radio414

The color of the sky was just starting to change when Chris, Lana, and Ziun stepped out of the portal -- out of the dungeon -- and back into the real world. Again with the healing tent, again with the aches and pains, but they were alive and that was what mattered. Chris might have reflected more on his teammates -- Lana, for her part, seemed willing to accept the status quo, at least for now -- but “dark” was coming and Chris still had preparations to make before… before whatever was going to happen at the docks happened. As things were, Chris tried to slip away without attracting too much notice. His teammates knew about one of the families after his head, hopefully they wouldn’t mind too much. He didn’t take the direct path back to the Drooling Dragon either. He needed to go back eventually for all sorts of reasons, but some paranoid instinct told him the obvious paths would all be watched. So he went in a more circuitous direction, even taking the time to stop by the docks and scout the location while there was still daylight, just so he knew what he’d be looking for when it went away. What was the weather going to be like tonight? Chris thought. Would he be able to see? Eventually, though, Chris arrived back at the inn. The crowd inside was as busy as it always was, but Chris managed to find a spot at the bar where Hector could see him and waited his turn for attention. When he got it, he asked, “Anyone been looking for me while I was out?” The question was secretly two questions, and he trusted Hector enough to piece together both of them. The first was the double-checking on his pursuers kind of question. They’d shown up to the Drooling Dragon once already, and it was only through Hector’s will that Chris hadn’t been found the first time. But that wouldn’t mean they wouldn’t try again, and it wasn’t like Chris hadn’t made even more enemies in the meantime. The second kind was, well, the plan he had told the undine woman. As much as he wanted to involve as few people as possible, Chris was not going to be able to dispel the lodestone or whatever it was by himself. So he’d needed to find someone who both could do that and wouldn’t ask questions. If he was really lucky, they’d also know what was up with the ring he’d just got. But one thing at a time. He also made sure to order food where he could. It was sure to be a long night.

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Not many of you should become teachers, my fellow believers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly. -James 3:1 (NIV)Melissa took note that Constable’s note for the school was that of tragedy, that the children they were visiting were orphans because of the extradimensional attacks plaguing Prana, leaving out whether it was also a consequence of the battles that Mauvache’s guardians were waging against them or if that statistic was on the decline. She supposed that all conflicts beget casualties, and that it was her job to minimize them, but Melissa couldn’t help but feel a little responsible. Of course, though this was technically Constable’s information, it was still fed to Melissa and Trevor through the medium of Hana’s translation, which, in Melissa’s brief impression, was unreliable, even if Constable never seemed to try and correct her, so though it was another factor to consider when approaching the schoolchildren, Melissa tried not to get too stressed about it. At least, not more than she already was for this particular assignment. That said, her stress proved a perfectly reasonable reaction to the scene unfolding as the four guardians entered the classroom. Children of all different ages had been already overruling any semblance of order, and now that new and exciting people had entered the arena, including one canine (Melissa wondered how Constable might react to being called “fluffy” - well, she didn’t have to wonder any more -- it was already happening), the classroom was anarchic. There was some sort of authority, but he was trapped behind his desk in the front corner of the room. It was a scene Melissa was all too familiar with. Her familiarity did, at least, give her some ideas for solutions, at least. Melissa stepped forward, positioning herself as as much of the center of attention as she could handle, braced herself, and clapped a simple pattern. Clap. Clap. Clap-Clap-Clap. The children did not respond in kind, which was surprising to Melissa, though, now that she thought about it, why would she expect something like that to transcend universes? Duel Monsters had to be the exception, not the rule. Worse, now she felt silly for even trying. Some kids were clapping, but it was more of an applause for want of something to applaud rather than understanding