>>2907129
“Hank, just drop it,” one of the dropouts says with a sigh, “You had a run of bad luck, pal. It happens to all of us.”

“Some more than others,” Hank says, setting down the cards, eyeing you suspiciously. You shrug your shoulders and take the deck--and your winnings--back. No sense saying anything. He’s so sure that there’s no earthly way you should have pulled that off, but he’s seen the cards himself, and the math adds up. Even so, the glower he fixes you with as you pick yourself up off the ground? Yikes.

Fortunately, you fancy yourself a pretty good judge of character. Hank is pissed as all hell, but he’s not the sort to go out and beat your face in when the sun goes down.

“I think we’ve played long enough, fellas,” a tall, thin guy in overalls says with a sigh, “I definitely ain’t got the cash to go again.”

“Same, my wife’ll kill me if she ever found out I’d blown this much on cards today,” agrees another shorter man.

“Well, that suits me,” you say with another shrug, “Unless of course anyone else thinks they can get luckier?”

Hank seethes, but it’s a more restrained anger that’s gradually fading as the facts all point to him just having a spectacularly unlucky hand, “Yeah, yeah, get out of here you damned cripple. Goddamnit.”

One of Hank’s buddies rests a comforting hand on his shoulder and together, they turn around and make to exit the old construction site. Soon enough, others follow suit, leaving you alone in the middle of a maze of iron girders that form the steel skeleton of what was promised to be another grand beast in the Big Apple.

You glance at the crutch by your side. Useful, but now unnecessary as you stand up without a hint of trouble and, with a thought, a muted word of power, and a snap of the fingers, your appearance shifts from that of a shabbily-dressed, grizzled old man to a youthful, spry blond. You can’t suppress the grin as you scoop up your hard-earned winnings: a Rolex watch, a very old and--presumably--very valuable set of coins, and a little over a hundred dollars in cold, hard cash.

Today has been a very good day.

So good, in fact, that you’re real tempted to indulge yourself in a bit of afternoon fun.

>Fuck it, days like these don’t come around often and you’ve been doing pretty well lately. Hit up a club and see if you can’t charm your way into a nice young lady’s abode.
>You know what, you pulled off a big win and you’re feeling like nothing can stop you. Try your luck further and see if there are any nice-looking apartments that need a special breed of removal man.
>Days like these don’t come often, and for good reason: you don’t draw undue attention to yourself. Just head on home and take it easy.

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>You know what, you pulled off a big win and you’re feeling like nothing can stop you. Try your luck further and see if there are any nice-looking apartments that need a special breed of removal man.

>>2907129
>Fuck it, days like these don’t come around often and you’ve been doing pretty well lately. Hit up a club and see if you can’t charm your way into a nice young lady’s abode.

>>2907129
WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME FROSTY

AND WHERE'S YOUR THING WITH ARISTOCRATIC PILOTS? I'M WAITING

>>2907134
>>Fuck it, days like these don’t come around often and you’ve been doing pretty well lately. Hit up a club and see if you can’t charm your way into a nice young lady’s abode.

>>2907202
BEEN BUSY NUCKFUGGET.

AND SOON Valve Time

>>2907134
>>>Fuck it, days like these don’t come around often and you’ve been doing pretty well lately. Hit up a club and see if you can’t charm your way into a nice young lady’s abode.

>>2907134
>Days like these don’t come often, and for good reason: you don’t draw undue attention to yourself. Just head on home and take it easy.

>>2907134
>>Days like these don’t come often, and for good reason: you don’t draw undue attention to yourself. Just head on home and take it easy.

>>2907134
>>Days like these don’t come often, and for good reason: you don’t draw undue attention to yourself. Just head on home and take it easy.

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>>2907129
For a moment, you’re feeling like pushing your luck even further, but no sooner does said thought emerge before it’s swiftly quashed by a desire for some fun of a different kind. You’ve done good this week, and now you’re in the mood for an entirely different kind of conquest.

Unfortunately, devilishly charming as you are, you can’t quite go about looking as you do without being grabbed for having avoided the mandatory conscription. You certainly aren’t afraid of a fight, and what is war but a fight on a hereto unseen scale, but at the same time, you’re perfectly comfortable with your life as it is, thank you very much.

So, with a thought and a quick rattle of a handful of syllables that would have your local vicar reaching for his cross and pitchfork, you cast a rudimentary glamour upon yourself. Not quite the image of the cripple you adopted for your off-the-books game, but instead a rather dapper-looking older gentleman. You’re thinking brick-red hair with a dash of grey around the temple; you know of several young ladies who go crazy for that distinguished look, and decide to hit up the nearest club for a drink and some entertainment.

Early evening means naught to the people of New York, and even in the middle of the week on a fairly brisk March, the streets are crowded and bustling, and trying to avoid rubbing or brushing shoulders with another pedestrian is an exercise in futility. Were it not for a conspicuous absence of young men, you’d hardly notice that there’s a war going on.

