a lash stands behind him, waiting for signs of weakness. The boy's lips are bleeding freely-he's bitten them through. But there are no more tears-the boy has run out....the treadmill seems to be hooked to a motor of some sort, wires leading to a Galvanic Battery.]
It takes more to learn the unique disciplines of the Angel Men than mere physical fitness though-it takes immense concentration, will and flexibility of the mind-so despite the reservations some of the Angel Men had, I was placed in the courtyard to spar with the other Initiates under the watchful eyes of the Senior Staff. Naturally, I didn't win a single spar at first, but I really wasn't expected to-I mean, I had no training whatsoever and even the smallest of the Initiates towered over me-the Seniors said that it was enough that I keep trying, more and harder and better, and by the time I actually won a victory I would have the discipline to learn at least the beginnings of the techniques they wished to gift me with. But it was hard, some days.
[Panel-POV shot of a boy's hand, gripping the bars of his cell. Two larger, adult hands sleeved in an orderly's jacket are prying his fingers loose. Two other adult hands have the boy's arm. Beyond the bars are two more orderlies-one looks sick with guilt even as he pockets his pound notes-the other has turned his face away weeping and his wad of money has been thrown to the floor. Whatever is happening in that cell is...unspeakable.]
I tried my very, very best but it wasn't enough-but I did hit one of my sparring partners hard enough to break his Owl mask and even draw some blood, though he pinned me seconds later. I'd opened my hand pretty hard on the mask though so the Senior on duty decided to give me a few day's rest to heal, and to show me a new technique to focus my will. I was given a heavy coat to keep me warm and a temporary residence far away from my old one, quiet and still-and there I learned the benefits of fasting and mediation. After a few days they slid some food through the door, but I was getting really good at this fasting bit-besides, I was really comfortable in my warm coat and didn't want to take it off to eat. Also, there were others in my cozy little retreat and they'd been fasting longer than me so I let them eat instead...it was only right.
[Panel-the boy is in a straitjacket on a cold stone floor in a dark cell. His nose is broken, his lips bleeding, two black eyes-and his hands look like he has been breaking bottles over them. His hair is beginning to turn grey like an old man's. His face has no expression and his eyes see nothing. Several plates of food are being eaten by half-starved rats. The rats crawl over the boy's body but he doesn't seem to notice. He has reached an empty space in his head where he can no longer be hurt.]
Anyway, after i'd meditated long enough the Angel Men came for me and made me eat again, and then a few days later I was back at my exercises-it felt like a step backwards but one of the Seniors told me that everything had to be in moderation, and I needed to get bigger and stronger in order to handle more techniques, and I guess that made sense. So I kept up the meditation exercises but I stopped fasting and ate everything I was given-well not always because sometimes I had small visitors in my apartment and I made sure they got fed too-it was only polite though. The rest of the time-work, work work work....but I was getting bigger and stronger, and my discipline improved as well. The Angel Men didn't have to cheer me on anymore, I had learned to cheer myself on inside my own head, and i'm not sure if if that's an Angel Man technique or something I improvised but I really, really like it-I feel stronger and more capable when i'm doing it, and I think my fellow Initiates are noticing the difference.
[Panel-the boy is at the treadmill again-he seems roughly twelve or so now. The orderly has been tied to the front of the treadmill by his own lash, and the boy is gazing down at his terrified face with the smile of a happy Buddha...the treadmill spins below his powerful legs like silk and there are now three Galvanic Batteries hooked into it. The door behind the two is being slowly chopped through with a fire axe.]
I think that the Angel Men are really proud of my progress because after I showed them how far i've come in my conditioning, they came and dumped an entire river of water over me! It was cold and bracing and got into my ears and I finally felt really, really clean. I yelled as loudly as I could for someone to soap my back but I don't think anyone heard me over the noise and anyway I was manacled to this large 'T' frame so that all the water wouldn't accidentally knock me over while I luxuriated in the powerful tissue massage. Much much later I was wrapped in layers of cloth and one of the Seniors told me that if I did that again he would subject me to the 'hydrotherapy' until i'd 'learned my lesson'. I was so overjoyed that I wished I could remember how tears work again, and I told him that I would repeat my performance over and over and over again for more of this bliss-but could they please soap me down first? But then the Senior turned away from me and started muttering to himself...I guess I appeared too eager? It's hard to tell with the Angel Men sometimes.
So I kept up my conditioning but I guess the Angel Men figured out that I didn't need as much coaching as I used to because now I was alone for most of it. I tried to add to my routines to stave off the boredom-yes, even the training of Shamballa can get boring if you don't vary the routine, so I did. All of the exercise and filling nutritious gruel was finally beginning to show on my frame-the other Initiates didn't look quite as big as they used to. I couldn't wait to be allowed in the Courtyard again for more sparring!
[Panel-the boy appears closer to fourteen or fifteen now. He has slid the 500+lbs Treadmill and the five 100+lbs Batteries over to the far wall, and is sprinting on the treadmill like it was a mere ribbon. It seems he is practicing his punching techniques on the plaster of the wall-there are craters in the plaster and the teen's hands are caked in plaster dust and blood, not that he seems to care. Behind him, a pale, sweating orderly seems to be attempting to unlock the door and escape, but another orderly behind the door just holds up a short straw and points to it.]
I did it I won my first spar! It was so completely unexpected, the Initiate was twice my size and fast as lightning but somehow he got distracted and I tried one of those Special Holds that i'd seen a Senior do and the Initiate went completely limp under the robes and the fish mask and I raised my arm in victory! Only now i'm worried that it was a bit too easy-what if he felt sorry for me and let me win? I'll ask him later after I get my Victory Shower...
[Panel-in the background is an open cell door and in the cell is a young female inmate huddled in the corner with a bleeding mouth. An orderly lies across the opening-his pants lie several feet into the cell. The pants-less orderly lies supine with a leather belt drawn tightly across his neck...his face is purple, his tongue is black and his eyes are bloodshot-he is obviously quite dead. Over him stands our youthful protagonist, grey hair streaked with white like a halo of lightning and his expression is that of an angry god. Behind him are three orderlies with nets-but two more behind them are cheering, for Bethlem Royal Asylum is not completely bereft of decency, just mostly...]