what she had been going for. No, she would have to explain herself first. It was easier said than done, but, swallowing down a lump that was forming at the back of her throat, Melissa picked out a single child near the front of the horde, who couldn’t be older than seven or eight, and approached them directly. “This is a game I like to play sometimes,” Melissa said. Other kids around her focus were competing for her attention, but Melissa stayed firm. “When you hear a grown-up clap a pattern, you repeat back the pattern you just heard. And then -- and this is the important part -- you listen, because who knows? They might clap again, and you don’t want to miss out, right? Does that make sense?” Melissa was sure that the child’s vigorous nodding was more that they had received special instructions from the school’s guests of honor, but the other kids around them were already giggling with each other with their hands out, so she returned to the front of the room and extended her arms out in front of her. Clap. Clap. Clap-Clap-Clap. Her focus kid, and maybe a few others, responded. Melissa tried again. Clap. Clap-Clap-Clap. Clap. Clap-Clap. Even more kids were noticing now, and it wasn’t like it was hard to figure out the rules of the game. Clap. Clap-Clap. Clap-Clap Cla-Clap Clap-Clap. And, for the finale, three simple beats: Clap. Clap. Clap. Just like that, Melissa had the room’s attention. “Good morning,” Melissa said. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with it besides introduce herself, though. “My name is Melissa Ashforth.” It occurred to her that she hardly qualified as a “grown up,” but she also remembered some summer camp counselors that she’d had that, when a camper asked how old they were, could only respond, “Old enough to be your counselor.” She was old enough to be here, with whatever responsibility entrusted upon her, and maybe that was enough. “With me today, I have a my fellow Team Manna member, Trevor Masters, apprentice to Balthazar Blake, Sorcerer of the 777th degree,” -- she hoped she suppressed the sing-song intonation that might betray how ingrained that particular introduction was -- “as well as Constable and Hana from… excuse me, Constable and Hana who I will let introduce themselves in more detail. It is nice to meet you all.”

Brian’s plan to intimidate Carmen off his back really ought to have worked, and yet, Carmen came flying at him, crashing into his side and sending them both tumbling to the floor. “Stop telling me to leave!” she squealed. It did not take too much effort, though, to shove her back off of him. “You’re the one who wanted to leave!” Brian said, pulling himself up. Not that that deterred the already delirious Carmen any. “You’re the one who didn’t even want to enter the fucking- oof!” Carmen leapt onto him again, wrapping her arms around his torso and doing what could only be described as “her best” at lifting and slamming his back against the hard basement floor. There was a crunch, and even with all the adrenaline, Brian felt a sharp pain in his side, and he cried out. The sensation quickly turned to warm and wet, but with that also came a sense of clarity. Brian suddenly understood everything that was happening to him and why. Carmen, despite all the noise, was inconsolable. She managed a good three more beatings with closed fists before Brian said, “Enough- Enough!” and only with another shove did Brian finally manage to get Carmen off of him for long enough to fully evaluate things. Brian looked down at his shirt and saw plenty of blood already staining his shirt and pants, right where he’d tucked that cursed mirror. He looked at Carmen, who was still tense, but she seemed at least willing to see what he was going to do next. Both of them were panting heavily. “Fuck,” Brian said, almost out of habit. He took off his shirt, and his suspicions turned out to be correct. The mirror was broken, and shards of it were now cutting into his skin. The good news was that he probably wasn’t going to die, but unless Shiki was secretly a miracle surgeon on top of everything else secret about them, it was definitely going to leave some gnarly scars. Brian spent a moment wrapping his hand with his shirt, and gingerly pulled the mirror out of his pants. “Seal this,” he said, wrapping the mirror too and tossing the mirror/shirt combination Carmen’s way. “Careful, though, don’t touch.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “And thanks.” Carmen hesitated. “The real Brian wouldn’t thank me for anything,” she said. Brian rolled his eyes. “Oh my god. You’re already a pervert for watching me take my shirt off -- and now you ask more from me? Do I have to recite your Taco Bell order from memory to prove myself or something?”