The Garden of Eden is, by all accounts, a rather auspicious little hole in the wall, a scant ten minute walk from your impromptu gambling hall. A spacious dining area sits next to a well-stocked bar attended to by a pair of tenders with just the right amount of snootiness to give you the impression you’re living in high society. A modest dance floor sits just adjacent to the dining area, and upon an even more modest stage tucked into the corner of the facility is a band, who play an admittedly rather swagger-inducing Jazz number. Already patrons are starting to occupy the space, moving and swaying and laughing and jostling and giggling.

>>2907274
>>2907307
>>2907310
Motherfuck I literally just gone done writing the update. That was my bad, I should have put a notice up :/

>>2907314
You order a whiskey and survey the crowd with a critical eye, watching for anyone who might seem a little out of place or alone, as you are. Some might say it’s manipulative of you, and they might well be right.

They didn’t win a couple pocketfuls of loot, and neither are they sitting in a rather upbeat little dive with a fine drink in one hand and, soon, you’re sure, a pretty little number in the other.

You catch the creak of the double doors opening even over the bustling din of concentrated humanity, craning your head to peer over at the new arrival out of mild curiosity.

“Sir?”

The voice snaps you out of your state.

“Hm? Yeah? What?”

One of the bartenders is giving you a look of curiosity and not a little concern, “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, why?” you ask him.

“You’ve been standing there for a while now, are you perhaps unwell? We’ve got a back room for you to sit in if you’re feeling woozy.”

You blink, surprised.

“I… what?”

You scrunch your face up in confusion, shaking your head. There was something you saw, something by the door…

You turn your gaze back, and remember how you only barely restrained yourself from looking like a slack-jawed simpleton as the reason for your stupor stands by the entrance in a blinding white evening dress.

She is… holy moly, she is otherworldly pretty, with long blonde hair that falls just above the small of her back and a pair of quite possibly the most crystal blue eyes you’ve ever seen on another human being. Dressed in a blinding white silken evening dress that hugs her figure just enough to accentuate her flawless curves, you can almost feel the stares she’s getting.

She looks about the crowd as you are, looking as though she’s searching for someone. Your in, perhaps?

>Leave her be for now, you’re certain you’ll pass her by in good time
>She’s drawing all sorts of attention. Best move in before some Clever Dick gets any bright ideas

>>2907322
>>Leave her be for now, you’re certain you’ll pass her by in good time

>>2907322
>She’s drawing all sorts of attention. Best move in before some Clever Dick gets any bright ideas

>>2907322
>Leave her be for now, you’re certain you’ll pass her by in good time
Patience. She’ll have high standards, i doubt anyone else will meet them.

>>2907322
>>Leave her be for now, you’re certain you’ll pass her by in good time

>>2907322
>>Leave her be for now, you’re certain you’ll pass her by in good time

>>2907325
>>2907355
>>2907368
>>2907369
Righto, this seems pretty definite. Patience it is, then. Calling the vote.

>>2907322
A not insignificant part of you wants to walk on over and stake a claim on the breathtaking blonde before anyone else can. And if you were a few years younger, you may actually have acted on that impulse. You’re older and wiser, however, and like any hunter worth his salt, you know that patience is sometimes a virtue. From the way she’s acting, and the distinct lack of makeup (not that she’d need it, though, to be fair) she’s clearly expecting to meet someone you’re certain is not her partner. Friends, most likely.

Your time will come. It’s all just a matter of watching and waiting, and immediately your choice in method is vindicated as three different would-be-suitors approach in succession and are instantly shut down with a polite but firm response. That would have ended the game then and there for sure. The men skulk off like beaten dogs with their tails firmly between their legs. One of them catches you smirking and shaking your head. If looks could kill, you’d be leaving the building in a soup can. Ouch. Guy can glare. Seems that’s all he’ll be doing for the immediate future, though.

In the meantime, you may as well make preparations of your own. Subtly, you work your distinctive brand of magic, and give yourself a little enhancement to your glamour. Nothing major: just a little sharpening of the visage to make yourself shine a touch brighter; make your voice sound that much more clear. Too overt and people start to wonder if you’re even real and they start to get suspicious--you learned that lesson very early on. Subtlety, as the Brits are fond of saying, is key.

You order another drink, draining the contents in short order. There’s an art to this: sobriety gives a clear head, but sometimes a little loosening of the inhibitions that only a good, stiff drink can provide can get you just as far in this sort of situation.

Plus, you’re damned funny when you’ve been drinking, and not the tragic kind of funny, either.

(Cont.)

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>>2907492
It feels like a few minutes pass before you feel, rather than see the woman take a seat at the bar, one space over from you, in fact. Perfect.

“Gin, please,” she says, and oh Lord above, is that a French accent you hear? You don’t think you’ve done so much as speak with a French lady before. This will be interesting.

You glance over without making it obvious. Her expression is neutral as she waits for her drink, but you can just make out a hint of forlornness. Clearly she was expecting to meet her friend (or friends) and they’ve not turned up. There’s an in, if ever you’ve seen one.