I don't know if the Seniors were actually celebrating my victory or just indulging the poor Human-but I had the longest Hydrotherapy ever...I came out of it loose and limp and cool as a wet towel-I got some of it in my nose this time but that was okay.I just wish that they had remembered the soap this time, but i'll remind them next time.
The next night was even better though-one of the biggest Initiates I had ever seen walked into my apartment in this amazing wolf mask and robes and introduced himself as R'inn. He offered to spar with me and give me some pointers on my technique-well of course I accepted! My apartment didn't have much furniture so we decided to spar right there! Needless to say he won-he was bigger, faster and more advanced-but I gave him a good workout! We were both sweating and bleeding by the time we were done, and he'd only defeated me with a grapple so really he had to let me go eventually. I offered to try for two out of three and R'inn acted shocked for some reason-I guess he thought i'd be too tired? But then he rubbed his mask in thought and decided that I just might be ready for a Secret Training-the ability to levitate!
Well, i'm not one to turn down free training, so R'inn showed me the deep breathing exercises, the right hand positions, the secret mantras...and I put one foot on the railing surrounding the Ground Floor and launched myself into the air-R'inn even gave me a helpful push, Bless Him. And for nearly five seconds I actually suspended my body in the air! But the Mantra twisted in my all too human brain and I couldn't maintain it. The worst part though is that I really messed up the stone floor beneath me and now i'm sure that the Seniors are going to make me repair it with plaster and stone dust! I just hope that R'inn doesn't get into too much trouble for teaching me a Forbidden Technique...
[Panel-a broken body with limbs askew like an abused rag doll lies unseeing on the Ground Floor of Bedlam-the stone floor is literally cracked from the fall. Above, near a broken guardrail, three orderlies have pinned a burly, dark-haired orderly(with the name tag of WREN) to the floor while a white-coated man with a thin mustache and glasses is screaming at him and waving a dozen charts in the man's face-his act of violence has seemed to have ruined something important to the doctor.]
Sometimes I just can't figure the Angel Men out-instead of being angry that I tried an advanced training, they seem to be allowing me access to...more? Was it the fact that I actually got it to work for a few seconds? At any rate, they put me on a really comfortable bed on wheels and took me into a large white room with lots of strange metal idols of some kind, and the words all began to blur together into a chant of some kind and then everything blurred and all sorts of new colors appeared...and the Gateway opened, and I saw the Insect King.
I don't know why the Angel Men decided to show me the Greatest of Secrets-I still don't know if the Insect King is a god that they worship, an Ideal they intend to evolve into, a concept they admire or any combination thereof-i'm just a stupid Human, what do I know? But it was regal and beautiful and flawlessly perfect, two compound eyes like a dragonfly's, antennae like an ant's, a body like a preying mantis' and eight legs like a spider's only mantis-like...and in all the colors of the rainbow. So pretty and graceful as it moved and surrounded by tiny shooting stars. The Insect King spoke to me then, all buzzes and clicks pauses and chirps-and I tried so hard to understand. I tried so hard. But I couldn't-I wasn't ready for the tongue of the Insect King and I didn't know if I would ever get another chance...sometimes I wish I could remember how tears work again, because at times like these my eyes itch.
[Panel-a team of nurses are desperately attempting to keep the youth alive-fluids are being injected into him and limbs are being re-socket-ed and splinted, neck braced...three orderlies are injecting three identical syringes into the teen as the doctor wildly waves his arms with a single index finger held up-whatever the patient just got it was a triple dose. The body is foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog and the open eyes are all pupil...and above the Operation Theater with its white walls and mysterious machines is at thin, translucent phantom of what the youth is seeing-the Insect King. A tall man with dark glasses, red cloak and an amazing silk hat is lounging by the door looking fascinated by the proceedings.]
When I awoke in my comfortable apartment with my wrappings and braces, I knew three things: 1) I could not understand the language of the Insect King-but it had taken pity upon me and given me understanding of an easier one. When my small furry guests spoke I could understand them now-and likewise they could understand me. 2) My Human name had been returned to me. I could barely remember it before my journey across water, and I had responded so often to my Shamballa name of 'Heyou Thirteen' that I had thought it my own. But now I know that I am Ash Connor. I might need that name again. 3) The Insect King had taken pity on my injuries and given me access to the Flame of Renewal. My braces would not be needed after all...
[Panel-a young man slowly cracks a plaster cast in his fingers-his braces are already gone. A near-invisible blue flame limns his entire body. Behind him, six rats appear to be dividing Ash's gruel and biscuits into two bowls and waiting patiently for the young man to join them.]
I feel that my training may be nearing its end. Perhaps the Angel Men can take me no further in my studies-perhaps they don't want to. Perhaps after seeing the Insect King I am on my own. And yet-none of the Seniors have suggested or even hinted that I should leave-maybe they don't know whether or not I should leave? Have they never trained a Human before? Are they waiting on me to suggest leaving? Maybe they just don't want to be rude?
Whatever decision I make-i'll have to make up my mind soon.
[Panel-Ash appears to be nineteen or perhaps twenty-he is gaunt but not starved and dressed in a plain cotton shirt and trousers. His hair has turned completely white and is floating around his submerged head like a halo. Ash is deep inside a glass tank full of water and iron manacles keep him completely under the surface. He appears to be slowly drowning...and thoroughly unconcerned about it. In the foreground a doctor is timing the young man on his pocket watch-four minutes ten seconds so far...]
I have to decide.
I have to-
I-
This is so hard. I need more information. I need more facts about-
No. This isn't about facts. This is about faith. Faith in my colleagues the Angel Men. Faith in the Insect King. Faith in my parents who died loving me.
Two Passages. One familiar, one dark.
CHOOSE.
[Two-page Splash Panel-Ash's POV. The first page covers half of the Operating Theater-which is covered in white paint, orderlies in grey uniforms, hissing machines, sparking electrodes and a multi-armed mechanism of some kind making some humming sound. But on the second page the machine has morphed into the multicolored Insect King, the Angel Men are resplendent in blood-spattered cream-colored robes and animal masks, the walls have Doric columns, there are trees inside the building with rats harvesting odd fruit and the Theater is open to a night sky full of stars.]
