Red Flux: A New Weird Quest for Justice, Freedom and the Self

[X] "Grasp it by its horns, then break them." +Other Suggestions


The thing lowers its posture and lurches at you like an ill-assembled deer, horns curled up hay fork of bone and chitin. Your mind flashes with the image of the thing bypassing your feeble guard, penetrating your stomach and flinging you like a bail of spring grass. Had Gader Hael not been so clear, so direct, you might have flinched. Your hands move, faster and more dexterous than you imagined and seize around each set of horns. Your nails dig into rain-slick chitin, your grip firm.

You twist and pull, and the horns pull free with an awful noise. The thing reels, cast aside by the astonishing strength of your sudden motion. A horrid screech fills the alley, muffled only by the constant beat of the rain and distant rattle of military trains bound for the city limits.

It regards you a moment, eyes more mammal than the glossy dead things you remembered. It makes a determination of you as too dangerous to eat, and skitters away.

You exhale, the strength leaving your body as the exertion overtakes you. The ground doesn't feel like anything, other than solid as it rapidly approaches. You wheeze again, cough a few more times.

Blood. Screws. Something's come loose.

Your throat plate no longer adheres, having come loose in the tumble. It rests before you, slick with red that you cannot tell to be rain or blood. Panicked hands go to reach but they find flesh and bone where the loosened unit rested for years of your life apparently whole and undamaged.

You suck air, and your lungs swell without any agony.

"What the hell was that." Your arms are strong enough to get you back to your feet. You contemplate what to do with the expensive prosthetic that no longer even seems necessary, feeling faint nausea at the sight of it.


You pause to look down. Your hands are balled into fists, each clutching a pair of glossy black prongs. They drop with a clatter as you step back.

"What was that thing?"


You pale, already knowing the implications of that. "A chimera then? The red rain is causing creatures to fuse?"


"If you're not going to help, shut up. I have to attend to somebody now."


The two of you return to silence as you fetch your displaced rebreather and make your way back towards the fire escape leading up to Halna's apartment. The nausea and pain from your fall at the end of the brawl, has faded but you've been left with a strange malaise. The price of the body you want, it seems, is to be aggressed by a new wave of awareness every time something changes

The stairs sound off like chimes as you step on each one, ponderously stepping up to avoid a slip. The fourth floor window- Halna's apartment, is open. You fret.

"Hello?" You ask. No response comes.

Inside is quiet, the heating is off. There are no signs of struggle, nor dirt or overturned containers. You leave your boots by the window you entered through and close it behind you. For all of her successes at the cabaret as one of the more popular showgirls, Halna did not lead a particularly extravagant lifestyle. Still, you can't help a flash of envy. The apartment is quite small, but everything is expensively made, black leather sofa matched to carpet matched to grey silk wall hangings. Even messy, it's an elegant effect.

It's still very messy though, with clothes everywhere and stacks of old magazines in corners. Halna was never very organized. To make things quicker, you start by looking at the obvious places to keep letters or other things that might hint about her whereabouts.

You check her small chequerboard dining table, large enough to sit two but with a single chair. The little steel and pine nightstand by a voluminous queen-size bed, the only luxury she seems to pay herself. Her orgone dropper is a different brand from yours, and her medical bills are more expensive. Under the bed you find a few great binders, albums filled to the brim with small snap photography taken from work, and some with her family. She's always smiling, surrounded by cheering friendly customers and staff.

One of the smaller hardcover ring binders opens to pictures of her and an older man. He looks wealthy. They begin decent enough… but swiftly do not. Plenty of herself, likely prepared for a wealthy backer. You wince, feeling a little like a voyeur.

There are numbers too. What look like account serials, and eventually most of a checque. A few numbers to different glasses. A name repeats, over and over again: Eiman Yavery. She talks about his nice clothes and his fleet of cars, the places he takes her and the way he's always so stressed about work and his family. She doesn't mind being the mistress at all. From the way she describes her outings with him, you might actually believe she's fond of him.


"Oh, right. You're still there."



"It's not uncommon. I don't know who this Yavery guy is but it's a lead isn't it?" You don't really know why you're engaging this intruder in conversation, but it seems more natural than murmuring to yourself.

You reach for your glass and turn back to the window.

What will you do now?

[ ] Head to your other job and ask around for information. It's likely to still be open after the curfew.
[ ] Call someone up for information about Yavery.
- [ ] Cadmey used to work the upper city on her beat. Maybe she knows more?
- [ ] Rayburn comes from a rich family. It could be worth asking him.
- [ ] Forresti works the bar more nights than you do. She's likely to know about him if he's a client.
[ ] Do a phone book check. There can't be that many people named Yavery up town.