“Expecting company?” you ask.

It takes a moment for her to register your question, and she turns to regard you with curiosity, and not a little suspicion.

“I am,” she replies, guarded.

“Traffic can get pretty busy around here,” you tell her, “I’m sure they’ve just been held up.”

“Perhaps.”

“Kill some time with an old timer in the meantime?” you ask with a boyish grin, wondering what exactly she sees as your magicked-up facade imitates the gesture flawlessly.

To your suppressed delight, she actually chuckles, “You are hardly old, mister…?”

Hell, she’s asking for your name. Now that was just dandy.

“Bauer,” you tell her, seeing little reason not to give her a pseudonym. On the off-chance it doesn’t go well, you know a few ways of removing recent memories, though you’ll admit not liking to have to do it sometimes, “Adam Bauer.”

“Bauer?” she pauses and then tries the word again, rolling along her tongue. She is blissfully unaware just how sensuous she looks as she does so, shifting her weight on the seat ever so subtly, a lock of blonde hair falling over an eye that she casually brushes away. “That’s not an American name.”

“It’s about as American as Giuseppe or Ramirez or Jefferson,” you reply with a shrug.

“German,” she says, ignoring your remark, and regards you with more curiosity, “Not exactly a popular country these days.”

You shrug again.

“Can you speak any?” she asks.

“Enough,” you say.

“That’s not an answer,” she says, raising a perfectly maintained eyebrow. You only just notice the beauty mark below her left eye, and another just below the corner of her lip. An imperfection in the skin in any other circumstance now enhancing the beauty of the woman whose attention you now hold.

“No, but I think I’m due a secret of my own.”

That little remark sees her eyebrow arch a fraction higher, “And what secret am I keeping from you, Mr Bauer?”

“Well, I’ve given you my name,” you tell her, “and I think it’s only polite that you reciprocate.”

She regards you for a moment, and you can almost hear the gears grinding in her head as she weighs the pros and cons. You see her relax ever so slightly, and know that you’ve got her.

“Zafi,” she says, finally.

(Cont.)

>>2907508
“Zafi…?” you prompt, but she giggles and shakes her head.

“Zafi is all you get for the time being,” she says, a hint of playfulness in her voice. It sounds like melted honey dripping through your ear and into your brain. You wonder what she sings like…

God you’ve got it bad.

You spend the next half hour playing it safe: querying her about what she’s doing in New York City without delving too deeply into her personal life. Baby steps. She says she was attached to a film crew from France who found themselves stranded when the German occupation rolled in. Work has been scarce and hard, which actually tugs at your heartstrings a little.

“That is a damn shame,” you tell her, “I can’t imagine what it must be like to be so many hundreds of miles from home and all your loved ones,” and you’re actually entirely honest. Orphaned at a tender age you may have been, but at least you knew this city.

“It’s been difficult, but sometimes these things happen for a reason,” she says, and she turns to look down at her now empty glass, staring at the empty space. You let her ponder as you work out your next move from here. Maybe another drink or--

“Would you like to go?”

The question stops you short. You hadn’t laid on the charm that thick, had you? Something’s off here, and you’re certain it’s not just you.

But then you look into those cerulean pearls of hers, waiting, wanting, and it takes all your willpower not to shiver in excitement.

>Sure
>Um, yes?
>Where’s your place, exactly?

>>2907541
I know what this looks like, but I do have a plan for the response picked

>>2907541
>>Sure

But you know... maybe be a bit careful? If she's so perfect maybe she's just like us.

>>2907541
>>Sure

>>2907541
>>Sure

>>2907541
>No Thanks

>>2907541
>>nope

>>2907541
>Where’s your place, exactly?

>>2907541

>Where’s your place, exactly?

>>2907548
>>2907551
>>2907574
Aight, 'ere we go, then.

>>2907541
“Sure,” you say almost immediately, “Where to?”

“Somewhere nice,” she says, a tentative smile lighting up your world like the fireworks displays on the Fourth of July. Did your heart just stop? You think you felt your heart stop for a moment, there.

“Well, ladies first,” you say, motioning to the exit.

“What a gentleman,” she says with a sigh and picks herself up. You frown at the noise. That sounded almost like… disappointment? What for? If she wasn’t interested, she wouldn’t be inviting you around. Then she turns back around, and the thought is drowned out as her soft and inviting lips beckon you…

You blink, and before you even know it, you’re out in the brisk evening day, street lights painting your way through the hive of concrete and steel. A voice in the back of your mind is rattling on, but you pay it no mind as you find yourself…

...at home.

Your home.

The voice is back, and it’s screaming at you to run and run far. This lady is nothing like what she appears to be. You think back to your conversation towards the end at the Garden of Eden; the way you hung onto her every word, found her so irresistible. Two things are now all too clear, now that your mind is no longer clouded by the haze of lust.

One: She used your own goddamned trick against you.

Two: She’s a goddamned mage.

“We’re here,” she says, and you feel the fog descending upon you. She sounds sweeter than any chocolate, looks more perfect than any sculpture or painting ever could. How on earth can you doubt her?

