At QMs request.
The Shell Cracks: A 1920s Superhero Riot Quest.
- Thread starter alexthealright
- Start date
- Fantasy Action Historic Superhero
The Missing Detective
Doolittles office… is empty. The door is locked, the windows all have their blinds dropped down, and a sign on the door states, "Sorry for the inconvenience, but the detective is out of town". But if one were to somehow get in, and looked around, and if they knew were too look, several very conspicuous things would be missing. His animal companions are gone, his stock of weapons and ammo is missing a considerable amount, and a large amount of cash is gone from his safe. And on his table is a map of Europe. And on it, three locations are marked with red pins.
London, England. Paris, France… and finally, the woods were the Devil Dogs were made, and the place were his tale began and ended twice. Once, in the fires of war, with all the terror and horror that entailed. Next in the shape of a beast, which saw him attempt to help those he could, in the shape of mankind's oldest foes and companions. And now, he returns, for a reason known only to him…
Doolittles office… is empty. The door is locked, the windows all have their blinds dropped down, and a sign on the door states, "Sorry for the inconvenience, but the detective is out of town". But if one were to somehow get in, and looked around, and if they knew were too look, several very conspicuous things would be missing. His animal companions are gone, his stock of weapons and ammo is missing a considerable amount, and a large amount of cash is gone from his safe. And on his table is a map of Europe. And on it, three locations are marked with red pins.
London, England. Paris, France… and finally, the woods were the Devil Dogs were made, and the place were his tale began and ended twice. Once, in the fires of war, with all the terror and horror that entailed. Next in the shape of a beast, which saw him attempt to help those he could, in the shape of mankind's oldest foes and companions. And now, he returns, for a reason known only to him…
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Hell’s Coming With Me
- Location
- The United States
- Pronouns
- He/They
cw injury and death
1906, Sundown, a curious teen sitting in the back of a Rolls-Royce, sipping iced pineapple juice.
"Why did we have to do all that father, why don't they just get their own food?"
Cyril sat still and thought for a moment before responding, drinking a sazarac while looking at the buildings and people they passed.
"They do, as much as they can. Most of them do a better job of it than I think I could. They just can't do as much for their children as I can do for you."
"Why?"
Cyril smiles bitterly and looks north.
"A lot of reasons, son. A lot of reasons."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1915, Boston, spring commencement at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, two men in academic gowns who love each other yelling on what was supposed to be a happy day
"Dammit dad, this isn't some bit of adventurism in the Pacific, poking Spain in the eye from halfway across the world. This is a full scale continental war."
"Which is EXACTLY why you should be at HOME. We'll get you a respectable job using that degree I paid for supervising something critical for the war effort at some factory or another, play up the asthma from..."
"NO! Let me finish. What I'm saying is that if we join the war a few hundred thousand volunteers aren't going to cut it. I don't know what they've been saying in the clubs back home, but I know what the rest of the 'young masters' have been spouting here in Boston. There's going to be a draft father, and I won't let a man be ripped from his mother's stoop by the State and sent to war while I stay safe because I was born ten blocks northeast of them. I can't. John Dorey is running a training camp for officers at Plattsburgh this summer, I hear Teddy's on board so I am too. I'll be joining it, and seeking a comission if we do join the war."
Cyril looked at the man who had taken his son's place. He wondered when it happened, and how he had missed it.
He sighed, and stepped forward to pull Cornelius into an embrace.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1920, Everwall, Caldwell Manor
The west wing's parlor hung heavy with smoke and indignation as Cornelius Caldwell iii smoked and talked with the last five men he trusted in the world that he didn't meet in the service.
Charlie smiled, as for the first time since his father's "trial" James finally started bringing back good news.
"I'm not certain that the first circuit will rule with us, but they ordered a hold on the tax lien and in arguments appeared initially dismissive of the defense's creative interpretation of the Trustees' fiduciary duty, so I think they're leaning towards us."
"The defense's claim that fiduciary duty doesn't fucking exist, you mean."
His dad's old friend winces.
"...essentially so, master Cornelius."
"Thanks you, James. Thanks to all of you, for everything. I feel like this is a turning point, back towards how things shoul..."
John is interrupted by the sound of screeching tires and breaking glass as the wall of french windows leading to the garden shatters to the ground.