There. That was easier than I thought. Too bad I can't say my Goodbyes-but i've been on Shamballa for too long already.
[Panel-Ash is in the bottom of the tank, open-eyed and seemingly dead. His face bears a smile the Joker would envy. Everyone outside the tank of water is in full-blown Panic Mode.]
It isn't really fair to leave them like this. But if I tarry to give everyone a proper farewell then i'm just going to keep putting it off over and over until one day i'm old and dying-I don't think that my parents would have wanted that. I mean i'll miss all my teachers here-but I need to meet other Humans too. I need to connect my teachings to the world that I came from. And that means that I have to leave. Period.
[Panel-Ash sits up in the Bethlam Morgue. The orderlies have taken his clothing and only his groin is currently covered by the sheet...there is not a single full inch of skin under the neck that is not scarred in some manner, whether by knife or whip or burn. Muscles line his lean form like tree roots..]
Just a matter of Faith. Faith in the rightness of my decision. Faith in my skills. Faith in the ability to stop my own heart for nearly four minutes even though it was so hard and I never could before. Faith in the Insect King.
(yep, I made a Hard Skill Check and spent my 'worldbuilding' Karma I had saved up-the Editor was cool with it-order99)
And of course now i'll need a disguise of some sort . I wonder if there's a communal wardrobe somewhere nearby-wait, R'inn? R'INN! Over here! Oh great King R'inn, I thought that they'd thrown you off of the island for helping me try to fly! I'm so glad that you didn't get in too much trouble. It is so GOOD to see you! Just between you and me R'inn-you are the only Angel Man, Senior or Initiate...that I wanted to say goodbye to face-to-face...Thank You so much!
[Panel-Ash is indeed face to face with Mike Wren-who seems to have been demoted to Janitor if the green coverall is any clue.Then it becomes apparent that Wren's entire body is facing the opposite direction from his head and that the janitor is very, very dead. Ash is holding the dead man by his head and smiling at him with gentle serenity.]
No, seriously-your clothes? No that's a great idea but-won't you get in trouble again? Wait, you're leaving soon too? Any where in Human Lands or...oh. Oh, well, good I guess. I'll miss you but when you see the Insect King let it know i'm thinking about it!
I seriously do NOT deserve a friend like R'inn. A little broken glass to cut my hair short and the mask fits right over it...
[Panel-a tiny Janitor is seen leaving a gigantic Bedlam in the background. No one notices.]
So I walked and walked and just...walked. I had no idea at all that the island of Shamballa was so big-I guess that's what I get for never leaving the temple! At any rate, there was food just growing on the trees, not as filling as gruel but so much tastier-why don't they eat this in the temple?
It took a long time to find water, but eventually I did-and there was a mighty ship bound for Scotland! The captain didn't have any issue with an extra passenger, and Lo, I was Scotland bound...
[Panel-from under the tarp of a ship's longboat peer two grey eyes and a razor-blade smile...surrounded by a half-dozen pairs of tiny red gleaming rat's eyes.]
****
"-And that," crowed the young man with white hair, is how I arrived in Scotland!"
Nòndam Kìzis , known to the stone-tongued Whites as 'Hears-theSun', simply rubbed the bridge of his nose and handed the youth another mug of blackberry tea. It was obvious to the Algonquin shaman that this man was completely, utterly mad-and therefore a Holy Man. But his village was in a precarious position, trying to bend to the coming age like a willow without losing the culture that made them unique-and the last thing he needed was a Holy man from a White tribe stirring up the young ones into spirit-quests or attracting unstable manitou like Coyote or Raven right now. And if he took the youth to his tribe in nearby Lighthouse Bay-well, they put Holy Men in cages there...
And then the shaman's face lit up in a smile. There was one place his could send the young buck...to a man in the Bay, one Jurgen Larsen, a sometime ally against the...less obvious troubles that often stalked the Rhode Island coast. Sometime ally-and often an insufferable ass, prattling on about his 'One God' as if the rest of the world didn't exist...yes, send a Holy Man to the Holy Man, and a pagan to boot-both a present and a problem, just like Larsen could be...
"What's so funny?" inquired the young man politely, sipping his tea...
****
order99-so...what do you think?
Black Alice-Hun....you do not get to complain about any of my characters being 'too dark', not ever again!
order99-well, at least I didn't send mine to the gallows by Panel 3, ha ha ha ha ha....
Dayspring-okay, you two play nice now-i've got to see if my specially-marinated garlic-lemon chicken is ready for flipping on the grill...
Black Alice-okay, you fight well, talk to rats and have weird powers-Light City Cleric or some Hideouts & Hoodlums Fighter/M-U combo that takes longer than a Basic D&D Elf to Level Up?
order99-here you go.
Black Alice- WHAT the (Bleeeeep) is this (Bleeep)? a Super-butler? All that build-up for a ....Super-Butler?
order99-C'mon , ignore the Class title and check out the sheet! A Cleric/Paladin ability, a Thief ability, two abilities that literally twist Fate or add something to the Script, Fighter-type Attack Bonus plus a possible CHA benefit to combat, Fighter Proficiency with any weapon-
Black Alice-coupled with Mysteryman Hit Dice and Magic-User Armor. Glass. 'Effing. Cannon. Play this weirdo if you want to, but have a back-up ready when he buys it. I promise I won't go out of my way to be a Killer Editor, but...
order99-No problem. Here's my back-up PC just in case.
Black Alice-Okay, that's....WHAT AM I LOOKING AT HERE?
order99-Oh that's just the Light City Super-Pet Class!
Black Alice-What kind of Godforsaken Class allows an abomination that can carry the name of ...Rupert the Headless Cyborg Badger? Why would you DO this?
order99-remember what they said about Mount Everest?
Black Alice-GUHHHH!! Listen kid-I need you to burn that character sheet. Do that-and this...Mystic Weirdo of yours can have a Superhero Costume. Whattya say?
order99-you could have just said 'pretty please' you know-but okay.
Black Alice-Thank Prime!
END PART I
|
|
|
Post by order99 on Sept 15, 2021 7:02:00 GMT
PART II
Black Alice-I swear Day...Rupert the Headless Cyborg Badger!