>No, this is all kinds of messed up and I’m busting free of this cheap spell now that I’m aware of it (1d100, TN 65+)
>Haha, no. Running time! (1d100, TN 70+ to resist and evade)
>Let her lead you in, she won’t lead you astray, surely...

>>2907674
>>Let her lead you in, she won’t lead you astray, surely...
We're been stupid so far, might as well stay in character.

>>2907674
>>No, this is all kinds of messed up and I’m busting free of this cheap spell now that I’m aware of it (1d100, TN 65+)

>>2907674
>Let her lead you in, she won’t lead you astray, surely...
What could go wrong?

>>2907674
>No, this is all kinds of messed up and I’m busting free of this cheap spell now that I’m aware of it (1d100, TN 65+)

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>>2907674
>>No, this is all kinds of messed up and I’m busting free of this cheap spell now that I’m aware of it (1d100, TN 65+)

>1d100 system with TN ratings
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

>>2907709
Didn't you see what he said up top? Probably borrowed it from the dude.

>>2907674
>>Let her lead you in, she won’t lead you astray, surely...

>>2907674
>No, this is all kinds of messed up and I’m busting free of this cheap spell now that I’m aware of it (1d100, TN 65+)

>>2907709
I've been friends with Pixel for a good couple years now which means that I do indeed follow his quest. Hell, for full disclosure, this entire thing was literally inspired by a conversation in one of his threads about XCOM if it fought demons n shit

>>2907726
I remember that thread. Fun to come up with a super secret organization fighting against the assorted paranormal, supernatural, and the occult threats across the span of human history.

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>>2907738
Sounds familiar.

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>>2907709
>>2907726

>>2907674
>No, this is all kinds of messed up and I’m busting free of this cheap spell now that I’m aware of it (1d100, TN 65+)

>>2907674
The indignant outrage you feel at the knowledge that this cunning, conniving (and still insanely attractive) bitch has done this to you is almost enough to free you from the charm--for it cannot be anything else--but almost isn’t enough. And it’s going to take a boatload of will power before the haze descends over your mind and she lures you to whatever ill fate she has in store for you.

So, you drag your mind back. Years and years past, to one of the very first lessons your father taught you.

“Discipline, son. Discipline is key. If you remain in control of your mind, you’ll see yourself through all kinds of scrapes.”

He hadn’t stayed alive much longer to give you his final lesson. But what he had taught you had seen you through exactly the kind of situations he’d said they would, and you’d be damned if you let it go to waste now of all times.

So you focus. You lock yourself on a memory. A tiny, almost insignificant little memory: a cold house; a tired man returning; a tiny little cupcake; singing, soft and muted; laughter--yours. You latch onto it like a life preserver and use it as a raft to keep you afloat on the shifting sea that is your mind. Now all you need to do is… well, focus.

>Gimme a 1d100 chaps

>>2907674
>>No, this is all kinds of messed up and I’m busting free of this cheap spell now that I’m aware of it (1d100, TN 65+)

Rolled 65 (1d100)

>>2907798

Rolled 83 (1d100)

>>2907798

Rolled 32 (1d100)

>>2907798

Rolled 1 (1d100)

>>2907798

>>2907798
Immediately, you can feel your senses returning to you as you recall the smell of melting candle wax and the sugary taste of the soft treat. You release a shaky breath and take an uneven step back from Zafi--if that’s even her name--and don’t so much mutter as snarl the word that conjures a blazing blotch of baleful purple fire into your hands.

Zafi has now stopped by this point, and has now turned to regard you. First, it’s puzzlement, but then, as she registers your expression, body language and the burning balls of hellfire in your palms she looks… fucking impressed?!

“My, this is a surprise,” she says, and actually sounds like she means it, too. “I had thought that this would be pitifully easy. Breaking free of a Charm? Not an easy feat to manage, especially when you’re unaware that you’re even under one.”

“Yeah, I’m great like that,” you snap, “Now tell me what the hell kind of game you’re playing at or so help me, God, I will roast your blonde ass,” you seethe.

She pauses, considering for a moment, before shrugging and resting a hand on her hip.

“We just want to talk.”

“We?”

She gestures with her other hand to your home, “He’s inside, waiting.”

You bark a sharp, sardonic note of laughter, “And I’m supposed to just, what, blindly follow you in?”

“This was necessary. You'd have tried to slip away, otherwise.”

“If you’re trying to sell me on whatever it is you’re peddling, you’re doing a really bad job of it.”

She sighs and folds her arms across her chest, fixing you with an expectant look, “What we do isn’t really something we can just advertise freely, and we know enough about you to know that if we approached you in conventional fashion, you’d have run. Don’t even try to deny it.”

You open your mouth to bite out a retort. And then you close your mouth. She’s probably right. Damn it. Zafi cocks an eyebrow at you and gives you a half-grin.

Well, fuck, outside your home with a devilishly attractive mage who tried to con you into something and still recovering from the effects of a deviously subtle Charm. This was definitely not how you had hoped to spend your evening.