"Contact left!"
Captain Caldwell turns in his chair and leaps to the side of the liquor cabinet behind him as bullets rip through the room.
He reaches for the Winchester .30 above the fireplace next to the cabinet and levers a round into place. Leaning around the cabinet he sees three cars in the middle of his torn up garden. He takes aim at one of the men filing out of the cars and squeezes a round off the moment before he's punched in the chin and shaken. Shaking his head and wondering why he was already sweating so much his shoulders were dripping, he notices a team of men running up to where the windows used to be. He works the lever and trigger as quickly as he can, watching a few of them drop, before the men level the Thompsons in their hands and he moves back behind the cabinet. Before he can get all the way behind the cover rounds rip through his leg and side.
He falls to the ground and sees the men who had raised him bleeding on the floor around him, and he feels his skin expand to fill the room.
No, that's not right, his skin's still on him, but the feeling....the feeling is everywhere.
Charlie feels John's blood seep under the chaise loungue that had been the only concealment near him.
Charlie feels the round lodged in Tim's spine, and the mess it had made of his heart on the way in.
Charlie feels where each of the men who shot them are standing.
He feels the hot-barreled guns in each of their hands, and his uncles' guns on the ground.
He feels James crawl on his back scurrying away from the carnage, the lawyer completely unprepared for the other side of the business.
He feels 5 Thompsons barrels level at James, and moves, taking a knee to the side of the cabinet and bringing his rifle to bear...as his knee collapses under him and for the first time he's made aware through the shock of the ruin of his right leg.
The goons open fire and James screams huddled behind the liquor cabinet as dozens of decanters of decades old whiskey in hundred year old crystal explode around him.
Charlie lies on the ground with his rifle trapped underneath him and struggles to get it from under him.
The maple liquor cabinet splinters into pieces as James stops screaming, closes his eyes, and begins to pray.
Typewriter reaches out his hand with a manic grimace on his face and from the bodies of 4 men he had long loved a half-dozen pistols and a shotgun rise into the air. The goons stand poleaxed staring for an instant before the floating guns start firing and they start falling.
The guns fall to the ground spent as Typewriter loses consciousness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He came to his senses groggy from the ether, him and James alone in the hospital room. They were in the middle of a conversation he didn't remember the hypnopompic origins of.
"...eave. You just need to leave. Stop fighting this, I can't pay you what you're worth and you deserve better for your loyalty and love than everyone else got. Start a practice in Chicago or Atlanta or better yet California and leave this city and it's problems behind you."
"I met your father when we were in knickerbockers boy, I won't be abandoning his son to the wolves."
"They've already won, James. There's no fighting left to be done in court, the removal of John and Tim from the Family Trust means the current federal case is moot and we'll need to start another. You won't win that fight on your own, and I can't afford to pay a second team.
We put it all on that case, and we lost. Just go."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eight Dark Months "Your devil-worshipping preacher is right about one thing: This city does have an infection. I'd like to introduce you to the cure" "You are a murderer and a slaver. Fret not over the weight of your sins, I won't let you hurt anyone else." "Rip the Devil's toungue from your mouth or I will do it for you!" "Please dad, say the word and you're out of here. Please."
One Perfect Heist "I have taken nothing. I have recovered stolen property, and will return it to it's rightful owners as my King commands me: that the hungry might be fed and the naked sheltered."
A Welcome Complication "Why couldn't I have met her six months ago...when she could have stopped me."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Charlie stood in front of the church, accutely aware that he was wearing the most expensive suit on the street. He prays silent thanks that he had worn Brooks Brothers to court that fateful day and nothing Italian, because aside from the cheap suit covered in road dust from when he cased the bank he only had a suit from court that was at the cleaners when his home was stolen from him.
His jacket and pants were charcoal grey, lightly pinstriped in black. Underneath it he wore a navy heringbone vest over a pale blue shirt, his purple paisley tie and pocket square matching the lining of his jacket. The outfit was clearly bespoke, as it fit his shoulders and legs perfectly except for an odd bit of looseness around his right thigh next to the silver-gilt cane he leans on.
He hesitates on the sidewalk, his grandfather's cane in one hand and his father's Bible in the other. He felt unsteady on his feet without the leg brace that he normally wore in plainclothes, and regretted the thought that it would be rude to show up with the ability to kick through stone, but that wasn't why he hesitated.