Dayspring-Dear Merciful Buddha, i've got to see that character sheet...
order99-Too late Day, she threw the poor thing into that fancy garbage disposal of yours and hit "Dieeeeeeeee!!!!".
Dayspring-(holds back unmanly giggles)
Black Alice-you think that's funny? Fine, you run Pastor Larsen.....
****
Well, bad news-this apparently isn't Scotland. But how could that poor Captain steered his ship all the way to this America place? Also, Rhode Island isn't an island and the Temple here is made of stone and talks to ships at night? I wonder if this Mister Larsen has a map?
It turns out that Mister-I mean Pastor Larsen has many, many maps and a lot of books, more than the ones I saw in the Seniors' apartments, and I tried to read one but they aren't in the same language as the Initiates' Badges and then the Pastor gently turned it in my hands and I still couldn't read it. But then I heard a distant buzzing far away and I cocked my ears and brought the sound into focus and all of the letters started speaking to me and now I know that the book was about a man who was really, really angry that the club he belonged to was selling Indulgences-whatever those were-and he got so angry that he took iron spikes and nailed the entire book to the door! I really don't know how he did it without leaving any holes in the book and I would like to know how he did that so I asked the Pastor if he could teach me to do such a thing.
"You-can read Latin?" Asked the Pastor. He looked perplexed-I know I was.
" I don't know'" I replied. "What's Latin?" But then the Pastor pointed to the book and I understood and told him that the buzzing just behind my head read the words to me and Pastor Larsen acted like he didn't think much of that but told me that I should stay and we could exercise tomorrow, and then Nòndam Kìzis (he has two names just like I do, isn't that great?) acted like he'd tasted something bitter and wished me lots of Luck-whatever that is-and left. I don't understand-what's not to like about exercise?
Today was the strangest exercise session I have ever experienced. There wasn't a treadmill or anything heavy to lift and we didn't spar (also the Pastor told me not to spar without his permission but I don't see any Initiates here to train with so why would I?). Instead he made me stand in a circle and waved a t-shaped piece of wood at me and sprinkled salty water on my face and talked a lot of Latin at me. I didn't understand the sounds the way I read the letters but it sounded really nice so when I thought that i'd gotten the gist of it I shouted the words with him but I guess I wasn't supposed to? Anyway, he stopped the exercising long enough to tell me that he was trying to make Beelzebub come out of my body, and while I had never had anyone come out of my body before I don't have many friends here so I told him to go ahead but then it was night and Mister Zebub hadn't shown up-also I didn't know which body part he was supposed to come out of anyway. Pastor Larsen was very disappointed that Mister Zebub didn't appear-they must be really good friends!
[Panel-Ash is trapped inside a Magic Circle lit with candles inside a modest stone church. He is smiling and doing one-handed push-ups with his eyes closed. A priest in full regalia and trappings is beating his head against the wall.]
We stopped and Pastor Larsen went to bed early because his head hurt. I wasn't really tired so I read a book on the table called "The Hammer of Witches" and learned that 'exercise' and 'exorcise' are actually two different things-
Dayspring-(howls with laughter while we wait patiently for him to stop and Black Alice marks up a Karma Point)
-and I also learned that witches were very evil people and did horrible things to cattle and babies and that they should all be burned until they are dead. But I think the book needs a new Title because not one single witch in the book used a hammer even once for anything. So at breakfast I asked Jurgen (he says I can call him Jurgen when he isn't chanting to Mister Zebub and so on) what the best kind of wood was to burn a witch, and he just turned pale and started asking me lots of questions so I showed him his book. After that Jurgen told me that most of the witches in that book had really just been normal women and that burning people was wrong even if they had done something really horrible because burning alive was slow and painful and that nobody deserved to die like that. And that was fine with me because if all those priests couldn't tell a witch and a normal person apart I certainly wasn't going to try! Besides, I knew how long it took to heal from burns and we got into a discussion of chemical verses electrical verses fire and I rolled up my sleeves to show him how different the ones I got from the battery acid were from the ones where I hit both of the electrodes at once....and then Jurgen started talking softly like his throat hurt and he asked if I please remove my shirt.
This was Jurgen's house so of course I did and then his voice got very shaky like he was cold and he started asking me what happened so I pointed out the scars one by one and showed him which were from my Motivation Initiate and which ones I got sparring to improve my skill and which ones happened because I was stupid around the Batteries and didn't know better and the large ones I got when I actually flew for several seconds....and then he started asking about how I lived and I told him about Shamballa and the Angel Men and the Insect King just like I told Nòndam Kìzis, and by the time I finished it was almost night again.
I was going to ask Jurgen about his life because I already know about mine-but he wasn't moving and really pale and so I touched him to see if he was dead-that happens sometimes-and he started moving again so I made him an entire pot of hot tea because you get sick when you get cold sometimes you get really sick and die and I wasn't going to let that happen to my new friend. Once he was done with the second cup he just looked at me sadly and patted my hand and told me that "It would all get better from now on".
Well...of course it would-why wouldn't it? I was going to bring the teachings of Shamballa to my fellow Humans. Why wouldn't everything be better?
****
So now I need to find work. It was easier in the temple-you just did whatever the Seniors needed you to do and then they gave you the things that you needed. But here in the human world you have to find things that need to be done, ask to do them, agree on a price and get paid in these coins and paper bits. Then you go to a place that sells things, figure out what you need(or even just want?) and pay them money. It's a complicated process, but I can see the flexibility of it too.
So I go to a place called Madame Rahab's but when I ask for Mrs Rahab I get Rachel Sim (another person with two names like me!) and she recommends me for a Porter at the Lighthouse Bay Docks. Once the other men show me what to do (First Rule-don't move things until someone pays you and tells you where to put it!) it was really easy! A lot of people paid me to move a lot of heavy things-and the more I moved the more I was asked to move and it was great! I was getting all of the exercise that I got in Shamballa for free and they were paying me for it...this was fun! But the next day Rachel called me over and told me all the heavy things had been moved and that I would need to find another job-I don't see how we could be out of work with all those ships unloading, but Rachel wouldn't lie to me...