Guess the only question now is how it ends.

>Fine, I guess I’ll hear you and your mystery friend out.
>I want you and your unseen buddy to go. Now.
>Fuck it. I’m out of here.

>>2907804

FUCK YEAH

>>2907880
>>Fine, I guess I’ll hear you and your mystery friend out.

Seeing as how she didn't actually try to shank us or anything.

>>2907880
>>Fine, I guess I’ll hear you and your mystery friend out.

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Aight, it is ungodly O'clock where I am and I'm starting to nod off. I'll call this run here and post an update when I wake up later this morning and another when I get back from work at night. Those of you who follow Pixel's XCOM Trooper Quest will be familiar with the model I'm pursuing. Updates throughout the week and a new thread (no awkward shifts permitting) on the Friday. Failing that, I'll throw one up at some stage on the weekends and we'll roll on from there. Thanks to all of you who participated and ta ta for now.

>>2907880
>Fine, I guess I’ll hear you and your mystery friend out.

>>2907880
>>>Fine, I guess I’ll hear you and your mystery friend out.

>>2907880
>Fine, I guess I’ll hear you and your mystery friend out.
I’m liking the writing style so far.

>>2907880
>Why doesn't that mysterious "he" come out of MY home so that we can talk here?

>>2908260
Fuck, that's not bad. Why didn't I think of that as an option.

Calling the vote and writan

>>2907880
You ponder, and mull, and all the other lovely little verbs to go alongside them as you just stop for a moment and actually think with your head instead of the other one that’s been guiding you up until this moment (thanks a lot, pal, stellar job). They obviously know where you live, and the fact that she made no attempt to cover her blatant usage of an extremely effective Charm spell means that she likely knew you were a mage even before you busted out the fireballs.

You could run, but where would you even go? Your friends are gone; moved on to better places or caught by the draft--fighting and probably dying in some mud-splattered ditch somewhere way over in Europe or dreary little island no one’s ever heard of in the Pacific. No, you’ve lived here your whole life so far, and uprooting from the place your father raised you doesn’t sit right with you even as your well-honed survival instincts slap their palms against their faces and moan loud and clear that you’re a fucking idiot for not doing so.

Does it make you a hypocrite that you like to think of yourself as a con-man with scruples?

Probably.

So, fuck it.

“Fine,” you say, after finishing your deliberations, “let’s meet your mystery friend. Any chance he could maybe trot on out here to chat?”

“You’d have an old man suffer through this chill?” Zafi asks with a raised eyebrow.

“He seems perfectly content to put me through similar treatment,” you shoot back.

Zafi actually cracks another half-grin, but shakes her head all the same, “What we need to discuss isn’t exactly for the public ear.”

“Yeah,” damn it, you figured as much, but it was worth a shot at the very least, “Fine, sure. Let’s get this damned day over with. Try to pop out for some fun and all you get is...” you devolve into an inane, mumbling rant as you brush past Zafi, dismissing your glamour and the fireballs with another snap of your fingers.

Unsurprisingly, you find that the front door is unlocked, and you stepping into the dingy front room, the musty smell of dust and the much more aromatic scent of dishes in sore need of cleaning assaulting your nostrils as soon as you step through the doorway. Truly, there is no place like home.

“Hm,” Zafi hums, her face neutral as she follows you in.

“Feel free to leave,” you remark drily.

“I’ve seen worse,” she states, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice that rather makes you think she has.

(Cont.)

>>2908644
You grunt and step on through into the dining room, large enough only for a basic table and a trio of old, time-worn wooden chairs. A man sits at the table, impossible to miss. He’s big for a man quite clearly north of seventy--even hunched over with age, you’re sure he’d stand almost equal to your own height, and you’re not exactly short to begin with. Broad shoulders frame a body that you can say with absolute certainty was a temple in the prime of his youth, and even despite the presence of the sleek black walking cane at his side, you feel pretty sure that he could deck you with a blow. Similarly aged but still sharp blue eyes regard you with… fuck, you’re actually not sure.

He stands up without a hint of trouble despite his advanced age, and you wonder if the stick is just as much of a show as the crutch you made use of for your daily excursions. Sure enough, he’s almost level with you. What on earth did this man eat to be as tall as he was? He must have been a giant at your age.

“Good evening,” he says. Again, his ageing exterior belies a soft-spoken, cultured Southern drawl that bristles with barely-hidden power. You’ve no idea what this man has done with his life but you’ve never felt more quietly intimidated.

Damned if you’ll let him or Zafi see it, though.

“Yeah, it’s a real kicker,” you say, silently thankful that you didn’t stammer or stutter as the nerves really start to kick in as the gravity of your situation slowly sinks in: two strangers, both probably mages, are in your home. They have you surrounded on two sides and probably wouldn’t have any qualms with taking a hatchet to you if you don’t give them what they want, which at this stage, is still up in the air.

“So, who are you?” you ask, figuring you may as well get the ball rolling at least.