His faith was such an easy thing when he had the armor on. When he was helping people, or hurting those that would hurt them. It all made sense to Typewriter.
Nothing made sense to Charlie anymore. Hadn't for years.
He picked up his cane and right foot, and took a step.
Author's Note: The attentative vintage car enthusiast may note that the Rolls-Royce wasn't availible for purchase in New England until 1907. This is correct. Cyril sent a man to buy his in Manchester and shipped it over the Atlantic himself so he would have one before that bastard Julius.
1906, Sundown, a curious teen sitting in the back of a Rolls-Royce, sipping iced pineapple juice.
"Why did we have to do all that father, why don't they just get their own food?"
Cyril sat still and thought for a moment before responding, drinking a sazarac while looking at the buildings and people they passed.
"They do, as much as they can. Most of them do a better job of it than I think I could. They just can't do as much for their children as I can do for you."
"Why?"
Cyril smiles bitterly and looks north.
"A lot of reasons, son. A lot of reasons."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1915, Boston, spring commencement at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, two men in academic gowns who love each other yelling on what was supposed to be a happy day
"Dammit dad, this isn't some bit of adventurism in the Pacific, poking Spain in the eye from halfway across the world. This is a full scale continental war."
"Which is EXACTLY why you should be at HOME. We'll get you a respectable job using that degree I paid for supervising something critical for the war effort at some factory or another, play up the asthma from..."
"NO! Let me finish. What I'm saying is that if we join the war a few hundred thousand volunteers aren't going to cut it. I don't know what they've been saying in the clubs back home, but I know what the rest of the 'young masters' have been spouting here in Boston. There's going to be a draft father, and I won't let a man be ripped from his mother's stoop by the State and sent to war while I stay safe because I was born ten blocks northeast of them. I can't. John Dorey is running a training camp for officers at Plattsburgh this summer, I hear Teddy's on board so I am too. I'll be joining it, and seeking a comission if we do join the war."
Cyril looked at the man who had taken his son's place. He wondered when it happened, and how he had missed it.
He sighed, and stepped forward to pull Cornelius into an embrace.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
1920, Everwall, Caldwell Manor
The west wing's parlor hung heavy with smoke and indignation as Cornelius Caldwell iii smoked and talked with the last five men he trusted in the world that he didn't meet in the service.
Charlie smiled, as for the first time since his father's "trial" James finally started bringing back good news.
"I'm not certain that the first circuit will rule with us, but they ordered a hold on the tax lien and in arguments appeared initially dismissive of the defense's creative interpretation of the Trustees' fiduciary duty, so I think they're leaning towards us."
"The defense's claim that fiduciary duty doesn't fucking exist, you mean."
His dad's old friend winces.
"...essentially so, master Cornelius."
"Thanks you, James. Thanks to all of you, for everything. I feel like this is a turning point, back towards how things shoul..."
John is interrupted by the sound of screeching tires and breaking glass as the wall of french windows leading to the garden shatters to the ground.
"Contact left!"
Captain Caldwell turns in his chair and leaps to the side of the liquor cabinet behind him as bullets rip through the room.
He reaches for the Winchester .30 above the fireplace next to the cabinet and levers a round into place. Leaning around the cabinet he sees three cars in the middle of his torn up garden. He takes aim at one of the men filing out of the cars and squeezes a round off the moment before he's punched in the chin and shaken. Shaking his head and wondering why he was already sweating so much his shoulders were dripping, he notices a team of men running up to where the windows used to be. He works the lever and trigger as quickly as he can, watching a few of them drop, before the men level the Thompsons in their hands and he moves back behind the cabinet. Before he can get all the way behind the cover rounds rip through his leg and side.
He falls to the ground and sees the men who had raised him bleeding on the floor around him, and he feels his skin expand to fill the room.
No, that's not right, his skin's still on him, but the feeling....the feeling is everywhere.
Charlie feels John's blood seep under the chaise loungue that had been the only concealment near him.
Charlie feels the round lodged in Tim's spine, and the mess it had made of his heart on the way in.
Charlie feels where each of the men who shot them are standing.
