Advance Australia Fair [Old World of Darkness]
Reincarnated as a badass cyborg. We totally asked for this
- Location
- Canadia
[X] Pick up the bow. Just a toy in comparison to all the other weapons. You've never fired at a moving target. At a person. But you know how to use it. Draw and release.
The thing that keeps making me wonder is who exactly mom is in all of this. Dad is pretty clearly a Technocrat. But Mom is... not. Uncle Val is talking about rampant materialism being a sickness of the soul, and the true path is to let go of worldly attachments. That sounds pretty damn Akashic to me. And of course there was that Swastika. Ms. Jenkins wasn't at the wedding, which seems odd when you're dealing with someone who might be assassinated-unless dad thinks that mom's family is going to be able to take care of the problem just fine tyvm.
And of course there's the other, obvious question. If someone is high-up enough to afford the Bio Booster Meido Jenkins and Uncle Rob to keep his kids safe, why is he like, not living in a much safer area? Why's he out of contact with his kids so much-and why is mom so mysterious? Everyone seems reluctant to say what she does and talk about her side of the family. The whole uneasy compromise about 'religion things' is also interesting. Like, it's not a fight between raising them Christian or raising them Hindu. It's apparently a fight between any religion at all.
I think we're the products of a ~forbidden romance~, guys. Our parents are just a regular Romeo and Juliet. The implications here are... quite important.
And of course there's the other, obvious question. If someone is high-up enough to afford the Bio Booster Meido Jenkins and Uncle Rob to keep his kids safe, why is he like, not living in a much safer area? Why's he out of contact with his kids so much-and why is mom so mysterious? Everyone seems reluctant to say what she does and talk about her side of the family. The whole uneasy compromise about 'religion things' is also interesting. Like, it's not a fight between raising them Christian or raising them Hindu. It's apparently a fight between any religion at all.
I think we're the products of a ~forbidden romance~, guys. Our parents are just a regular Romeo and Juliet. The implications here are... quite important.
TenfoldShields
Lounging on a Hoard of Words
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Honestly? We might be we just didn't know it. Like...Pentex rolled up pretending to be the local police force right?
I think they didn't know that we didn't know shit but like...they're not really coming across as murder-monsters pretending to be police. They're coming across as murder-monsters pretending to be bodyguards pretending to be police. And Meghanada has talked a few times in the background narration about how it's a really nice neighborhood. How it's really friendly, everyone leaves their doors unlocked type deal.
It is interesting because if Dad's a Syndic working in a major city (which is a major center of, like, international finance) who can afford top-tier-combat assets for personal use and a nuclear blast shelter beneath his house he could almost certainly afford a railgun equipped mansion and shit. But he didn't, he went with something more discrete. Security that smoothly integrated into his kid's lives. A really good school but not some Ivy League Lite shit (dad didn't bail our asses out of the fire when we decked the Dave the Douche either). So...dunno.
Yeah! Honestly that seems likely. Especially since it was implied that Mom doesn't just camp out at the Gold Coast, she's there for at least as long as we are but not necessarily much longer. So she's presumably off doing Stuff.
It's interesting to note that this seems to have gone much better than Romeo and Juliet. I mean, dad converted to Hinduism and we see Mom at least every year or so.
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Or maybe we're looking at this all wrong and Zerban is Zerbaning. What if Mom is the Technocrat. There was an amicable breakup but Mom realized that keeping the kids near her was asking to be targeted. So she gets her bosses to get a planted housekeeper and neighbor to make sure they're safe. Remember, plenty of scientists are religious and the paradigm definitely supports people evolving to want some sort of comfort from religion. Dad's just a nice atheist buisnessperson whose job takes him away from home too much
The truth is out there!
In Mage, this is not inherently contradictory with "both lovers committed suicide."
[X] Pick up a strange gun. Like the ones you saw Ms. Jenkins and Rob using. Unwieldy, arcane, but they do more damage. You might leave a bigger mark. Might even fight your way out. Heh.
- Location
- Mountains and rivers
Huh. So Meghanada's senses got gud? It seems he noticed bullets flying and their exact flight path.
"L-Lakshmi?"
The dude who conquered Indra Loka.
Indrajit - Wikipedia, the free encyclopediaWikipedia said:
If you're wondering what kind of crazy shit Hindu mythology has, I'll just quote TV Tropes:
Mahabharata (Literature) - TV TropesTV Tropes said:
[X] Pick up the bow. Just a toy in comparison to all the other weapons. You've never fired at a moving target. At a person. But you know how to use it. Draw and release.
Just gotta make sure Lakshmi stays clear.
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- Location
- Hell (Britain)
- Pronouns
- She/They
...So what I'm getting is we're a reincarnation of Indian Gilgamesh
Nidhoggr
Suletta Permetta
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Hey, we're trying to survive here, don't mess things up....So what I'm getting is we're a reincarnation of Indian Gilgamesh
Chapter Eight: Astra
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
Your hand ghosts up the limb of the compound bow. It's cool to the touch, smooth. Aluminium or carbon fibre or something along those lines. Your hand wraps around the moulded, textured grip in the middle. Hefting it out of the cradle. It feels light, just the right weight. The long, cylindrical counterweight just below the grip makes the balance perfect. It's even better than the bow you got for your birthday.
Your birthday. Heh. Seems so long ago now. Like you haven't seen your mother ever since she gave you that bow. It's not much, barely anything - but part of you likes this. Being reminded of her and what she taught you, right before the end.
You test the draw weight. The tightly-wound string rolls smoothly through the pulleys. Draw-weight's too high for you, but it won't matter as much at this close a range. Seems simple. Feels simple. You take some arrows. A small cluster, maybe half a dozen, held sandwiched between the grip and your hand. You doubt you'll use them all. The arrow in your right hand nocks firmly, settling against the sights. They're ambidextrous, you realise, able to be flipped to either side of the bow. You don't use either. You're used to eyeballing it.
You don't have to turn to know that she's there. Test-drawing the bow, nocking her own arrow. Part of you's surprised that she even thought of it. You always assumed that she'd given up on practising, lost most of her muscle. You never really paid enough attention to her to know either way. The corner of your mouth quirks. Here, now, and you want to ask her how often she trained while you weren't around.
"Your stance is really good," she says quietly, unexpectedly. "You must've practised a lot."
The whirring and grinding grows louder. Slowly piercing the muffling bubble of the bunker. The stairway flickers as sparks pour in. The earth quakes again.
"Almost every day," you reply.
"You must be really good at it," she says.
Not good enough, you think.
The bubble is broken. Whatever's drilling at the door pierces through, assaulting your senses with a cacophony of squealing and grinding metal like nails being drilled into your ears. You hear an immense, dull, booming impact. A second as the vault door falls completely from its hinges, hitting the stairs hard. Sliding down like a steel avalanche from its sheer weight and momentum. It hits the bottom like a missile, cracking the hardened concrete, settling into a dusty crater as the dust and debris settle.