“You can call me Mr Grim. One ‘m’.”

“That’s not ominous at all,” you mutter under your breath. His eyes narrow by a hair’s breadth of a margin.

“I apologise for the deception,” he says in a way that makes it all too clear that he is entirely not sorry for the deception, “but this was a matter of some urgency and the sensitive nature of my work combined with the… less than proper nature of your own goings-on left me with few options.”

(Cont.)

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>>2908645
“And this work is, what… spy nonsense? International espionage? If that’s the case, why come to me about it? I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I ain’t a spy; I’m a crook.”

“Some would argue that there’s little difference,” Zafi chimes, amused.

“In a manner of speaking, it is,” Mr Grim says, ignoring his French… what, aide? Consort? Bodyguard? “I’ve put together an organisation in recent years to combat certain threats.”

“Try the Army, or the Marines,” you say with a derisive snort, “I hear that’s kind of their area of expertise.”

Grim fixes you with an impassive stare before shaking his head, “What do you know about the world we live in, Mr Bauer?”

>That it’s a lot bigger and a lot scarier than most seem to take it for--you tangoed with a Lycan some years back and it still ranks high on your list of shitty experiences
>That there are some dark and spooky corners you can get lost in--you fell into a Fae trap as a child and had to do a lot of hardthink to weasel your way out
>That there’s more out in the wilderness than wild cats and dogs, though you’ve never seen any yourself

>That it’s a lot bigger and a lot scarier than most seem to take it for--you tangoed with a Lycan some years back and it still ranks high on your list of shitty experiences

>>2908646
>>That it’s a lot bigger and a lot scarier than most seem to take it for--you tangoed with a Lycan some years back and it still ranks high on your list of shitty experiences

>>2908646
>That there are some dark and spooky corners you can get lost in--you fell into a Fae trap as a child and had to do a lot of hardthink to weasel your way out

>>2908646
>That it’s a lot bigger and a lot scarier than most seem to take it for--you tangoed with a Lycan some years back and it still ranks high on your list of shitty experiences

>>2908646
>That there are some dark and spooky corners you can get lost in--you fell into a Fae trap as a child and had to do a lot of hardthink to weasel your way out

>>2908646
>That it’s a lot bigger and a lot scarier than most seem to take it for--you tangoed with a Lycan some years back and it still ranks high on your list of shitty experiences

This seems interesting. I'll keep an eye out for updates.

Is it wrong of me to picture us as John Constantine?

>>2908750
I hope not, if I remember correctly Constantine's soul belongs to the devil.

>>2908646
>Which one? I know as much as the next guy about the war, and the reasons it started. The other side of the coin though, I know...
>That there are some things man was never meant to dealve into. I found a book as a child, that taught me more about space and time than any physics book. It was lucky i didn’t need therapy.
Ia’ ft’agn. I wanted an Old One option, so i made one.

>>2909106
Next thing you know, ALL OF THEM are real and in a war against each other.

And then the AYYS pop in.

>>2909122
Well, we can definitely be sure that the Thule Society will use any and all means to win the war. Even if it means summoning Eldritch Star Gods from the void, enlisting the Fae, or even going to Antarctica to find the cmsecret passage of the Hollow Earth to awaken Frost Giants of Norse myth.

>>2909122
The Old Ones are the ayys.

>>2908646
>That it’s a lot bigger and a lot scarier than most seem to take it for--you tangoed with a Lycan some years back and it still ranks high on your list of shitty experiences

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>>2908750
...

>>2908653
>>2908654
>>2908715
>>2908750
>>2909195
Calling the vote and writan

>>2908646
“I know damn well that it’s a lot bigger and a whole lot scarier than most people seem to think,” you respond, thinking back first to that weird fucking book that your father had up in the attic which gave you headaches each time you so much as looked at it. You then recall a much more recent but no less unpleasant memory of a particularly nasty scrape with a Lycan scant years previous. The thing had been half-starved, down an arm--which, incidentally, had bled all over the place as it attacked--and it had still almost killed you on three separate occasions in the span of an afternoon.

You had crossed Jimmy Barnes firmly off of your Christmas gift list that year. Even now, you’ve got not an iota of a clue as to what was going through his thick skull when he planned that jaunty little venture.

Of course, the upside, if indeed there was one, was that it had honed your survival instincts to a razor’s edge. You knew when to take or roll with a hit, and when the blood was pumping and that ancient instinct to fight or fly kicked in, there was no hesitation. Tonight was just a mishap, a slip from having spent too long away from any real, tangible threat. Zafi had lured you in hook, line and sinker, and while her intention hadn’t been to murder you and steal all your crap, that didn’t mean the next person who tried such a tactic would be so inclined to play nice.

This was a lesson, pure and simple, and while it hadn’t cost you your life, the night was still young, and you still had no idea what Mr Grim wanted.

Though a suspicion was starting to gestate…

Mr Grim nodded, “Things the average person would equate to fiction. We protect the world from these threats.”