The “getting the hell away” plan wasn’t turning out so great. Three shadows -- plus whatever the giant monster was doing -- was a lot to keep track of, and the former was only getting faster. As the monsters lunged at him, he spun around, swinging his sword in a wide arc with his arm outstretched, but it didn’t do anywhere near enough to deter the attack. Chris fell onto his back. Despite the futility, he still scrabbled and kicked wherever he could, wrenching his ankles away from the shadow’s grasping hands, but it only took a brush against their fingers for the next kick to get harder and harder to execute. Just when Chris had accepted that his strength was about to give out, it was over. Chris didn’t see the final blow, but the nightwalker groaned and collapsed for the final time. The ground shook, and all the other monsters collapsed into dust in the aftershock. Chris didn’t get up, though. Not right away, at least. If the dungeon didn’t compel him to get a move on, he might have stayed lying in the dirt a little while longer still. At the very least, if he hadn’t lost count in all the fighting, they were liable to get some treasure soon. Maybe that was motivation enough. Still, the compulsion to move didn’t exactly give his strength back, so it was slow going for a moment there until momentum -- the sheer act of moving -- kept Chris moving forward. The treasure was pretty cool, though. There were gold and potions and rings to go around. The ring Chris ended up with wasn’t as fancy as Lana’s, but it had some nice carvings on it, and some impressions in the middle of those carvings that looked like they might be able to hold something. It felt magical, anyway, even if he was too mundane to figure out what any of it meant. Which left only one enigma to deal with. Ziun was the first to say something about it. “What did you do, Chris?” he asked. Chris took a breath, weighing up options in his mind. “I mean, you know what I do for money outside of the dungeon, right?” he said. “Or, what I did do before we started doing daily runs?” But he knew this wasn’t a satisfying answer. The past tense part was also untrue -- he’d done that Fereis family job and alienated Estellise from the group well into their time together. But he had done all of that because of, well, because of the other reason. “I guess that that’s not a satisfying answer,” Chris said. “But my actual answer as to why the Kalo family specifically are mad at me is even less satisfying, because I promised not to say.” “To keep my trust in you,” Ziun had said. Well, if he was so willing to trust, hopefully he and Lana could do without. But that didn’t mean Chris didn’t feel bad about it, and so scrambled to find some sort of compromise. “I’ll give you this, though. It won’t satiate your curiosity, but as a measure of respect:” And so Chris told Lana and Ziun about his childhood, about his various escapades -- embarrassing though they were to look back on now -- and, finally, why he wasn’t still a part of that noble house, far away from any of this. “I don’t tell people, well, mostly for my family’s sake. I think I let my last name slip out a few floors up, though, and I think my friends, the people who’ve stuck with me for so long, deserve to know more, even if I can’t share everything about me just yet.”

OOC TUESDAY NOVEMBER 01 180 DAYS REMAIN “This is an imaginary story… Aren’t they all?” -Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow? (written by Alan Moore) Do All Words Can Do “Fuck!” The events of the last few hours had taken their toll on Director Sekelsky. The reports of rioting were finally dying down, people were returning to their homes, and heroes were permitted to stand down, but that just meant it was time for the casualty numbers. Multiple people had been trampled in the initial panic, and several more were injured in what ensued afterward, including one of their own, a cape who went by the name of Spotlight. It was worth another few expletives. “Fucking goddamn piece of horseshit! Cass goes off the grid for who knows how long and then decides to pull this fucking stunt. Did they know? They must have known. Surely they realized what would happen next, right? So they just left everyone else to clean up their mess, huh?” There were four other people in the room, and each of them was in costume, so Director Sekelsky mentally adopted the standard name protocols. Cape names when dressed as capes. Easy. At the opposite end of the sweatbox of a meeting room (how could it be this fucking hot in here in fucking November?) were Override, Ember, and Aeon. They were the main recipients of this briefing, chosen for a number of reasons but there was really one big one: availability. None of them had been at Hallowmas or taken the holiday standby shift (and who could blame them? It was Halloween. Even Director Sekelsky had hoped to spend the night with his husband and daughter until whatever this shit was), which meant they were actually around this morning. The fact they all had some sort of criminal record was concerning but not work scrapping and waiting for someone else. Bard was there too, seated alone on the near end of the sweatbox next to the projection screen. His costume was positively ancient, and his mask one of those tacky theater masks that only covered half of his face, but he refused to change it, always citing more pressing issues