He feels the hot-barreled guns in each of their hands, and his uncles' guns on the ground.
He feels James crawl on his back scurrying away from the carnage, the lawyer completely unprepared for the other side of the business.
He feels 5 Thompsons barrels level at James, and moves, taking a knee to the side of the cabinet and bringing his rifle to bear...as his knee collapses under him and for the first time he's made aware through the shock of the ruin of his right leg.
The goons open fire and James screams huddled behind the liquor cabinet as dozens of decanters of decades old whiskey in hundred year old crystal explode around him.
Charlie lies on the ground with his rifle trapped underneath him and struggles to get it from under him.
The maple liquor cabinet splinters into pieces as James stops screaming, closes his eyes, and begins to pray.
Typewriter reaches out his hand with a manic grimace on his face and from the bodies of 4 men he had long loved a half-dozen pistols and a shotgun rise into the air. The goons stand poleaxed staring for an instant before the floating guns start firing and they start falling.
The guns fall to the ground spent as Typewriter loses consciousness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He came to his senses groggy from the ether, him and James alone in the hospital room. They were in the middle of a conversation he didn't remember the hypnopompic origins of.
"...eave. You just need to leave. Stop fighting this, I can't pay you what you're worth and you deserve better for your loyalty and love than everyone else got. Start a practice in Chicago or Atlanta or better yet California and leave this city and it's problems behind you."
"I met your father when we were in knickerbockers boy, I won't be abandoning his son to the wolves."
"They've already won, James. There's no fighting left to be done in court, the removal of John and Tim from the Family Trust means the current federal case is moot and we'll need to start another. You won't win that fight on your own, and I can't afford to pay a second team.
We put it all on that case, and we lost. Just go."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eight Dark Months "Your devil-worshipping preacher is right about one thing: This city does have an infection. I'd like to introduce you to the cure" "You are a murderer and a slaver. Fret not over the weight of your sins, I won't let you hurt anyone else." "Rip the Devil's toungue from your mouth or I will do it for you!" "Please dad, say the word and you're out of here. Please."
One Perfect Heist "I have taken nothing. I have recovered stolen property, and will return it to it's rightful owners as my King commands me: that the hungry might be fed and the naked sheltered."
A Welcome Complication "Why couldn't I have met her six months ago...when she could have stopped me."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Charlie stood in front of the church, accutely aware that he was wearing the most expensive suit on the street. He prays silent thanks that he had worn Brooks Brothers to court that fateful day and nothing Italian, because aside from the cheap suit covered in road dust from when he cased the bank he only had a suit from court that was at the cleaners when his home was stolen from him.
His jacket and pants were charcoal grey, lightly pinstriped in black. Underneath it he wore a navy heringbone vest over a pale blue shirt, his purple paisley tie and pocket square matching the lining of his jacket. The outfit was clearly bespoke, as it fit his shoulders and legs perfectly except for an odd bit of looseness around his right thigh next to the silver-gilt cane he leans on.
He hesitates on the sidewalk, his grandfather's cane in one hand and his father's Bible in the other. He felt unsteady on his feet without the leg brace that he normally wore in plainclothes, and regretted the thought that it would be rude to show up with the ability to kick through stone, but that wasn't why he hesitated.
His faith was such an easy thing when he had the armor on. When he was helping people, or hurting those that would hurt them. It all made sense to Typewriter.
Nothing made sense to Charlie anymore. Hadn't for years.
He picked up his cane and right foot, and took a step.
Author's Note: The attentative vintage car enthusiast may note that the Rolls-Royce wasn't availible for purchase in New England until 1907. This is correct. Cyril sent a man to buy his in Manchester and shipped it over the Atlantic himself so he would have one before that bastard Julius.
Last edited:
- Location
- Many Places
What would you like me to name this?
- Location
- The United States
- Pronouns
- He/They
Hell's Coming With Me
:3
time is a flat circle
Building and crafting and scheming....
- Location
- Many Places
As am I
- Pronouns
- he/him
Well all these dice being rolled aren't worrying me at all
I say it's the dice not being rolled that we should be worried about...
- Location
- Many Places
Nothing to see here
- Location
- Many Places
I am…
- Location
- Many Places
Don't mind me…
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Just rolling for a thing.
A juggernaut. A colossus. The smartest.