Running feet. Sprinting, dashing, tripping and stumbling. The shapes come charging down the stairs. They barely look human any more. They look leprous, cancerous, flesh sloughing off them in half-liquid sheets. Disguises, false faces, skinsuits. Their veins are bulging pipes, so swollen with blood that they've ruptured in places. Pumping streams of toxic emerald blood. Skin sallow and translucent and glistening with sweat, eyes jaundiced green pits with pupils so vast as to have almost completely eclipsed the iris. Madly chattering teeth, bloodied on their own mouths and tongues. Stolen uniforms bullet-riddled and frayed. All wounded, staggering, pushing through their injuries with sheer mad energy. Some disregard even missing limbs. None of them bring firearms to bear. They don't have the mental capacity to use them any more. The only goal in their tortured minds is to descend upon you and Lakshmi, and tear you to shreds with their bare hands.
Draw. Exhale. Loose.
The first goes down with a shriek, the shaft sinking through the remains of his vest like paper. Far enough to protrude out the other side. Another shriek, another body hitting the floor. Lakshmi's shot. You reach forward and pluck a second arrow from the fistful in your bow-hand, nocking and drawing it in the same motion. The pulleys roll on without flaw. The second arrow is launched. This one tries to dodge, ducking down. Succeeding only in putting its forehead in the arrow's path. Its head snaps back as if shot, nearly flipping as its own momentum takes its legs out from under it. The thrum of a bowstring as Lakshmi fires her next shot. Another goes down. There's a rhythm to it, like a pulse. The two of you pick your own targets, and never once do they overlap. The crowd thins, thins, and thins some more. You release your second-last arrow. One of them tries to duck behind a fellow to use him as a human shield. The arrow pierces them both, pinning them together as they fall. The last is undaunted, still screaming a wet, bestial scream as it charges. You... don't reach for another arrow. You don't know why. All you know is that you feel it's unnecessary.
Lakshmi's second-last arrow slips between the creature's lips and comes out the other side, fletching and all. It stumbles to a stop, blinking, confused. Pawing at the air. Trying to keep screaming, only to gurgle. Blinking with surprise, cupping its throat, as it slowly topples over. Dead.
All of them. Every last one of them is on the ground. Arrows in their heads, their hearts, bleeding in a twisted pile of warped flesh. You don't know how to feel. You know how you're supposed to feel but you... don't. There's no acidic reflux as your rebelling body forces you to retch up everything in your stomach. There's no revulsion at the pile of corpses, half dead at your hand. You're in shock. Everything's numb. Distant. You can't allow yourself to hope, not yet. Can't allow anything to cloud your focus. Find your centre, like Uncle Val always said. Be like water, flowing over and around obstructions, be-
A body rolls down the stairs, collapsing in a heap atop the others. Unlike them. Black chitin torn open in a dozen places by parallel pairs of claws. Just as many puncture wounds. Just as many clawmarks. Great, bloody chunks bitten and torn out of her. Legs, one arm, broken beyond all hope of repair. Smooth, blank, organic faceplate broken. You see a few wisps of blond hair. You see one green eye. Open. Unblinking. Lifeless. You didn't know Ms. Jenkins' eyes were green.
Lakshmi's next breath freezes in her chest.
Something comes down the steps. Something big. Something heavy. Something vast. Something moving slow, taking its time. Dragging something metallic, scraping, bumping down each step. The feet come into view first. Broad, clawed paws, big enough to smother your face. To crush your skull beneath the pad. Bulging, fur-covered calves. Trunk-like thighs. Two clawed hands, one curled loosely. The other wrapped around its prize.
The metallic heap is tossed. It sails through the air for a brief instant. Bouncing off the dead, rolling this way and that, finally landing with an almost gentle 'tink' on a patch of uncovered concrete.
Rob is almost unrecognisable. Nearly every scrap of flesh has been torn from his frame. His steel frame. It had a sort of artistry to it once. The robot's skeletal core was solidly built, strung in some kind of fibrous, black, textured substance like synthetic muscles. Thin wires crisscrossing like nerves. Joints and ligaments and tendons, 'organs', all mechanical. Disguised perfectly. None of that artistry remains. He's a ruined toy now, a cheap plastic toy that a child has finally grown bored with. His left leg is a crushed, dragging mess of twisted metal and sparking wires. The right has been pulled completely from his body at the hip, dark blue coolant of 'blood' pumping sluggishly from the wound. His chest is a crater, steel ribs cracked inward and crushed into a mess of razored shards. He's been disembowelled, more dark blue fluid gushing from his rent stomach as intestine-like tubes spool in the growing pool. There's a bite taken out of his skull, a huge chunk of the left side of his head missing. You can see his brain, or whatever it is that passes for one in his skull. Electronics. Wiring. Software and hardware. His one remaining eye stares up at you, a beady little pinprick of scarlet in a ruined socket. He stretches out his hand to you, skeletal steel digits twitching. Other arm bent completely the wrong way.
"M-meg... haa... naa... da..." There's no humanity in the voice any more. None of the familiar cadence, the easygoing warmth. Synthesizer too badly damaged to speak more clearly than a free text-to-speech program. "Ru-"
The beast brings its foot down. Rob's head disappears beneath it, into a crater of smashed concrete and pulverised metal. Whatever light was left in the machine goes out. The outstretched arm goes limp. Clattering against the ground as it falls. The lupine beast pulls its foot back up slowly, metal shards falling from the sole, minor wounds closing over. Healed. All for nothing.
You don't feel nothing any more. There's something pulsing behind your eyes like a second heartbeat. There's something burning inside you, like a hot coal in the pit of your stomach. Every breath feeds it more oxygen, fans its flames. You want it to stop, you want the pain to end, but you can't stop it. There's no stopping it now. The barrier has broken, and can't be mended. It's so hot now, it hurts so much, you want to cry. You want to scream. You want to scream and shout and roar at the top of your lungs until your throat gives out and the last scrap of breath has fled your body, but you can't. Your muscles go into spasm. It's like you're having a seizure. You can't breathe, you can't move, but you can feel every nerve in your body lighting up as if on fire. As if electrified. It's like there are eels living under your skin, slithering and writhing back and forth as if it were water. Squirming and coiling and knotting over and around each other. Your stomach tightens. There's a fist around your heart.
The fire is hate. A roaring inferno, scorching your insides, charring your lungs and heart. Too much for you, too much for a single person. It's going to burn away at your insides, hollow you out. You exhale. Your throat burns. It feels like there should be flames, steam. There's nothing. Nothing but you. Nothing but what you choose to do in this single moment.