of the time. The Director couldn’t fault him for that this time. He was taking this even harder than Director Sekelksy was; he had a pair of white-knuckled fists pushed as far into the table as he could manage, and he was shaking and muttering something under his breath. It was probably something to do with his Thinker powers, Director Sekelsky thought. It wasn't something he understood, but Bard had also been instrumental in G3’s response the last few hours and he’d been a wreck then too. As long as he was functional and managed to check in with one of G3’s counselors later, he’d be alright, right? He sighed. Thinking things through like this helped get the anger out of his system. The only emotion that remained now was a quiet determination. From an egotistical point of view, it was his best feature. He didn’t have any superpowers, but he wasn’t powerless. “First thing’s first, where’s DEUS?” “Helping with the riots,” Bard said. He eased up a little too now that the meeting had started. “He was spotted in Graceland a little before midnight so he actually wasn’t too far away when it started.” “For once,” Director Sekelsky said. “For once.” “But that means don’t count on it happening again. Not that we should ever count on him.” “Especially now that it’s daytime,” Bard said. “He’ll probably be too busy rescuing cats from trees or helping old women cross the street.” “Or rescuing old women from trees,” the Director snarked. “So Plan A, then. Alright.” Bard handed him a trio of folders and he turned his attention to the three capes in the back. One for each of them. “As you are no doubt aware, the Renegade Cape Cassandra predicted the end of the world at Hallowmas last night,” he said. “This is so obviously S-Class, it’s practically the definition of the term. Unfortunately, the actual words on the truces don’t agree here. They were written more for singular, concrete threats. A tornado, some supervillain who’s gotten too big for their britches, a bio-Tinker’s experiment run amok. Not something as nebulous and off in the distance as this. If we try to litigate this through the normal channels, that’s precious time lost we could have spent dealing with whatever the fuck this actually is, so we’re hoping to avoid that.” He tossed the folders down the table, one at a time. Landing them neatly at the edge right in front of his target without anything spilling out was something that had taken countless briefings just like these to perfect, but it was worth it every time. “We do have some language in our favor, however. We just need the leaders of each of the three main gangs to agree with us, and sign a document saying as much. You three will be facilitating that.” “In those folders are our profiles on the three gangs and the leaders,” Bard said, standing up as well. “Gibbons’ Caesar” -- he pronounced it “ˈsi zər” -- “The Zodiac’s Ophiuchus, and, of course, the Moray Clan’s three Fates. Most of it’s common knowledge, but make sure you’re up to date on it. It also has my best guesses as to how the negotiations are going to play out. Unfortunately, it is probably going to be a negotiation. Six months is a lot of time for Scarlet City’s underworld to play nice.” “We’re going to have to play nice in return,” Director Sekelsky said. “We were the ones with the most cape activity last night. Again, the extenuating circumstances favor us, and obviously so, but they’ll be looking for any concession they can get. Also included in those folders is a copy of a temporary S-Class agreement. It won’t last until April, but it’s something we can use when the Peacekeepers get their act together, so as long as you don’t do anything stupid like make a legally binding agreement without our negotiators present -” “Or start a fight,” Bard said. “- or start a fight, we’re giving you a lot of leeway on this. We need those signatures, you understand? The meetings are already set up. Catty Key buzzed everyone earlier, so be sure to thank her when you get the chance. Your first meeting is with the Fates in Echo Park, the other places and times are in there as well.” His eyes met Ember’s “Ember, you’re not going to that last one as per our existing agreement regarding Gibbons, report back here after The Zodiac meeting instead for a different assignment.” The last moment lingered a bit longer than Director Sekelsky intended, which mattered in the face of all the time pressure, but was still recoverable. “You have a few minutes to finish your reading, ask any questions, you might have, and then get going. Leave through the back while the sixes don’t have the building completely surrounded yet.” Hidden World Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos Lanthimos, the Moray Clan’s three Fates, arranged themselves in various positions about their lair’s (for lack of a better word) throne room searching for something that might fit the correct vibe. It was the new costumes that were the problem here. They’d just gotten three matching dresses from Rajawongse made out of Clotho’s fibers -- and they were the kind of dresses that came with pockets! -- but the room had been put together with their old aesthetic in mind. They’d started out so stereotypical, even getting one of those prop replica thrones from that one show, but the dresses were some kind of postmodern art. They had a flow to them that looked especially nice when they all stood together