[Panel-Ash is casually walking, slightly bent, hauling a wooden cask on his back as big as his own body-the sweat runs rivers down his frame but he doesn't mind...a dozen men are pointing at him, some open-mouthed but many livid with jealous rage. Ash is, as usual, oblivious to the drama around him.]
I did make what Jurgen considers a lot of money for one day's work, so I ask around about other work and a man named Glenn Darrow-thin with hair as white as mine-tells me that he's too old to drive a cab anymore but that there was a lot of money in taking people places before his health made him quit.. He has a jitney-it's only good for two passengers at a time and a few bags, but he says it's easy to pull and that I can put a cloth roof on it for hot sun and wet rain. I tell him that i'll think about it, purchase a map of the city for my lunch and get some nice, thick boots-and go back and pay him half my earnings and buy the little cab.
First issue-whoever pulled this jitney before me must have been a giant! I cinch the leather up on the buckles as far as I dare and it's still too loose-worse, the handles are almost out of reach of my arms. Luckily the wood is very flexible and strong (Glen tells me that the wood is named Ash-just like me!) so I twist some rope until they start to creak, add a little heat with a lamp and pull them closer-and then I fasten two steel straps, one on the ends and one in the middle, and when the wood cools again the arrangement is just my size! Time to go find some paying customers!
[Panel-Ash is running pell-mell down the cobbled streets dragging a wagon-meant for a medium-sized horse or large pony-like an extra-large rickshaw. His two passengers are grinning from ear to ear. Half the bystanders on the street are pointing and laughing-but Ash is also grinning ear to ear and having a great time jogging around with 400 lbs behind him. Other cab drivers just look faintly disgusted. A family recently emigrated from the Han province lean over a balcony rail nodding in recognition.]
Yes, I eventually figure out that the jitney was made for a horse...but we didn't have horses at the temple, so honestly it was a pretty understandable mistake on my part. I ask around but it seems that horses are really, really pricey-and I don't know the first thing about feeding and caring for one....and i've already altered the rails and traces for my smaller body. So, why not just keep pulling it myself? People pay me decent money, they enjoy the journey, everybody laughs when they see me so i'm making them happy too, and I still feel like i'm keeping my training up-I don't want to get soft without a treadmill. I do have a problem with the brake levers at first, but I buy some thin but sturdy bamboo from a boy who makes fishing poles and run it through the traces and now I don't have to lock my knees and skid to a stop anymore.
Everything is going wonderfully until the fifteenth day when I lose the sole off of one of my shoes. I make a side trip to the cobbler's, pay for the repair in advance and commission a second pair, but it's going to be at least a day to re-sole the first set. So I go back to making money-only for some reason nobody seems to be laughing or enjoying the ride anymore, and one of my regulars-Ben Golding-triedsto pay me three times my going rate 'so that I can afford some shoes'. Doesn't anybody understand that I have more shoes on the way? And yes, the cobbles sting a bit but it's no worse than my sparring training with the stone surfaces back on Shamballa-why does everyone make such a fuss over fashion?
I normally work past sunset because most cab drivers won't but there's a bit of rain and nobody's out so I call it an early night and head over to Madame Rahab's because Wednesday means Shepherd's Pie and it is the most amazing thing that I have ever eaten. But as soon as I cross the threshold one of the servers-Erin I think-starts pointing at my feet and screaming...okay, so I should have washed them off a little better. So I go back outside and rinse them in the rain gutters and pick out some glass and a few small wire tacks and wrap some cloth around them before I go back in-but then Rachel is insisting that someone get a doctor and I finally agree to her terms as long as it means I get a big heaping Shepherd's Pie as part of the deal. I also order the cheapest whiskey on the menu and pour it in in the wrappings while I eat to disinfect anything I missed but for some reason that makes Rachel more upset rather than less and so I rent a room for the night just so I can eat in peace waiting for this doctor everyone insists on.
Don't get me wrong, the Doctor is a very nice man-Eric Porter is an associate of Ben Golding, and he acts like my feet are made of precious stones or something...but there's really nothing wrong with my feet that a good, deep cleaning won't cure. Instead Eric puts this white paste all over everything to 'reduce the swelling' and tells me not to walk on them for three to four days-why is everyone making such a fuss? And now there's a man at the door, begging me to get him to the train station because his wife is about to give birth...fine. It's obvious that i'm not going to finish my Shepherd's Pie tonight so I summon the Flame of Renewal to close the gashes in my feet, give Doctor Porter a dollar and steal all of the gauze in his bag, wrap my feet tight and drag the man (Billy Something?) into the jitney.
[Panel-Ash is wrapping his feet as subtle blue flames play across them. The large man in the doorway doesn't seem to notice-but Rachel Sim is behind him and both she and Eric Porter notice. They share a knowing look between them.]
I can't gallop as fast as a horse but most horses trot within the city limits and besides they wouldn't be any faster in the rain and the mud than I am. It isn't an easy journey, but it isn't very far and soon the train station is in well-lit view-and there are three men with pistols taking money from the Telegraph office and headed for the nearly empty train.
I place my hand over Billy Geller's mouth and point to the train. He nods and takes the long way in darkness to the back of the train-his wife is there. I see how close the men are bunched together...I never really knew the Telegraph Operator personally but i'm told that he was a good man-I really hope he isn't dead. I twist in the harness so that my jitney is in front of me and launch myself as fast as I can run towards these...persons...who would hurt other people for mere money.
They react, but not quickly enough, and I feel them crunch against oak and brass. (Surprise Check 5, 1D6+2 area attack hits AC 9/10 for 6 damage.)
I come out from behind my cab to inspect the damage-and there is a fourth man with a pistol and he barely misses me. I hate guns. They are noisy and loud and any stupid greedy person can use it to kill. I grab a pistol and hurl it directly at the idiot's face-he barely dodges it but his return shot goes wide and I hurl my body at his stupid little pistol and the flesh behind it. Just another Spar like at the temple.
The thug gets off another shot at me just before I reach him, but I use the Mantis blow of the Insect King and catch the bullet with my callused left palm-the bullet lodges in the callus and barely bruises my palm. ( Save vs Missles with Twist of Fate, 8 and 17-no damage).
