The Mad Doctor
The streets of Grantbridge's Waterside district were unlike the rest of the city.
According to Henry, a celebration was ongoing here when the astronauts launched for the Moon - a red-letter day of unprecedented proportions, with people streaming in from outside the city and claiming hotel rooms to participate in the revelry and merrymaking games, stalls of costermongers and vendors dotting streets and sidewalks. The army had been called in and paraded around to celebrate the Federation's victory over the vampiric communists: the reason Henry was also in the city at the time.
Consequently, it'd devolved into an active war zone when the Moon Shattered. The mightiest of the lycanthropes had reportedly swelled to sizes rivaling houses, but even then, the tide of smaller bodies was so mighty the wolves ended up hurting each other almost as much as they caused death among humans. Entire blocks fell like logs to a sawyer's blade, collapsing into piles of rubble, under the flood of enhanced bodies. If not for access to a prototype Fulminant rifle to pacify potentially riotous crowds, and a fortuitous encounter with Marie, Henry claimed he wouldn't have gotten away unscathed, and in all likelihood would've been a guest to some wolf's stomach right now.
The infamous Harbark University was not left untouched. It also experienced the turbulence of the Shattering. It'd been holding an open-air science fair when the apocalypse started, with guests invited to partake and listen to a speech from an acclaimed professor, to explain how the miracle of space travel was achieved. However, its relatively high density of Fulminancers and other specialists meant it fared better than most of Grantbridge when the world surrendered to madness. Therefore, the university walled itself off from Waterside even as the city outside went to hell. Instead of running for their lives, its staff and alumni decided to fortify and endure.
Now, so many months after the end came and went, it remained one of the most stalwart pockets of human resistance and survival across the former Federation of Therianthropic Tribes, coordinating efforts across the eastern seaboard via radio transmissions.
"It does beg a question on my part, if you're willing to indulge," said Dorian, as they stepped on through the gloom-struck ruins of destroyed buildings, feet rising over barriers of shattered brick and mortar dust piled almost to the knees: long and tall steps, careful not to step on anything that'd crunch underfoot as to not alert threats.
They took a moment to observe the street ahead, and stopped upon sighting a threat.
A werewolf puttered down the street, mouth open with tongue sticking out almost doglike. Their scent remained uncaught as a result of staying in a windless section of the ruins, on a carefully researched route. It moved further down, maw releasing a sleepy yawn, not at all roused to primal wrath.
Once it moved on, further down the street and around a corner, Henry answered, "Yes?"
"If they're such a safe bet - a stalwart pack of survivors - why are you and Marie not with them, and instead slumming it out in the rest of the city?"
"I had a couple of personal disagreements with the other survivors-in-chief there, let's say," answered Henry with a curt head shake. "I left of my own free will, even though Musorov insisted I was more than welcome to stay there. Marie decided to come with me, brave the dangers of this concrete jungle together. I've no idea why."
Dorian felt the glimmer of a smile under the man's mask. Fond affection, a bond forged through trial and hardship. They must've had arguments, too, but never to a degree of abandoning each other: a connection of true steel, as unbreakable as Drethir's hegemony. She must've been thankful to him for something he'd done earlier, when the cataclysm started: the sort of affection that, under better circumstances, might've blossomed into a passionate romance - but here, remained only as simple, frank love.
That Dorian felt a modest flicker of envy spoke tomes of his heart's absence. He considered that, especially in the light of other, recent discoveries. Seizing-the-Night's words continued to resonate throughout his mind, the insides of Dorian's skull like an echo chamber.
"It doesn't feel safe to leave her alone," said Henry with a meaningful look.
He'd not been easy to convince for that reason.
"Rest assured, I think she can manage on her own without us, for an hour or two."
With grim silence, Henry crept forward, and Dorian followed him across the pockmarked and slashed streets. They stopped once underneath the shadow of a miraculously surviving tree, its roots tenaciously holding onto the earth, as if refusing to die on a world that'd mostly given up. Dorian noticed a mailbox, slashed apart whole in one swing of the claws, and realized that cut must've been made by something larger than any creature he'd ever seen, likely moving faster than anyone or anything he'd ever seen. He felt a distinct pulse of dread at the prospect of facing such monstrosities out here.