You nock your final arrow. It clips in easy. Sits tight. You raise the bow, perfectly level, perfectly vertical. Your stance is flawless, fit for a sculpture. Stable. Motionless. You feel the pulleys roll as you draw the string back. Further. Further. You shrug your shoulders, using your chest muscles, your back muscles. Everything from the waist up goes into the draw. You hit your limit and you exceed it. You wonder, with a distant curiosity, if the sensation you feel is your muscles tearing. You don't care. Your body doesn't exist. The pain, if there is any, is an illusion. The world doesn't exist, it's a distraction. All that exists is the bow, your arrow, and the target.
And the archer by your side.
"Garuda astra!"
The wind swirls and churns in a miniature hurricane. You hear the thrum and snap of Lakshmi's bowstring releasing. Broad wings of every colour block your vision. Translucent as glass, warping the light as it passes through. Soaring on the jetstream. Letting out a triumphant, ear-splitting shriek of fury as it descends upon its target. Wings buffeting the beast, forcing it back a step. Indistinct talons scything, slashing, carving great bloody chunks of flesh from its chest. Exposing its sternum, its bloodied ribs. The beast howls in fury, slashing madly, rending the bird of wind apart. Blood drools from the great, gaping wound in its chest, thick and dark. Glistening, black things with too many tendrils squirm inside the meat. Strands of flesh already reaching over, trying to heal the wound.
There's some kind of haze hanging over your shoulders. A shroud, so transparent as to be invisible from one side, black as night from the other. You regard the distraction with a moment's curiosity. It's not just your shoulders. It blankets the entire house, the entire property. Permeates it, everywhere and nowhere. A stifling, smothering canvas to conceal this little slice of the world from retribution until it's too late.
It failed. Retribution has already found it.
The shroud catches light where it touches you, and burns to cinders.
The stupid beast's eyes meet yours, and you realise you're smiling.
"Naga astra."
The bow bursts. The grip shatters in your hand. The limbs break off into a thousand pieces, hot shards of shrapnel that scatter in every direction. The string launches forward. The arrow tears it in half before it can even snap back. The inferior weapon becomes nothing in your hands. You don't care. It did its job.
The serpent coiled around your left arm winds around the arrow mid-flight.
You feel the backblast wash over you. Blowing your hair straight back and flat over your skull. Plucking at your jacket, lifting it horizontal, fit to tear it from your body. The shelf behind you topples over completely with a jangling crash. The bunker shakes, dust falling, but this time you know why. The bodies on the floor are scattered like leaves in a storm. The beast doesn't even have time to react. The arrow slips between its outstretched hands. The serpent buries itself in its chest, and sinks its fangs into its heart.
The beast is launched back as if by an invisible fist. Striking the stairs with backbreaking force. Its jaw pops open, vomiting up a spray of blood. Back arching fit to snap its spine clean in half. It tries to howl, gurgling instead. Suddenly all is quiet. Suddenly all is still. The beast falls forward, to its knees. Keeps falling. Only barely keeps itself upright by slamming a hand down on the concrete. Cradling the sucking wound in its chest with the other, claws sinking into the ruined meat. Blood soaks its hand, rolls down the forearm in thick rivulets, drooling down its abdomen and pooling on the floor. The things squirming inside it try to flee. You see them trying to slip through the cracks in its fingers. Bloodied drool strings from its fangs as it smashes its fist down on the concrete, cracking it. Forcing itself up on one knee, back up to its feet. Shambling forward, free hand outstretched. One step. Two. Three.
A gleaming, silver shape rockets down the stairs. A massive paw cups the back of the Black Spiral Dancer's skull scoops down, slamming it into the surface of the fallen vault door. You see the metal dent. You see the spray of blood and bone as the beast's snout crushes flat. You watch as the newcomer slams the beast's skull again, and again, and again and again until there's barely anything left that could be confused for a face. Then it straightens up to its full height, easily as tall as the Black Spiral Dancer once was, raises a booted foot, and kicks down. What's left of the head is severed at the nape of the neck, sheared off at the edge of the vault door. The beast finally lies still.
The newcomer could be its twin in size and shape. Towering, broad, muscular frame. Backbent, lupine legs. Clawed sabatons on its digitigrade feet. Clawed gauntlets on its great paws. Some kind of skintight undersuit, black and white and silver, strung thickly with artificial muscle fibre. Shining hex-print patterns. Logos and barcodes. A product, assembled off the shelf. Chest rising and falling as it breathes like a set of bellows. Its helm has sculpted, triangular sheaths for its ears. An opaque obsidian visor shields its eyes, articulated jaws extending to protect its snout. Its fangs are steel.
It steps aside and Dad throws himself at the two of you. You and Lakshmi stagger closer together as his arms wrap around you, holding you close. You feel him shudder against you, chest wracked my sobs of abject relief. Holding you so tight it hurts.
"God I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I never wanted this to happen." He doesn't know where to put his head. He just keeps switching back and forth, pressing his forehead against each of you in turn. "I was trying to keep you safe, I was trying to make sure nothing like this ever happened. Are you alright? Are you hurt? Please tell me neither of you are hurt. I swear I'll get everything straightened out, we can move somewhere safer, I can explain things, we can-"
The lupine creature rests a gauntleted paw on Dad's back. He stills. "They have to be debriefed," it says in a voice like ground gravel.
"... yes. Yes, I-I suppose they do." Dad straightens up to his full height, smoothing down his suit. Trying to compose himself, make himself look presentable. He doesn't do a very good job of it. His eyes are still red-rimmed and glistening with tears. He sniffs. "We're going to have to go outside and talk to my associates from work. They need to get your stories about what happened, explain... the situation. We'll have to separate. But I promise, we'll all be together again soon, and I'll tell you everything. Everything."
"What... what were those things?" Lakshmi asks in a halting, quiet voice. "And what d-did we do?"
"They were..." He mulls over the word. "Business rivals. Vicious. Unscrupulous. As to what you did..." He pauses again. As if there's a word, a blockage in his throat, he's trying to force out. He can't. "They'll discuss it in the debriefing."
He looks at you. There's something in his eyes. Something that wasn't there when he looked at Lakshmi.
You say nothing. He looks away.
Men in tactical military gear flood down the stairs, carrying bodybags and what looks like biohazard containment gear. The majority of them set to work on the pile of corpses at the foot of the stairs. Bagging them, mopping up the blood and sterilising the floor, erasing any trace of their presence. You see one man squat by the ruined wreckage of Rob's frame. Regarding it with complete detachment, rolling it this way and that to inspect the damage. Letting it fall like scrap metal and rising to go attend to some other matter. You look away.