The final crack of the pistol is nowhere near me as I twist his elbow backwards and as his finger tightens once more on the trigger the pistol is pointed at his own face and he drops the weapon-but there is a shriek behind me. A boy no larger than the suitcase he was hiding behind collapses in a spray of blood, and something breaks behind my eyes, and everything goes white.
This man-shaped thing before me-I'm not sure that it has a face. What happened?
Oh. Right. I happened. I hope that he lives-monsters like that should live long enough to suffer... but I need to get to the boy. He isn't breathing-but he's warm, still warm. I call to me the Flame of Renewal-
The Flame isn't there. I called it today, and I have never been able to call the Flame more than once per Sunrise-I can't help him. I can't help him. I-
My head is pounding and buzzing...that buzzing. The Insect King is near. I can't understand its language-even all this time I can't understand...but I know that it understands me. I plead for the boy's life, offering my own-it's a fair bargain. I am an adult, and my life has been full of adventures and discovery-this child is a dead future waiting to be renewed...I beg.
The King hears. The bargain is made and power flows through my body. I reach for the bullet in the child and it flies to my hand only to drop to the ground, and I seal the wound with the King's own flame. The boy gasps for air and awakens-and I crawl away from him, tuck myself into a corner and wait to die. (used The Wisdom and Power of the Hive to renew one of his abilities and use it.)
Something's wrong. Why am I still-
[Panel-POV of a toddler being carried away from his parents. They won't look at him.]
Wait-
[Panel-The Angel Man in the Hawk's mask fades away into the image of a slim, dark-haired surgeon in a stained lab coat]
NO. Nononononononononononooooooo......
[Panel-the glowing face of R'iin melts away into the dying face of Mike Wren. His killer smiles at him.]
YOU PICKED THE WRONG-
[Panel-the minarets and curves of the Temple fall away from the horrible utilitarian face of Bedlam]
THE WRONG ONE YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO TAKE ME!
[Panel-the Fish mask falls away and there is only young madman murdering a rapist with his own belt]
NOT HIM ME HE WAS INNOCENT I AM THE MONSTER!
[Panel-A young man launching himself to a cold stone floor from 25 feet up. He knows that this will kill him. He smiles with relief.]
I never understood the buzzing of the Insect King. I never will. But why oh King, why did you kill Ash Connor instead of me? Why?
****
Once- Once upon- Once Upon a time. Once upon a time a helpless baby was taken to a great stone building in London and there he was murdered. Slowly. I was there. I saw every cruelty. Every debasement. Every travail. Bit by bit I watched the boy die-piece by piece. I could do nothing but watch as the boy died.Nothing but grow fat in him as all tumors grow. I was his parasite. And then at last the boy was dead and I could feast on his body and grow strong and hateful. I emerged from the cocoon of the boy a pretty black deadly butterfly and all who had killed the boy paid in blood and pain.But the boy was still dead. I know only vengeance. Blood excites me. I dream of rivers and oceans and eternities of blood-but the boy is still dead. I used to pretend to be the boy, wear his face and skin. It was a decent mimicry-but only that. Did you expect a happy ending? Did you really? Fools. We are all fools.
[Panel-the railway station in a pre-dawn light. The rain has eased into dew. Police and medical workers clear bystanders, lead away a young boy of six or perhaps seven. A nervous father escorts his wife, carried on a stretcher and cradling their newborn daughter. A reverend, his sister and a young doctor are kneeling by a youth with dead white hair-but the young man doesn't see them. He has reached an empty space within his head where he can no longer be hurt.]
****
It took Nòndam Kìzis to explain it to me. I hadn't spoken for awhile I know and that worried a lot of people but it took a Shaman's words to make me see again.
What I experienced was real.
How I dealt with it was also real.
How it made me feel was real.
Bethlem Royal Hospital was real.
But so was Shamballa, because to a Shaman, dreams have a reality all of their own.
The doctors who tore into me, tattooed me and hurt me are real.
But so are the confusing, compassionate Angel Men. And so is Ash Connor who adored them and learned how to thrive in adversity and like it.
My friends have been careless, speaking around me when I was silent. They have secrets too. I will be a part of them. And the new face I wear must be one that holds all truths.
I haven't been using the jitney for awhile. Pastor Larsen offered me a job as groundskeeper and sexton-I thought about accepting but it turns out that i've been staying at the sexton's cottage this entire time that the Shaman brought the Ash part of me back to waking, and while the hungry insect face of me wants to bite him for it mostly i'm incredibly grateful. Both Jurgen and Rachel think that I should hide the things that I can do better...and back when I thought that I could bring Enlightenment to the Human World I would have argued. But I think that they just want me to be happy.
The carapace is flexible and does not hinder my speed. It collapses and turns into other clothing quickly if I need to hide. The green and black butterfly of my face shows both my wrath and my...hope? Yes, hope. But something is missing...Jurgen wants chicken for dinner and we have too many roosters so I don't need to shop for one this time. But instead of just breaking its neck this time I use a blade-and the spurting of the blood is what I needed so I drain Max into a bowl (sorry Max I tried to make it quick) and I carry the bowl into my bedroom and sprinkle the blood onto the carapace and a bit on the gloves. The blood...is real. The blood makes things real and now we are The Very Pretty Mister Butterfly because now we have a face and a carapace like the Angel Men do.
Today is my first day as sexton and I read all the books and now I know which plants Jurgen thinks deserve to thrive and which are weeds. If I were Pastor I would pick at random who to save and who to kill just like his God does-but what do I know?
Tonight over tea I am going to tell Jurgen what I know about his monthly meetings and ask to come along. I'll bet that they can use strong hands and a strong back. And in turn they can tell me when to be kind and peaceful and when I should be like the Insect King buzzing away in the back of my mind-I think that I hear the words a bit better now but they can only tell me how to be strong like the Hive.
My greatest delusion of all was that I am Human. I was never Human-I never had the chance to be. But my new Human friends will teach me for as long as I want to learn.
So...do any of you have really terrible mad days like those? Or is it just me?