and the blotches of color started to blur. It was a total clash. The only pieces of fabric left from their old costumes were their blindfolds. “Blindfolds” was another one of those words that was technically true but not really. They were a solid black, but The Fates could all see through them just fine. Part of the magic of Clotho’s string was that its properties could be whatever she wanted it to be. That was one of the reasons Rajawongse had been so inspired in the first place -- a practically infinite amount of new materials, right there at his fingertips, who wouldn’t? But phrasing it that way would also sell the Renegade clothier short. He was a master of his craft even without his power. Rajawongse had created dresses that were identical down to the tiniest stitch. With them, the only way to identify which Fate was which was their distinctive manner of speech. “Maybe it’s the room that needs to change, not us,” Clotho said. “Sure,” Lachesis said. “But that doesn’t change the fact we need to figure out what we’re doing right now,” Atropos said. She was also identifiable by the butterfly knife she carried with her, a helpful outlet for not just her power, but idle hands in general. The swish-clack sound of its handles seemed to punctuate everything that particular Fate said, and frequently some of her sisters’. They settled on one of their standard formations -- Lachesis lounging on the throne flanked on either by her two sisters -- just as three of their underlings entered the room. Vi, Sibyl, and Demiurge were their names. The Fates gave them some time to get situated and even offered them some fruit in case they hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. It was still early in the morning, after all. It also gave them an excuse to get everyone up to speed on the previous night's events, the prophecy, the riots, everything. “The Stadium isn’t our territory, though it’s close enough that it might as well be,” Lachesis said. “And we’re going to have to deal with the smashed windows that are in our territory. Some of our people are already on it.” “It won’t be finished until later, though. Right now, G3 --” “-- The Generic Good Guys --” “-- The Group of Giant Goobers --” “-- is going to be pushing us for some kind of temporary truce until they can get their act together, and we don’t have any reason not to accept.” “But we also have reason to believe the Gibbons aren’t going to take the deal,” Lachesis said. “There are a couple of reasons for that. The first is that, like, it’s Gibbons. There’s no way Caesar” -- she pronounced it “ˈsi zər” -- “is going to let a land grab opportunity slip through his fingers, no matter how bad of an opportunity it is.” “That’s what happens when most of your territory is crap,” Atropos said. Swish. Clack. “Even when you have the most of any gang in all of Skitty.” “So it’s in character for him,” Clotho said. “But perhaps more damningly, he laid out his plans this morning while Worm still had one of his walls bugged, and later we hear some Gibbons capes are on the way to our territory. So we just- we know it’s going to happen. ” “Sorry to bury the lede like that.” “Our people cleaning up Nola Street already know this,” Clotho said. “There are some pretty hefty capes helping out there, both ours and otherwise, and DEUS is still in the area for at least a little bit longer.” “We’ll fight too if we goddamn have to.” The swish-clack of Atropos’ knife was especially forceful that time. “The point is, there’s a little time before anything goes down. There are still a few preparations to make, though. More thorough battle plans, making sure complementary powers are together, that sort of thing. Your job this morning is to keep Caesar distracted, and the way we’d like you to do it is to wreck some of his shit first.” “The target is a warehouse eleven point five nine kilometers that way.” Lachesis pointed in a direction she knew to be Northeast. This was her showing off her Thinker power and she relished the opportunity. “Pretty close to The Shimmer without getting up and personal with it, about as far as possible away from what’s going to be happening here.” “We think it’s a lab for a Tinker on Caesar’s payroll, which means it’ll have a skeleton crew of just that one Tinker and an assistant or two.” “The point is to get them calling for help. We’re not killing them or anything. Just roughing them up a bit to get Caesar’s attention, you know?” Clotho winked. “Of course, if they do go running to the hills leaving a trove of Tinker tech behind, you might as well take any of the interesting shit, right?” “At the same time,” Lachesis was quick to add, “if help does show up, that’s your cue to get out of there. Remember The Stanley Principle. You’re not invincible no matter how far ahead you might seem.” The Fates finally went silent as the invocation of that nearly-sacred rule brought a little extra weight to the proceedings. Both Clotho and Atropos shifted uncomfortably where they stood, and Lachesis had to stop lounging and actually sit in her chair. “Oh, that was a lot, wasn’t it?” Clotho eventually said. “Sorry about that.” “Anyway, the actual meat and potatoes planning of this mission, that’s up to you,” Atropos said. “We’ve given you the place and the goal, kinda want to just see what you come up with,” Lachesis said. “Call it a test, you know? Show us what you can do.” OOC