Four men with rifles escort the three of you through the wreckage of your home. Your old life. Past the other scattered bodies being bagged and tagged. Past the bodies of two smaller werebeasts, cut from stem to stern with white-hot blades, wounds still sizzling and stinking of burnt fur. The walls of every room are riddled with the signs of battle, bullet holes and slashes and clawmarks. There's no front door any more, just a ragged hole carved into the house's facade. The front lawn is strewn with bodies, the grass thick with brassy shell casings. There are gun turrets on the balcony, you realise distantly. No doubt contributing to the din you heard as you fled for your life. The scorched hulks of the bombed cars in the street are being cleared away by trucks, workmen inspecting the utter ruination of the road. There are new cars and vans, unmarked and black. Two friendly white ambulances. Waiting with open doors.
"I love you," Dad says before the doors close. You sit on the gurney and stare at nothing as the ambulance starts up. A slight jolt and it's off, towards parts unknown. You doubt its destination is a hospital.
"Hey there." The doctor, or paramedic, or whoever he is crouches down beside you. He's got a friendly, familiar coastal Australian accent. "I'm Dr. Yim, I'll just be giving you a checkup. Making sure everything's okay. Can I take some blood?"
"Sure," you whisper hoarsely, tongue thick and dry, throat barren. There's a little sting in the crook of your elbow, your flesh pulsing around the intruding needle as hot blood wells up in the container. He draws the needle out, hands you a cotton ball to press against the puncture. You keep staring ahead. Think of nothing. What is there to think about it? All reason and logic and rationality have been tossed out the window. You're so out of your depth you can't even see the bottom. Lying on your back, limbs out and floating, is easier than trying to tread water. You hear some machine or another beep.
"Alright let's see..."
The doctor's quiet for a while. Too long. You turn and crane your neck over your shoulder to look at him. His eyes flick up to meet yours. He smiles rapidly.
"Contaminated batch, sorry about that," he apologises. "It happens sometimes. May I have your other arm?"
You shrug, and offer the aforementioned limb. He squeezes around the gurney to draw blood from your right arm. There's another sting, another uncomfortable throbbing. He draws the needle out and returns to the machine. You sit and wait. He forgot to give you another cotton ball. You cover the fresh wound with your finger instead. You wait and hear the machine beep again. You hear more silence.
"I'll get these bloodworks back to you as soon as I can, alright?" the doctor says eventually. "Or to your dad, so he can give them to you when you see him next. No worries!"
***
The clock in the corner ticks. A steady, mechanical little click that seems deafening in the silence of the room. It reminds you of an interrogation room. But not quite. There's carpet, at least. The chair is comfortable. The table isn't just some slab of steel, but artfully shaped like something you'd see out of a catalogue. There's a pitcher of water in the middle of the table and a glass. You've had six. You still feel parched.
You have no idea where this room is. When the ambulance finally stopped you were underground. You went through some side door or another, down some elevators, up some elevators, through some hallways and around some corners. You could be in the centre of the earth for all you know, some nondescript office building sunk into the rock like a spear. You've been in the waiting room for nineteen minutes and fifty-five seconds. You counted them all. You tried the door, of course. It was locked. You fold your hands and stare down at the brown skin, stretched taut, still dusty and bloodied.
Fifty-eight seconds. Fifty-nine seconds.
Twenty minutes. The door latch clicks as the knob turns. It swings open. A man in a dark suit enters, hands behind his back, and pushes the door shut with one heel. He looms over you, silent, impassive. Old, time-weathered face expressionless. Short, blond-white hair swept back from his receding hairline. Short, almost colourless stubble clinging to his jaw. Eyes hidden by reflective, opaque shades.
"Meghanada Dane?" His voice is hoarse, practically a murmur. You nod. Something crinkles behind his back. He reveals his hands.
A cardboard to-go coffee cup and a brown paper bag with a chocolate-iced doughnut in it. He sets the offerings down on the table beside the water pitcher and withdraws his hands. Taking off his shades to reveal piercing, pale bluegreen eyes.
"Your father tells me you don't like coffee," he says, pulling up his chair and taking a seat. "I hope hot chocolate suffices."
"... thanks."
The man just watches you. Studying you. As if committing every single line, crease, flaw and imperfection you have to memory. Stamping an image of you on his mind. You hesitantly reach out to the paper bag and drag it over. It crinkles loudly as you pry it apart, retrieving the doughnut. You take a bite. You finally realise just how hungry you are. Suddenly you're scarfing it down, swallowing greedily. Seemingly satisfied, the man averts his eyes. Digging a notebook and pen out of his suit pocket and resting them on the table.
"You've been through a very trying time," he says simply. "More than most would be able to process. There's no shame in being confused by what you've experienced today, and this meeting will be as long or as short as it needs to be. But before I can offer you anything, I'm afraid I need to ask you some questions."
"... what would I have you want?" you ask in a quiet voice.
"Some men make plans based on gut feelings, conjecture, hearsay and assumptions. I am not one such man," he replies. "I deal in facts. I happen to be lacking some at present, and I was hoping you could fill in some of these... shall we say, nagging blank spaces in the information I have."
You say nothing. He seems to take this as an agreement. He flicks through his notebook briefly.
"The group that attacked your home operates through a variety of shell corporations, subdivisions and proxies," he explains. "But to us, they are known as a singular entity by 'Pentex'. We happen to be in a conflict with them at present, in many forms. One of those forms is business. Mergers, acquisitions, hostile takeovers. Your father recently masterminded a strategy which dealt a serious blow to Pentex's holdings in Sydney. Acquired land that they were very much hoping to develop for themselves. They took offence to this, and they went after you to hurt him."
"... I see," you say, not seeing at all.
"Which brings us to the matter of your family." The man laces his fingers together, steepling them slightly. "Your mother is an enigma to us. Until now we were willing to overlook that curiosity, as Mr. Dane's private life is his own and his work for this organisation has more than earned a healthy respect for his privacy. Unfortunately, that's no longer an option. If Pentex was willing to attack you and your sister at your home, they can and will attack again. We need to be able to find her so we can place her in protective custody."
Your brow furrows. "But... the house at the Gold Coast."
"We had a time on-site. The place was empty."
But... that can't be right. That's where Mum lives. That's where she's always been. Where she was always waiting.
"Would you mind describing your home life to me?" the man asks. "In your own words. Anything that stood out to you, anything odd. Anything that might help us find your mother."
[ ] Be open. You don't have anything to hide, and if it helps them find Mum and keep her safe then you're more than happy.
[ ] Be selective. There's some stuff you don't quite feel comfortable about sharing with this guy. Stuff you doubt is relevant, or don't trust him with. The situation feels off.
[ ] Be reserved. You have no idea where you are or who you're talking with, not even a shred of context for what's going on. Refuse to talk until you have Dad in the room with you.