As if detecting his trepidation, Henry offered him a look that smacked of faint amusement at his obvious fear. "Most of them aren't around anymore, or that big at least," he said. "Couldn't sustain that degree of transformation, past the initial night of the Shattering."
"How does that work?" Dorian questioned, knowing a definitive answer may alleviate some of his worries. "The transformation? Its degrees?"
"You'd be better off asking Doctor Musorov, I've no idea." He held up his arms as if to show off the exact contours of his silhouette. "As I'm sure you can tell, laddie, I'm not a werewolf. If I had to hazard a paper-cheap guess, some of them are more receptive to the moonlight."
Henry snorted pensively as if finding even deeper amusement in something else. Dorian was now the one to look at him, inquiring without words.
"It was an honor, once," Henry said, anecdotally. "Considered a gift within the blood. Bein' a werewolf - or therianthrope in general, I suppose - was being something more. Blessed, in a way unlike common humanity. Now look at them." He shook his head, snorting again.
"Monsters."
"Through no fault of their own," the man agreed. "I think they were always monsters. Perhaps we didn't realize it back then. We'd normalized it. Called it noble for all the amazing feats they could achieve with that strength and power. But when monstrosity's useful, and its uses outweigh its... well, monster-ness, society will adapt. Make a culture. Call the monstrosity a blessing. Call the thing an elder, and lay down respect at his feet. I doubt these damn wolves care if we respect them now."
"Come to think of it, why didn't you become a werewolf?" asked Dorian. "Before the Shattering. As I understand, all it requires is a bite and intent to infect."
"As you've no doubt seen as a Visceralist, I have a strength enough of my own. Enough to stand up to them in the army, not be the runt of the pack. I took some pride in that, even if the power was an experiment's result, rather than my own diligence. There was... pleasure, I suppose, in showing them I wasn't some shrimp just 'cause I wasn't a therianthrope." He frowned with distaste, stepping forward to peer over a concrete barrier that'd once prevented cars from turning down the streetlet they were on.
He nodded for Dorian to follow swiftly and they sprinted down to a mostly intact grocer's for cover - inside, the store's counter was covered in ash, its aisles full of broken shelves, scattered with varieties of products, most of them unfit for consumption. This store had been picked over for its contents sometime in the recent past; there was a noticeable absence of canned goods and tools. It was the perishables that rotted and lost value over time that'd been left behind.
The conversation resumed there, after a moment of apprehensive silence.
"Most of my army friends were wolves. Almost everyone I knew were wolves."
"It's where the disagreement came from, between you and those at the university," Dorian realized, spurred on by the Webweaver's aptitude for such matters. "They became fraught, emotional; accused you of involvement. But you didn't want to speak ill of your comrades. So you refused to engage and left them behind."
That was a curious insight into Doctor Musorov's character as well - as an individual willing to overlook such a matter. He was more tolerant and open-minded than average, at least, and willing to weather some amount of social flak, to harbor a persona non grata in his retinue. Dorian made sure to note all of this. He mentally ticked up the odds of his Street story being believed a couple of notches, if he shared it with Musorov.
"It's ahead of us," said Henry, choosing to gloss over Dorian's analysis of his past. "If you want to have a better look, you can move up to a rooftop. I'll wait."
Dorian elected to accept the man's generosity in scouting allowance. He donned the Specter and ascended to a roof within moments with a handful of perches, the unnatural lightness of his body within its incorporeal state serving to propel him above almost as if he were flying up. Atop the roof, Dorian had an amazingly clear view of his goal.
The Harbark University loomed as most ivory towers did over the ignorant masses. This one's stature was made even grander and darker by the austerity of its security. It'd been transformed over months of thorough construction from a simple campus to an impromptu paramilitary fortress.
Concrete walls over ten feet tall topped with silver barbed wire shielded every side of the former campus park. Pylons of Fulminant electricity ran across the walls, sparking and zapping at the air. Guards towers had been constructed from simple metal frames, with snipers standing overwatch, one of them already noticing them but refraining to fire. There was even a shallow moat, presumably under the auspices of mages who could form a swift current at a moment's notice, or make walls of flesh-eating steam.