You’d half-expected it when he’d asked you the question, but to hear it now? Sweet Jesus above, an honest-to-God Vampire Hunter force. You can’t help but scoff.

“Why? I mean, when was the last time a mob of Lesser Vampires wiped a village off of the map? When was the last time you saw a Lycan rampage through the streets of Nowhere in the middle of Dick-all County? When was the last time a Merfolk got so much as a scaly finger near a fishing boat?” Throughout your rant, Mr Grim keeps his level expression on you, nary a hint of a reaction to your tirade.

“I’ll tell you why you haven’t: because it doesn’t happen. They’re dying out; have been for centuries now. The last pockets hide and cower and pray that the big bad humans don’t come stomping around to give them another round at the genocide bar. Every so often, some poor, dumb idiot stumbles across one of their hideouts and things get a little messy and it’s all very curious and strange that wild animals would murder a person that close to the suburbs, but this isn’t something you need a task force for.”

(Cont.)

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>>2910340
“The United States feels differently,” Mr Grim says, “and many others besides.”

You start to grind out a response but stop. It’s just… too ridiculous. So you shake your head and flop into a chair opposite the big, blocky old man and fix him with a stare of utter incredulity.

“Besides, things have changed,” Grim tells you, and the steel he’s injected into his statement brooks no argument. “Something has stirred up the hornet’s nest, so to speak. Things are happening, not just here in America, but all around the world. You joke, but there, in fact, have been entire settlements--to borrow your own words--wiped off the map. So far, these incidents have been isolated and remote, but the mere fact that it is happening at all provokes concern and warrants immediate attention.”

“I don’t buy it,” you say, still sceptical, though the barest hint of a chill settles on your spine even as you shake your head. This guy really doesn’t seem like the type to joke around, but even if this is happening…

“Say this is going on; call the Guard? They’ve got bodies aplenty and a whole lot of hardware just sitting around gathering dust at the moment.”

“We could,” Grim conceded, “Projected casualty estimates for a full-blown war within the United States alone, however, exceed seventy percent. Conventional forces are not equipped for this kind of fight.”

“But you are?”

“And so are you,” Grim nodded.

Now you get to the meat and gristle of it; this whole exercise was a talent scout. A part of you feels curiously flattered. The rest just wants to scream and run

You inhale and release it, blowing your cheeks out as you do so. Fuck, this is… pretty heavy. How does a person even react to something like this?

>What if I say no?
>I still don’t buy it, what’s your angle here?
>I refer to my earlier point: I’m a crook, not a soldier. Why the fuck am I on your list?
>Other?

>>2910351
>>I refer to my earlier point: I’m a crook, not a soldier. Why the fuck am I on your list?

>>2910351
>>I refer to my earlier point: I’m a crook, not a soldier. Why the fuck am I on your list?

If we're gonna fight we're gonna need some special requests done for us in terms of weapons.

Maybe some super special shotgun shells loaded with universal anti-paranormal, supernatural, and mundane materials

>>2910401
>>I refer to my earlier point: I’m a crook, not a soldier. Why the fuck am I on your list?
>>2910401
Not a bad idea, although we gotta see if we're any good with a gun first. Being able to use hellfire sounds pretty awesome, maybe a good ole revolver to keep a hand free?

>>2910351
>I refer to my earlier point: I’m a crook, not a soldier. Why the fuck am I on your list?

>>2910351
>>I refer to my earlier point: I’m a crook, not a soldier. Why the fuck am I on your list?

>>2910351
>I refer to my earlier point: I’m a crook, not a soldier. Why the fuck am I on your list?

>>2910366
>>2910385
>>2910454
>>2910551
>>2910568
>>2910792
Well, this seems pretty decisive. Writing.

>>2910351
“As weird as it sounds, I actually am a little touched you decided on me. One key issue, though. As I’ve already stated: I’m a crook, not a soldier or spy or whatever you think you need on this little crusade of yours. Why the hell am I on your list?”

“True, there are individuals with considerably more personal calibre,” gee, thanks, “but as I have already stated: the unfortunate reality is that many of these individuals are simply not equipped for the fight we have to undertake. A lack of knowledge or power or technique will only hinder or, in the worst case, doom.”

He leans back a fraction in his chair, giving you a more measured look which makes you shift about in your own seat like a schoolboy about to be given a lecture by his teacher.

“Besides,” he adds, “your own personal set of skills has its usage in this shadow war. Skills that I know would be beneficial in the aid of humanity.”

‘Shadow War’? Fucking hell.

“You seem to be talking like you know I’m not going to just cut and run at the first opportunity.”

“If you had any real inclination to do so, you would have done it by now.”

...yeah. Goddamnit. Most of it’s the simple fact that the old coot has you by the balls: he knows where you live, knows that you’re a mage, and, more critically, also knows that you’ve avoided the draft. The link he has to the government is all too obvious and you’re sure that one phone call or telegram is all it’d take for you to have New York’s finest breaking down your front door. The iron-clad fact of the matter is that you’ve simply got nowhere else to go.