Your birthday. Heh. Seems so long ago now. Like you haven't seen your mother ever since she gave you that bow. It's not much, barely anything - but part of you likes this. Being reminded of her and what she taught you, right before the end.
You test the draw weight. The tightly-wound string rolls smoothly through the pulleys. Draw-weight's too high for you, but it won't matter as much at this close a range. Seems simple. Feels simple. You take some arrows. A small cluster, maybe half a dozen, held sandwiched between the grip and your hand. You doubt you'll use them all. The arrow in your right hand nocks firmly, settling against the sights. They're ambidextrous, you realise, able to be flipped to either side of the bow. You don't use either. You're used to eyeballing it.
You don't have to turn to know that she's there. Test-drawing the bow, nocking her own arrow. Part of you's surprised that she even thought of it. You always assumed that she'd given up on practising, lost most of her muscle. You never really paid enough attention to her to know either way. The corner of your mouth quirks. Here, now, and you want to ask her how often she trained while you weren't around.
"Your stance is really good," she says quietly, unexpectedly. "You must've practised a lot."
The whirring and grinding grows louder. Slowly piercing the muffling bubble of the bunker. The stairway flickers as sparks pour in. The earth quakes again.
"Almost every day," you reply.
"You must be really good at it," she says.
Not good enough, you think.
The bubble is broken. Whatever's drilling at the door pierces through, assaulting your senses with a cacophony of squealing and grinding metal like nails being drilled into your ears. You hear an immense, dull, booming impact. A second as the vault door falls completely from its hinges, hitting the stairs hard. Sliding down like a steel avalanche from its sheer weight and momentum. It hits the bottom like a missile, cracking the hardened concrete, settling into a dusty crater as the dust and debris settle.
Running feet. Sprinting, dashing, tripping and stumbling. The shapes come charging down the stairs. They barely look human any more. They look leprous, cancerous, flesh sloughing off them in half-liquid sheets. Disguises, false faces, skinsuits. Their veins are bulging pipes, so swollen with blood that they've ruptured in places. Pumping streams of toxic emerald blood. Skin sallow and translucent and glistening with sweat, eyes jaundiced green pits with pupils so vast as to have almost completely eclipsed the iris. Madly chattering teeth, bloodied on their own mouths and tongues. Stolen uniforms bullet-riddled and frayed. All wounded, staggering, pushing through their injuries with sheer mad energy. Some disregard even missing limbs. None of them bring firearms to bear. They don't have the mental capacity to use them any more. The only goal in their tortured minds is to descend upon you and Lakshmi, and tear you to shreds with their bare hands.
Draw. Exhale. Loose.
The first goes down with a shriek, the shaft sinking through the remains of his vest like paper. Far enough to protrude out the other side. Another shriek, another body hitting the floor. Lakshmi's shot. You reach forward and pluck a second arrow from the fistful in your bow-hand, nocking and drawing it in the same motion. The pulleys roll on without flaw. The second arrow is launched. This one tries to dodge, ducking down. Succeeding only in putting its forehead in the arrow's path. Its head snaps back as if shot, nearly flipping as its own momentum takes its legs out from under it. The thrum of a bowstring as Lakshmi fires her next shot. Another goes down. There's a rhythm to it, like a pulse. The two of you pick your own targets, and never once do they overlap. The crowd thins, thins, and thins some more. You release your second-last arrow. One of them tries to duck behind a fellow to use him as a human shield. The arrow pierces them both, pinning them together as they fall. The last is undaunted, still screaming a wet, bestial scream as it charges. You... don't reach for another arrow. You don't know why. All you know is that you feel it's unnecessary.
Lakshmi's second-last arrow slips between the creature's lips and comes out the other side, fletching and all. It stumbles to a stop, blinking, confused. Pawing at the air. Trying to keep screaming, only to gurgle. Blinking with surprise, cupping its throat, as it slowly topples over. Dead.
All of them. Every last one of them is on the ground. Arrows in their heads, their hearts, bleeding in a twisted pile of warped flesh. You don't know how to feel. You know how you're supposed to feel but you... don't. There's no acidic reflux as your rebelling body forces you to retch up everything in your stomach. There's no revulsion at the pile of corpses, half dead at your hand. You're in shock. Everything's numb. Distant. You can't allow yourself to hope, not yet. Can't allow anything to cloud your focus. Find your centre, like Uncle Val always said. Be like water, flowing over and around obstructions, be-
A body rolls down the stairs, collapsing in a heap atop the others. Unlike them. Black chitin torn open in a dozen places by parallel pairs of claws. Just as many puncture wounds. Just as many clawmarks. Great, bloody chunks bitten and torn out of her. Legs, one arm, broken beyond all hope of repair. Smooth, blank, organic faceplate broken. You see a few wisps of blond hair. You see one green eye. Open. Unblinking. Lifeless. You didn't know Ms. Jenkins' eyes were green.
Lakshmi's next breath freezes in her chest.
Something comes down the steps. Something big. Something heavy. Something vast. Something moving slow, taking its time. Dragging something metallic, scraping, bumping down each step. The feet come into view first. Broad, clawed paws, big enough to smother your face. To crush your skull beneath the pad. Bulging, fur-covered calves. Trunk-like thighs. Two clawed hands, one curled loosely. The other wrapped around its prize.
The metallic heap is tossed. It sails through the air for a brief instant. Bouncing off the dead, rolling this way and that, finally landing with an almost gentle 'tink' on a patch of uncovered concrete.
Rob is almost unrecognisable. Nearly every scrap of flesh has been torn from his frame. His steel frame. It had a sort of artistry to it once. The robot's skeletal core was solidly built, strung in some kind of fibrous, black, textured substance like synthetic muscles. Thin wires crisscrossing like nerves. Joints and ligaments and tendons, 'organs', all mechanical. Disguised perfectly. None of that artistry remains. He's a ruined toy now, a cheap plastic toy that a child has finally grown bored with. His left leg is a crushed, dragging mess of twisted metal and sparking wires. The right has been pulled completely from his body at the hip, dark blue coolant of 'blood' pumping sluggishly from the wound. His chest is a crater, steel ribs cracked inward and crushed into a mess of razored shards. He's been disembowelled, more dark blue fluid gushing from his rent stomach as intestine-like tubes spool in the growing pool. There's a bite taken out of his skull, a huge chunk of the left side of his head missing. You can see his brain, or whatever it is that passes for one in his skull. Electronics. Wiring. Software and hardware. His one remaining eye stares up at you, a beady little pinprick of scarlet in a ruined socket. He stretches out his hand to you, skeletal steel digits twitching. Other arm bent completely the wrong way.