[Panel-there is a casket in the left corner resting on soil. Ash Connor is shoulder-deep in a grave and has already set up the headstone. Ash is taking a break with tea and a sandwich. To the right of Ash is an open wicker basket-a crude sign in front of it simply reads 'Free Food'. The basket is swarming with rats, mice and squirrels and every one of them has food or is drinking from one of several shallow saucers. Fully half of the throng appear to be listening intently as Ash addresses them. In the background is the Rectory, and Pastor Jurgen Larsen leans against the corner looking gently resigned...]
END
****
(So-one Adventure completed, one more to Level Two as befits an LC character. Six Karma awarded total, two retained for later use and four kept for Ash Connor /Mister Butterfly. Sadly, LC characters don't get XP for beating up Bad Guys, so I assume that MB just does it for the sick thrills... )
|
|
|
Post by order99 on Sept 26, 2021 4:02:09 GMT
Crossroads Illustrated Presents: Journey Towards the Light Issue #5
"In Death's Other Kingdom" Writer: Per Negaton Editor: order99 Pencils and Inks: Pure Imagination.
Per Negaton-so, is this, um, a legal build?
order99-Per, this isn't Pathfinder, we don't get that complicated....whoa. I never saw a H&H PC with a Flow Chart attached. Wow.
Per Negaton-well, I looked at both the original and the 1st Edition set, the 2nd Edition, copied your House Rules and guessed the rest. So..legal?
order99-absolutely. Now, I just need two two conditions that limit your transformations, I can do the rest-oh, and are these your unmodified Ability Scores? Okay, you add these back into the Alter Ego since you aren't both Half-pints...oh, and if you want more of a contrast you have the option to buy/trade Scores differently but you don't have to-and you can split the XP between either Persona any way you want to, this isn't like the Basic D&D Elf...any questions?
Per Negaton-nah, i'm good. Uh, why'd you look weird there for a minute?
order99-you mean I don't always look weird? Just got some odd bounces on the Random Event Tarot Dice, i'll work it in-besides, you're already hip-deep in the Weird with the character sheet, haha....
****
A clatter of stones rattled just under the rotting windowsill of the boarding house and Marc Legrand was instantly awake. He gently raised the increasingly fragile leather-and-slat window and tossed a penny down to the waiting urchin with a wave of thanks, softly re-fastened the skin to the hooks. The landlord wouldn't pay for an honest repair, but at least Marc made a few pennies here and there from him with these free ad-hoc bodges, scrap bits to keep the real repairs at bay a few weeks or months longer. Oh, how he wished...
Derisive, acid laughter greeted him in the confines of his head. Marc Ignored it as usual-but he knew better than to use that word, even in the semi-privacy of his own skull. Wishes were dangerous.
He took out the leather mouthpiece that kept him from snoring-or worse yet, talking in his sleep-scrubbed his teeth with a carefully-feathered sweet gum twig, and settled down to another breakfast of carefully-hoarded bean-paste on ship's biscuit...a terrible meal, but a few more saved pennies and he could replace the alarm clock that mysteriously vanished four months ago while he had gone to work. Or a good knife, an actual wood-carver's blade and not this cheap fruit-peeler to carve with. Oh, if only-
More snickering in the back of his skull, and Marc remembered just how dangerous that phase could be too. He left the rented shack to head into town-Galte's Perfumery slouched two miles ahead with the promise of decent wages and at least one filling meal before nightfall. The food was inexpensive, but his employer had never skimped on portions and every man ate his fill before leaving.
Now if only the injuries and deaths would stop for awhile. The men were worked to near-exhaustion daily, but they weren't careless-these accidents seemed somehow inevitable, and nearly as regular as clockwork. Only three days ago, Paul Carnevan had come within an inch of death himself as a moving gear caught his hair and pulled him in, his hat blown off by some freak coincidence less than a moment before...Marc had jammed his broom handle into the gear and swiped poor Carnevan's locks short with his tiny blade moments before the gear on the Petal Press devoured the tip of his broom and resumed pulping vegetable matter into oil and juice. Poor Paul had been absurdly grateful.
The owner had not, and taken the cost of the broom out of Marc Legrand's pay. Sometimes Marc thought that Richard Galte cared more about his precious toys than men's lives-other times, he didn't bother giving Galte even the slightest bit of doubt-
More laughter in his head...enough of that. Marc Legrand pulled out a small iron flask half the size of his hand, and threw it with all of his might into a nearby boulder with a pleasant clang!-the fact that it instantly re-appeared in his pocket unharmed did not deter him from throwing the flask into solid rock over and over and over again...
You will be late for work, whispered the voice in the back of his skull, seemingly in pain.
"Be silent Importune", called Legrand to empty air, "or else I will spend all of the Sabbath at Church, submerge your flask in the Holy Font and then spend the entire evening tossing you into this rock until sunset. Understand?"
You could always wish for my silence, replied the creature petulantly. Whatever happens after-might even be a relief for you.
"And if I made my Wish and you claimed me at Death", teased Marc, "you would be passed to my son and the entire cycle begun again-except that you won't, will you now? I've beaten you and yours-and even if I falter and am Damned you will take no more. I have won!"
Just as well that we don't need any-
"What was that?" snapped Legrand, falling onto the comment like a hungry wolf on a lamb-but the Imp was silent. And the nagging creature remained blessedly so the rest of the working day as Marc swept and scrubbed and bottled oils and helped lift crates and spread goose-grease on moving components with a stick-and-wick method that he had come up with for Safety's sake...silent was the Bottle Demon on the walk back home, and silent for two days after.
Yes, the creature he called Importune had let something vital slip-and Marc Legrand would find out what it was...
****
Marc had been 15 when his parents had bundled him on the ship from New Brunswick to Rhode to New York Harbor-for once they had eaten decent food, had clothes that fit perfectly, and had plenty of money-but Marie and Jean-Paul Legrund had held to each other like desperate children in a tempest, weeping and muttering to themselves whenever they thought young Marc wasn't paying attention-and his father had removed his priest's collar, and he had donated all of this theological library to a parish in Nova Scotia-what had happened?