More Baroque than Gothic, the buildings on the other side of the wall were reinforced, each window boarded-up, and some of them with machine gun emplacements: even more silverish barbed wire garlanded the ledges of each rooftop, twinkling under the shine of roving spotlights. Those Fulminant pylons seemed abundant, too, one near each major doorway and thoroughfare. They were no doubt programmed to fire attacks indiscriminately when tuned, or perhaps were constantly active and somehow discerned between targets.
Once Dorian made his way back down, he and Henry approached the front gate of the complex. It was an edifice of dark, industrial concrete with gun slots, more barbed wire, and an overhang.
"Well, well, well," said the man atop the entry gate, an elder's figure in a simple and rugged outfit, a rifle slung over his shoulder, "I'd recognize the stench of bastardry anywhere, even with the creepy mask. That's you, isn't it, Henry? Who's your friend?"
"My name is Dorian Croft," he introduced himself with a curt bow, voice loud but unstressed. "I seek entry to speak with your leader, Doctor Musorov."
"How forward. Henry, what is the meaning of this shit? Talk before I have the boys blow you to bits."
"It's exactly as the lad says, Alain. Quit the posturing and open the damn door."
"Why the masks? Take them off."
Henry did so without complaint. Dorian pretended to do the same, an illusion of his face projected over the mask.
"Hmm," the guard, Alain, hummed thoughtfully. Finally, he nodded. "Fine. If you turn out to be vamps, we'll blast you to bits anyway. You don't even stand a chance if we open up our ordnance cabinet, so don't try anything clever."
"I won't be entering," Henry assured. "I only led the lad here."
Alain stared down at him with a distinctly displeased look.
"I'll head on back," Henry said to Dorian. "Shouldn't leave Marie on her own. Ask around if you want to find Musorov."
He nodded. "Thank you for being a guide."
The gate was opened after a moment of Alain issuing the order, with a scratch of metal on concrete. Inside, the campus was surprisingly populous, more than he'd expected from the look overhead. This was the most people Dorian had seen in one location since Drethir, not counting the swarms of zombies and packs of werewolves. It wasn't as crude as he'd imagined: there were scattered shacks, the makings of a village-like community, while it seemed the old buildings of the Harbark University acted more as community centers or seats of government, if anything, with a constant stream of people coming in and out on business. Few had reason to approach the walls or gate.
Alain, the Head Greeter, turned out a tad more welcoming than his initial impression suggested. He curtly explained where to find the cafeteria and where to head to for work, since 'they did not take on freeloaders.' That aside, he welcomed Dorian to the Harbark Survivor Group.
"And where do I find Doctor Musorov?"
"His laboratory," Alain said with a snort. "Good luck with that, he doesn't take visitors often."
"How do you feed so many people?"
"Hm?"
"It seems like a lofty task, is all I'm saying." There wasn't much food left to scavenge in the city, and what remained was often difficult to acquire, in districts overrun by too many werewolves to admit scouting parties, and too risky to send single individuals into - even then, it was only precious nuggets of survival within sealed containers, rather than abundant and endless sources. It'd be amazing if a solo scavenger could gather enough to feed themselves, let alone several people; it'd be almost impossible to produce a proper surplus of foodstuffs. He didn't voice that mental track, as it struck him as too obvious. Instead, he said, "This is all maybe fifteen acres of arable land - although I doubt it's very fertile - to feed what must be, on first impression... ten thousand people, perhaps? With the correct crops, you could adjust utility slightly. Still not enough."
"Nine and a half thousand," Alain said, shaking his head with bafflement, "How did you...?"
"Regardless, it'd take more than conventional farming techniques."
"Aquaponics," chirped a curious young girl sitting nearby, seemingly on lunch break - eating a dainty sandwich with corned beef. "With Ebbandry, we pump water from nutrient-rich fish tanks to feed plants, and Fulminancers can sit by and produce enough light even inside of buildings: we've got several warehouses with multiple levels, running constantly like that, with people on illumination and pumping shifts. Are you proficient in agriculture? Doctor Musorov was looking for educated partners to work with on the subject. I am Nancy Howlette, pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm an assistant of the good doctor. I could introduce you!"