"M-meg... haa... naa... da..." There's no humanity in the voice any more. None of the familiar cadence, the easygoing warmth. Synthesizer too badly damaged to speak more clearly than a free text-to-speech program. "Ru-"
The beast brings its foot down. Rob's head disappears beneath it, into a crater of smashed concrete and pulverised metal. Whatever light was left in the machine goes out. The outstretched arm goes limp. Clattering against the ground as it falls. The lupine beast pulls its foot back up slowly, metal shards falling from the sole, minor wounds closing over. Healed. All for nothing.
You don't feel nothing any more. There's something pulsing behind your eyes like a second heartbeat. There's something burning inside you, like a hot coal in the pit of your stomach. Every breath feeds it more oxygen, fans its flames. You want it to stop, you want the pain to end, but you can't stop it. There's no stopping it now. The barrier has broken, and can't be mended. It's so hot now, it hurts so much, you want to cry. You want to scream. You want to scream and shout and roar at the top of your lungs until your throat gives out and the last scrap of breath has fled your body, but you can't. Your muscles go into spasm. It's like you're having a seizure. You can't breathe, you can't move, but you can feel every nerve in your body lighting up as if on fire. As if electrified. It's like there are eels living under your skin, slithering and writhing back and forth as if it were water. Squirming and coiling and knotting over and around each other. Your stomach tightens. There's a fist around your heart.
The fire is hate. A roaring inferno, scorching your insides, charring your lungs and heart. Too much for you, too much for a single person. It's going to burn away at your insides, hollow you out. You exhale. Your throat burns. It feels like there should be flames, steam. There's nothing. Nothing but you. Nothing but what you choose to do in this single moment.
You nock your final arrow. It clips in easy. Sits tight. You raise the bow, perfectly level, perfectly vertical. Your stance is flawless, fit for a sculpture. Stable. Motionless. You feel the pulleys roll as you draw the string back. Further. Further. You shrug your shoulders, using your chest muscles, your back muscles. Everything from the waist up goes into the draw. You hit your limit and you exceed it. You wonder, with a distant curiosity, if the sensation you feel is your muscles tearing. You don't care. Your body doesn't exist. The pain, if there is any, is an illusion. The world doesn't exist, it's a distraction. All that exists is the bow, your arrow, and the target.
And the archer by your side.
"Garuda astra!"
The wind swirls and churns in a miniature hurricane. You hear the thrum and snap of Lakshmi's bowstring releasing. Broad wings of every colour block your vision. Translucent as glass, warping the light as it passes through. Soaring on the jetstream. Letting out a triumphant, ear-splitting shriek of fury as it descends upon its target. Wings buffeting the beast, forcing it back a step. Indistinct talons scything, slashing, carving great bloody chunks of flesh from its chest. Exposing its sternum, its bloodied ribs. The beast howls in fury, slashing madly, rending the bird of wind apart. Blood drools from the great, gaping wound in its chest, thick and dark. Glistening, black things with too many tendrils squirm inside the meat. Strands of flesh already reaching over, trying to heal the wound.
There's some kind of haze hanging over your shoulders. A shroud, so transparent as to be invisible from one side, black as night from the other. You regard the distraction with a moment's curiosity. It's not just your shoulders. It blankets the entire house, the entire property. Permeates it, everywhere and nowhere. A stifling, smothering canvas to conceal this little slice of the world from retribution until it's too late.
It failed. Retribution has already found it.
The shroud catches light where it touches you, and burns to cinders.
The stupid beast's eyes meet yours, and you realise you're smiling.
"Naga astra."
The bow bursts. The grip shatters in your hand. The limbs break off into a thousand pieces, hot shards of shrapnel that scatter in every direction. The string launches forward. The arrow tears it in half before it can even snap back. The inferior weapon becomes nothing in your hands. You don't care. It did its job.
The serpent coiled around your left arm winds around the arrow mid-flight.
You feel the backblast wash over you. Blowing your hair straight back and flat over your skull. Plucking at your jacket, lifting it horizontal, fit to tear it from your body. The shelf behind you topples over completely with a jangling crash. The bunker shakes, dust falling, but this time you know why. The bodies on the floor are scattered like leaves in a storm. The beast doesn't even have time to react. The arrow slips between its outstretched hands. The serpent buries itself in its chest, and sinks its fangs into its heart.
The beast is launched back as if by an invisible fist. Striking the stairs with backbreaking force. Its jaw pops open, vomiting up a spray of blood. Back arching fit to snap its spine clean in half. It tries to howl, gurgling instead. Suddenly all is quiet. Suddenly all is still. The beast falls forward, to its knees. Keeps falling. Only barely keeps itself upright by slamming a hand down on the concrete. Cradling the sucking wound in its chest with the other, claws sinking into the ruined meat. Blood soaks its hand, rolls down the forearm in thick rivulets, drooling down its abdomen and pooling on the floor. The things squirming inside it try to flee. You see them trying to slip through the cracks in its fingers. Bloodied drool strings from its fangs as it smashes its fist down on the concrete, cracking it. Forcing itself up on one knee, back up to its feet. Shambling forward, free hand outstretched. One step. Two. Three.
A gleaming, silver shape rockets down the stairs. A massive paw cups the back of the Black Spiral Dancer's skull scoops down, slamming it into the surface of the fallen vault door. You see the metal dent. You see the spray of blood and bone as the beast's snout crushes flat. You watch as the newcomer slams the beast's skull again, and again, and again and again until there's barely anything left that could be confused for a face. Then it straightens up to its full height, easily as tall as the Black Spiral Dancer once was, raises a booted foot, and kicks down. What's left of the head is severed at the nape of the neck, sheared off at the edge of the vault door. The beast finally lies still.
The newcomer could be its twin in size and shape. Towering, broad, muscular frame. Backbent, lupine legs. Clawed sabatons on its digitigrade feet. Clawed gauntlets on its great paws. Some kind of skintight undersuit, black and white and silver, strung thickly with artificial muscle fibre. Shining hex-print patterns. Logos and barcodes. A product, assembled off the shelf. Chest rising and falling as it breathes like a set of bellows. Its helm has sculpted, triangular sheaths for its ears. An opaque obsidian visor shields its eyes, articulated jaws extending to protect its snout. Its fangs are steel.
It steps aside and Dad throws himself at the two of you. You and Lakshmi stagger closer together as his arms wrap around you, holding you close. You feel him shudder against you, chest wracked my sobs of abject relief. Holding you so tight it hurts.
"God I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I never wanted this to happen." He doesn't know where to put his head. He just keeps switching back and forth, pressing his forehead against each of you in turn. "I was trying to keep you safe, I was trying to make sure nothing like this ever happened. Are you alright? Are you hurt? Please tell me neither of you are hurt. I swear I'll get everything straightened out, we can move somewhere safer, I can explain things, we can-"
The lupine creature rests a gauntleted paw on Dad's back. He stills. "They have to be debriefed," it says in a voice like ground gravel.