Marc did not find out on the first night, nor the second-and on the third night it was too late to ask-for that night the HMS Nimue had encountered a freak waterspout and cracked nearly in half just behind the bow. Only twelve souls were lost that night, a miracle considering how quickly the ship foundered-but Jean-Paul and Marie Legrund had been among those twelve, and morning found young Marc alone at Ellis Island with nothing to his name but the clothes on his back, a pocket full of Canadian coins-and a small iron flask in his coat pocket and a leather-bound book in the other. The overworked clerk misspelled his name on the paperwork and now suddenly he was a Legrand, though he felt anything but that...and alone in the state of New York. The boy used some of his precious funds to secure a modest room and a meal-and then he perused the thick book in his pocket...
It was horrible. The legends of the Crossroads Devil were true-and one of young Marc's ancestors had made the Deal of All Deals and cursed the entire line. You could have anything-anything you wanted-if you were willing to pay the Price. And if you gave in, then the flask went to your first-born male heir, who was then given the chance to accept or refuse. And the worst, most horrible part of the Curse was that not one single owner of the flask had refused the Deal-for if he had then the Curse would have been lifted and no other of the lineage would ever have been given the agony of a Devil's Choice...his own father, for the sake of his wife and child, had succumbed at last and wished for them great wealth and a new start in a prosperous land-not a completely selfish Wish by any means. But Jean-Paul paid the Price, and now both parents and wealth were at the bottom of the sea and he was alone and without means.
He could make a Wish right now and pay the Price, and perhaps be claimed quickly-but if his great Grand-pere and his Great-great-great Grandpere were any indication he would be allowed to live-at least long enough to sire an heir. There was always suicide-die before he could possibly have a child of any gender-but most believed that suicide was self-murder without hope of repentance-and the boy wanted at least a chance to resist Hell. Marc was the son of a Pastor and had resisted the lures of women, had hoped to wait until marriage-or at least another year or so. But he knew that he would inevitably succumb, he felt like an open wound right now, so very weak, and there were women here who would offer him fleeting comfort and peace for only a few gold eagles...and it took only once to sire a child even if he never knew it. It was all so horribly, grotesquely unfair. And a voice not belonging to Marc Legrand snickered inside his head.
And every single one of his predecessors, reasoned Marc, were absolute idiots. Why didn't at least half a dozen generations of farmers just see the obvious? Indignation took young Legrand to a local farmer, and there he paid a fair price for a well-used banding crimp and a dozen bands-buying only one would have looked suspicious after all.
Marc trembled with every step as he neared the Inn, his legs were water and his heart was a bird beating against a cage. But Marc used the sin of Pride to continue through the door, lock it and disrobe. He loaded the tool with a single band and placed it where it needed to be....his skin grew clammy and his breath grew short and his hands shook so very very badly, he couldn't quite trigger the crimp...
But the creature that Marc would later label Importune in dark jest laughed out loud in his skull-and in the end it was the sin of Wrath that steadied Marc Legrand's hands long enough to squeeze the lever and activate the powerful spring.
Marc had hoped that he wouldn't scream and raise the alarm below-but the pain was so intense that he couldn't scream, couldn't breathe-the two rooms on either side of him were unoccupied and so no one heard the agonized minutes of gasping, the longer wheezing and at last the thin, whispering moans the youth made...idly Marc wondered if he had inflicted such pain that Hell might no longer hold any terrors for him.
An eternity later-though it had been far less than a single hour-Marc was able to move again. His knees were unsteady and nausea still had him in its grip, but the pain had mostly been reduced to a sickening numbness. He slowly approached the mirror and observed his handiwork...the band around the testes had already turned them dark grey with dead blood-in a few days they would literally rot and would peel away like old paper, and any infections near the area were easily treated. The enraged snarling of a dozen angry dogs inside his head was another matter...
"You may as well cease your howls", muttered the young man to empty air. "The Curse is broken. Even if you tempt me and I succumb-and I might not-the line ends with me. You have lost."
The snarls inside his head redoubled.
"Tell me", snarled the youth in return,"If I decided to Wish that all of Hell be emptied forever-would I still be damned?" But only incoherent mutters answered him.
****
The leather journal eventually vanished-but not before Marc Legrand had etched every detail into his mind. And thanks to a moment's indiscretion the man now knew that the Bottle Demon (and by extension its Masters) only needed one more soul for...something. But what? And how many? The journal went back 11 generations, so the number for Earth was out, the number for Heaven didn't work, nor did the number for Heaven and Earth, nor the number of Completion...that left the number of Tribes of Israel, the number of the Sabbat or Anti-sabbath, the number of Ultimate Testing-no, surely no one had failed to resist or simply end the lineage before the 40th Generation? Marc had studied every book of occult lore he could find during the past decade, and every Scripture as well in order to rid himself of this blasted iron flask-if he knew the actual number of lives the creatures needed then he would have a vital clue as to their purpose...
Marc had often teased Imp with the most outlandish Wishes that he could-in theory-consider yielding his spirit for-"If I wished for all the souls of my Ancestors in Heaven, would I be the only one you keep?" "If I wished for all men forevermore to love each other as brothers, would you take the bargain?" "Tell me oh Importune," began Marc conversationally. "If I wished to know all of your plans for my family's spirits-would you risk telling me to get my soul? Or would it be too dangerous? And if you refuse the bargain, can you ever bother me again?"
But the Bottle Demon still sulked, and Marc Legrand had the longest, quietest night in ten years.
****
Per Negaton-(furious growling noises and gurgles)
order99-so should I duck before the Alien bursts out of your chest?
Per Negaton-ah, no...I had a late breakfast, came straight over when you told me the site had canceled, and, um, sort of skipped lunch.
order99-not a problem, I bought Sushi. We'll make an afternoon meal, then maybe dinner or a snack later.
Per Negaton-sushi? I thought you had a Dietary Restriction?
order99-I do Per, still Kosher. The shrimp are for you, the fatty tuna for me, the rolls featuring 'crab' are artificial and made with whiting, anything goes with the red and yellow snapper and the salmon. Shall we spray soy sauce and feast?
Per Negaton-my empty belly votes 'yes!'. So dude-how did you get to be a Kosher Baptist anyway?
order99-long story, i'll spill after the meal. Oh by the way-self-castration? Hardcore my dude....
END CANTO I
|
|