Ebbandry, if he recalled, was a regional specialty of Grantbridge - and the Harbark University in particular - a magic similar to Fulminance and Murkworking, but instead of manipulating electricity or particulate matter, it focused on the creation and direction of fluids. It had a complex history that Henry lacked exact details on: something about fish people who lived in the deep sea and eventually made trades of lore and knowledge with the settlers who'd created Grantbridge, and then died out over the decades and centuries. It wasn't as common in the rest of Demimonde.
"I'll accept your offer," he said with an easygoing, charming smile projected over his mask. "I'm Dorian Croft."
"Awh, no doctorate?" She sagged, then perked up again. "Well, whatever qualifications you possess, I'm sure it'll be good enough! You seem very composed, Mr. Croft."
He hummed in agreement. "Are you an agriculturalist too?"
"Oh, me? By the elders, no." She chuckled. "I'm only an assistant."
"Well, I should return to work," said Alain, with a roll of the eyes. "Goodbye."
He departed swiftly. After Nancy was done eating her lunch, she led him to Doctor Musorov's laboratory inside the main building.
There, Dorian encountered the rather infamous doctor - and was immediately struck by the strength of the man's character, a sheer aura of affable personality, almost readable to his mask, a strength of temperament which radiated out of his every pore. It seemed it didn't strike Dorian alone, as even Nancy subtly reacted to his appearance, although didn't show much surprise: this was a supernatural phenomenon, clearly, although something that she'd expected to see from the man.
"Ms. Howlette! Excellent that you're here," said the occupied voice, half-turning to address them with a grin.
He didn't look so much as a day over thirty, much younger than expected given his bevy of titles and listed accomplishments, as well as leadership over the local survivors and respect accorded by everyone who spoke of the man. Despite that, his labcoat fit him as a crown did a king's head, so firmly right on him that Dorian almost couldn't even imagine the man without it. His short brown hair was uncombed and frizzy, and Dorian noticed other quirks of incomplete care about the man's countenance: the undone buttons of his shirt, the untied laces stuffed down his shoes. This was a man who paid little attention to grooming himself, considering appearances secondary to actions.
All of these impressions were unnaturally firm in Dorian's mind, the doctor's character readable, like seals applied to wax.
And then, suddenly and jarringly, unreadable, as Doctor Musorov raised an eyebrow of sudden suspicion in Dorian's direction - as if he'd exercised direct control over what Dorian could glean from him. "Hm, and who's this?"
"I am Dorian Croft," said Dorian. "Excuse my bluntness - are you psychic?"
In a snap, the suspicion dissipated and was replaced with ebullient joy.
"Aha! Direct. How did you know that? Most don't even know what that is," said the doctor, and turned Dorian's question around with amused accusation: "Are you psychic?"
"U-Uhm?" Nancy seemed worried.
"Why, I asked you first, good doctor," said Dorian.
"Indeed!" cried Doctor Musorov melodramatically, a hand to his forehead. "Alas, it falls to me to answer your query and remedy your ignorance."
"It'd only be proper," answered Dorian.
"It'd only be proper to learn of my interlocutor's credentials before I share the details of my research. Why not sit down? Ms. Howlette, shall you fetch us some tea while I engage this gentleman in pleasant discourse?" She nodded eagerly. He smiled and returned his gray eyes to Dorian. "Thank you. I think I'll enjoy this man's company."
---
Your Viscerality has increased - Novice [0.5] -> [0.6].
The Webweaver's acquired one (1) Potential, automatically assigned to Puppeteer.
Now, you should consider how to make the most of this encounter.
[ ] Be Greedy - Play up your knowledge of agriculture and other domains of knowledge to impress the man, even though you actually know little of such subjects. Try to see if your theory holds water: he's not a Visceralist for sure, that much you can tell. How then, does he make such a striking impression?
[ ] Be Charitable and Truthful - Offer a trade of information and begin by revealing the Street. A strong bid, that'll pay off, if that satisfies at least some of his curiosity: especially since getting his aid in figuring out the Street's nature, and potential plans for making use of it, was one of your reasons for coming here. Use your masks as evidence.
[ ] Write-in