"... yes. Yes, I-I suppose they do." Dad straightens up to his full height, smoothing down his suit. Trying to compose himself, make himself look presentable. He doesn't do a very good job of it. His eyes are still red-rimmed and glistening with tears. He sniffs. "We're going to have to go outside and talk to my associates from work. They need to get your stories about what happened, explain... the situation. We'll have to separate. But I promise, we'll all be together again soon, and I'll tell you everything. Everything."
"What... what were those things?" Lakshmi asks in a halting, quiet voice. "And what d-did we do?"
"They were..." He mulls over the word. "Business rivals. Vicious. Unscrupulous. As to what you did..." He pauses again. As if there's a word, a blockage in his throat, he's trying to force out. He can't. "They'll discuss it in the debriefing."
He looks at you. There's something in his eyes. Something that wasn't there when he looked at Lakshmi.
You say nothing. He looks away.
Men in tactical military gear flood down the stairs, carrying bodybags and what looks like biohazard containment gear. The majority of them set to work on the pile of corpses at the foot of the stairs. Bagging them, mopping up the blood and sterilising the floor, erasing any trace of their presence. You see one man squat by the ruined wreckage of Rob's frame. Regarding it with complete detachment, rolling it this way and that to inspect the damage. Letting it fall like scrap metal and rising to go attend to some other matter. You look away.
Four men with rifles escort the three of you through the wreckage of your home. Your old life. Past the other scattered bodies being bagged and tagged. Past the bodies of two smaller werebeasts, cut from stem to stern with white-hot blades, wounds still sizzling and stinking of burnt fur. The walls of every room are riddled with the signs of battle, bullet holes and slashes and clawmarks. There's no front door any more, just a ragged hole carved into the house's facade. The front lawn is strewn with bodies, the grass thick with brassy shell casings. There are gun turrets on the balcony, you realise distantly. No doubt contributing to the din you heard as you fled for your life. The scorched hulks of the bombed cars in the street are being cleared away by trucks, workmen inspecting the utter ruination of the road. There are new cars and vans, unmarked and black. Two friendly white ambulances. Waiting with open doors.
"I love you," Dad says before the doors close. You sit on the gurney and stare at nothing as the ambulance starts up. A slight jolt and it's off, towards parts unknown. You doubt its destination is a hospital.
"Hey there." The doctor, or paramedic, or whoever he is crouches down beside you. He's got a friendly, familiar coastal Australian accent. "I'm Dr. Yim, I'll just be giving you a checkup. Making sure everything's okay. Can I take some blood?"
"Sure," you whisper hoarsely, tongue thick and dry, throat barren. There's a little sting in the crook of your elbow, your flesh pulsing around the intruding needle as hot blood wells up in the container. He draws the needle out, hands you a cotton ball to press against the puncture. You keep staring ahead. Think of nothing. What is there to think about it? All reason and logic and rationality have been tossed out the window. You're so out of your depth you can't even see the bottom. Lying on your back, limbs out and floating, is easier than trying to tread water. You hear some machine or another beep.
"Alright let's see..."
The doctor's quiet for a while. Too long. You turn and crane your neck over your shoulder to look at him. His eyes flick up to meet yours. He smiles rapidly.
"Contaminated batch, sorry about that," he apologises. "It happens sometimes. May I have your other arm?"
You shrug, and offer the aforementioned limb. He squeezes around the gurney to draw blood from your right arm. There's another sting, another uncomfortable throbbing. He draws the needle out and returns to the machine. You sit and wait. He forgot to give you another cotton ball. You cover the fresh wound with your finger instead. You wait and hear the machine beep again. You hear more silence.
"I'll get these bloodworks back to you as soon as I can, alright?" the doctor says eventually. "Or to your dad, so he can give them to you when you see him next. No worries!"
***
The clock in the corner ticks. A steady, mechanical little click that seems deafening in the silence of the room. It reminds you of an interrogation room. But not quite. There's carpet, at least. The chair is comfortable. The table isn't just some slab of steel, but artfully shaped like something you'd see out of a catalogue. There's a pitcher of water in the middle of the table and a glass. You've had six. You still feel parched.
You have no idea where this room is. When the ambulance finally stopped you were underground. You went through some side door or another, down some elevators, up some elevators, through some hallways and around some corners. You could be in the centre of the earth for all you know, some nondescript office building sunk into the rock like a spear. You've been in the waiting room for nineteen minutes and fifty-five seconds. You counted them all. You tried the door, of course. It was locked. You fold your hands and stare down at the brown skin, stretched taut, still dusty and bloodied.
Fifty-eight seconds. Fifty-nine seconds.
Twenty minutes. The door latch clicks as the knob turns. It swings open. A man in a dark suit enters, hands behind his back, and pushes the door shut with one heel. He looms over you, silent, impassive. Old, time-weathered face expressionless. Short, blond-white hair swept back from his receding hairline. Short, almost colourless stubble clinging to his jaw. Eyes hidden by reflective, opaque shades.
"Meghanada Dane?" His voice is hoarse, practically a murmur. You nod. Something crinkles behind his back. He reveals his hands.
A cardboard to-go coffee cup and a brown paper bag with a chocolate-iced doughnut in it. He sets the offerings down on the table beside the water pitcher and withdraws his hands. Taking off his shades to reveal piercing, pale bluegreen eyes.
"Your father tells me you don't like coffee," he says, pulling up his chair and taking a seat. "I hope hot chocolate suffices."
"... thanks."
The man just watches you. Studying you. As if committing every single line, crease, flaw and imperfection you have to memory. Stamping an image of you on his mind. You hesitantly reach out to the paper bag and drag it over. It crinkles loudly as you pry it apart, retrieving the doughnut. You take a bite. You finally realise just how hungry you are. Suddenly you're scarfing it down, swallowing greedily. Seemingly satisfied, the man averts his eyes. Digging a notebook and pen out of his suit pocket and resting them on the table.
"You've been through a very trying time," he says simply. "More than most would be able to process. There's no shame in being confused by what you've experienced today, and this meeting will be as long or as short as it needs to be. But before I can offer you anything, I'm afraid I need to ask you some questions."
"... what would I have you want?" you ask in a quiet voice.
"Some men make plans based on gut feelings, conjecture, hearsay and assumptions. I am not one such man," he replies. "I deal in facts. I happen to be lacking some at present, and I was hoping you could fill in some of these... shall we say, nagging blank spaces in the information I have."
You say nothing. He seems to take this as an agreement. He flicks through his notebook briefly.
"The group that attacked your home operates through a variety of shell corporations, subdivisions and proxies," he explains. "But to us, they are known as a singular entity by 'Pentex'. We happen to be in a conflict with them at present, in many forms. One of those forms is business. Mergers, acquisitions, hostile takeovers. Your father recently masterminded a strategy which dealt a serious blow to Pentex's holdings in Sydney. Acquired land that they were very much hoping to develop for themselves. They took offence to this, and they went after you to hurt him."
"... I see," you say, not seeing at all.
"Which brings us to the matter of your family." The man laces his fingers together, steepling them slightly. "Your mother is an enigma to us. Until now we were willing to overlook that curiosity, as Mr. Dane's private life is his own and his work for this organisation has more than earned a healthy respect for his privacy. Unfortunately, that's no longer an option. If Pentex was willing to attack you and your sister at your home, they can and will attack again. We need to be able to find her so we can place her in protective custody."
Your brow furrows. "But... the house at the Gold Coast."
"We had a time on-site. The place was empty."
But... that can't be right. That's where Mum lives. That's where she's always been. Where she was always waiting.
"Would you mind describing your home life to me?" the man asks. "In your own words. Anything that stood out to you, anything odd. Anything that might help us find your mother."
[ ] Be open. You don't have anything to hide, and if it helps them find Mum and keep her safe then you're more than happy.
[ ] Be selective. There's some stuff you don't quite feel comfortable about sharing with this guy. Stuff you doubt is relevant, or don't trust him with. The situation feels off.
[ ] Be reserved. You have no idea where you are or who you're talking with, not even a shred of context for what's going on. Refuse to talk until you have Dad in the room with you.
Wade Garrett
Just trying to do the right thing
- Pronouns
- He/His/Him
[X] Be reserved
"Heeey, your whole life is kind of a lie now tell me about your relationship with your mother."
Nope.
"Heeey, your whole life is kind of a lie now tell me about your relationship with your mother."
Nope.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
[X] Be selective. There's some stuff you don't quite feel comfortable about sharing with this guy. Stuff you doubt is relevant, or don't trust him with. The situation feels off.
Yeah, fuck no are we getting our own mom killed and/or brainwashed by the Technocracy if she actually is a RD and they catch her.
I might switch to Reserved, but definitely not open.
Yeah, fuck no are we getting our own mom killed and/or brainwashed by the Technocracy if she actually is a RD and they catch her.
I might switch to Reserved, but definitely not open.
LaRed
Are you stupid or something
- Location
- Mou Ikkai hell
Springing this on us and asking stuff without Dad in the room?
Yeah no thanks broritto
[X] Be open. You don't have anything to hide, and if it helps them find Mum and keep her safe then you're more than happy.
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Lexica
Persevere
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Be selective. There's some stuff you don't quite feel comfortable about sharing with this guy. Stuff you doubt is relevant, or don't trust him with. The situation feels off.
Yeah... Say enough to hopefully get him off our backs, but avoid anything particularly helpful.
Yeah... Say enough to hopefully get him off our backs, but avoid anything particularly helpful.
- Location
- Austria
[X] Be selective. There's some stuff you don't quite feel comfortable about sharing with this guy. Stuff you doubt is relevant, or don't trust him with. The situation feels off.
Telling full truth about mother being like 99% sure RD is not a good idea. Of course, skilled NWO guy probably can tell that we are lying or holding back anyway (not mind reading, just good at reading microexpressions, honestly), and digging up dirt on Syndic who may or may not have an affair with RD is a job for skilled guys, but being completely honest after eerily similar guys in suits("police") just tried to kill us would be OOC as fuck.
Not sure whether selective or reserved, but sticking with selective for now because Dad can't be relied upon when we might be dangerous to his career. And not sure how IC would it be to hope that Dad comes here and saves us from another spooky suit. Also, not sure if potential RD like us has an option to stay silent at all.
Telling full truth about mother being like 99% sure RD is not a good idea. Of course, skilled NWO guy probably can tell that we are lying or holding back anyway (not mind reading, just good at reading microexpressions, honestly), and digging up dirt on Syndic who may or may not have an affair with RD is a job for skilled guys, but being completely honest after eerily similar guys in suits("police") just tried to kill us would be OOC as fuck.
Not sure whether selective or reserved, but sticking with selective for now because Dad can't be relied upon when we might be dangerous to his career. And not sure how IC would it be to hope that Dad comes here and saves us from another spooky suit. Also, not sure if potential RD like us has an option to stay silent at all.
Kyrina
A Simple Merchant of Mirrors
- Location
- England
[X] Be selective. There's some stuff you don't quite feel comfortable about sharing with this guy. Stuff you doubt is relevant, or don't trust him with. The situation feels off.
I saw where 'this seems hinky imma wait/talk to dad' got us last time and it was not a good place. And, to be fair, Dad did say that there would be interviews and that they would be individual, as in without him. Holding out for Dad to come along probably won't help any. That being said no way is just blurting everything we know an option, dude's too shady for that.
I saw where 'this seems hinky imma wait/talk to dad' got us last time and it was not a good place. And, to be fair, Dad did say that there would be interviews and that they would be individual, as in without him. Holding out for Dad to come along probably won't help any. That being said no way is just blurting everything we know an option, dude's too shady for that.
Hmm hmmm hmm
alt: DEVIL DAWGS OORAH OORAH MARINES MARINES WE WON WW2
Okay, looks to me we're dealing with the Syndicate, as the stuff later confirms. Progenitors ain't gonna be doing business deals, they're just gonna BLACKWATCH the fuck out of these guys. Iteration X does the same, except with more explosions than mysterious outbreaks of ultra-ebola. So what we can tell is that they're working with werewolves, probably Glass Walkers because toilet paper is the work of the Weeeeeeaver real warriors wipe their asses with their blades, edge-first. Basically part of PQ canon although I doubt Zerban's using it 100% (because then he would have to be psychic and also very boring and I don't think he's either)
Why are they taking our blood? I'm wondering what's up here. I suspect some of that special dispensation was not just about who dad was, but also about who we are. The NWO thinks in archetypes. Progenitors in recessive genes. But either way, they can recognize a legend when it shows up. Chances of brofisting Cyber-Achilles have gone up by several percentage points.
The Syndicate tends to respond to the NWO with words which rhyme with "duck cough" 99% of the time, so this explains a lot. It also explains what's going on. I think the Syndicate thought Meg was more or less an illegitimate kid. Handsome, virile jet-setting super-executives get laid a lot, it happens. They sometimes keep the kids, that happens. So you put them in a good school-but a discreet one-you get guards for them on your own dime-but they don't end up going to Technocratic feeder schools and being groomed to become wizards from a young age. So Mr. Dane is probably one of the few people-besides maybe a handful of his very closest friends-who probably knows of his romance. I suspect there's a Benvolio to his Romeo somewhere.
EDIT: FYI this is probably not "we have not tried to snoop on him" and more "he knows how to defeat ECHELON" because ~nwo~ gonna ~nwo~.
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