There’s something else, though. A tiny little kindling spark deep, deep down within you that you’ve never even known existed until just now. Here is offered a purpose. A goal. An opportunity to be a part of something--to do something that matters with yourself; with your life.

“I...”

>...think I’ll give this ‘Shadow War’ of yours a roll. Just a trial run.
>...don’t really feel as though I’ve got much of a choice. Do I?
>...think this is all way too much over my head.
>Other

>>2911921
>...think I’ll give this ‘Shadow War’ of yours a roll. Just a trial run.

>>2911921
>>...think I’ll give this ‘Shadow War’ of yours a roll. Just a trial run.

>>2911921
>>...don’t really feel as though I’ve got much of a choice. Do I?

>>2911921
>...don’t really feel as though I’ve got much of a choice. Do I?
And then a cuckoo clock has a little train circle it, it lets out a little “whoo whoooo!” And we say “that’s not supposed to happen, it’s a bird clock.”
Not a complaint, just thought it’d be hilarious to have happen in the universe.

>>2911921
>>...don’t really feel as though I’ve got much of a choice. Do I?

>>2911921
>...don’t really feel as though I’ve got much of a choice. Do I?

>>2911921
>...think I’ll give this ‘Shadow War’ of yours a roll. Just a trial run.

>>2911921

>...don’t really feel as though I’ve got much of a choice. Do I?

>>2911942
>>2911947
>>2911950
>>2911999
>>2912174
>>2912333
Writing

>>2913905
“I don’t really feel like I’ve got much of a choice in the matter. Do I?”

It’s almost imperceptible, even to your eyes, but there’s the barest ghost of a grin on Mr Grim’s face.

“Clever boy,” he says.

Bastard.

“I like to think I’m quick on the uptake,” you pause, thinking of Zafi’s underhanded but rather flawless use of the Charm, “Usually,” you then add. Immediately, you hear her adjust her stance behind you. If she’s smirking at you…

“In an ideal world, I’d have an excess of time to convince you of your suitability and how your unique set of talents would benefit our mission,” says Grim, resting his hands atop one another on the table in front of him, “Unfortunately, we are about as far from ideal as it is possible to get, and I am strapped for both time and manpower. Things you correctly described as unprecedented are happening across our world and they are occurring with a frequency that is as worrying as it sounds. I can’t afford the luxury of volunteers. So, I am sorry, Mr Bauer, but you’ve been drafted.”

“Great,” you say, silently caught between cold rage and helplessness. Of all the ways you thought your relatively plush life would come to a crashing halt, this was certainly not one. You reach for a half-finished bottle of whiskey on the table and raise it in mocking salute, “To the Corps, and future victories.”

Then you drain the contents in one gulp, relishing the burning sensation as it disappears down your gullet.

“So, when do I get started?” you ask.

“Now.”

You’re suddenly aware of a faint glow emanating from the smooth wooden floor. Snapping your gaze downwards, you find to your shock that it appears to be some kind of summoning circle. Panic rushes through you as you scramble and flail in surprise.

“Calm down,” Grim commands, “And close your eyes.”

He doesn’t need to tell you the second part twice. If this is what you think it is, you really don’t want to see what happens over the next few microcosms of a second.

You manage to squeeze your eyes shut just in time as a baleful red light engulfs you, and you feel yourself rent apart by your very base components over and over and over as they are forced through various planes of reality like a postman crams mail through an overstuffed letterbox.

Suddenly, it’s over. A heartbeat of pulsating agony disappearing into a numbing weakness that swiftly spreads through your entire body. You throw up before you’re even aware you’re doing so, painting the cold stone you’ve been transported upon with partially-digested alcohol and the half-meal you’d had for lunch.

(Cont.)

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>>2914250
“Relax,” you hear Zafi murmur softly behind you, sounding a little queasy herself, “it’s always bad the first time, but you get used to it quickly.”

“Fffhuuuhh-” you groan, shivering as a chill doesn’t so much caress you as rip straight through you. Where the hell even are you for it to be this goddamned cold indoors?

“Come on,” Zafi urges softly, reaching down and pulling you up off the ground.

Groggy and weak from having lost your lunch, it takes you a few moments to register that you’re sitting in a great, cavernous space, upon the smooth, stone floor of which is painted a great summoning circle almost exactly like the one that transported you here. There is no natural light, which could mean you’re either in the middle of a massive facility, or underground.

“Here we are,” Grim says, aggravatingly unphased by the jump you all just undertook through time and space, and steps towards a set of large, thick, reinforced steel doors at the other end of the chamber, his walking cane clacking on the floor with each other step, “I’d suggest you find yourself something thick and warm. You’ll catch your death before too long if you don’t.”

You are led through a short corridor--more stone, definitely underground--and up a long flight of stairs, before reaching another set of steel doors, which open up…

...and unveil a hive of activity before you in the form of dozens of warmly-dressed people--men and women of all shapes, sizes and even skin tone--bustling around like you’re back home in New York. The only key difference separating this from any other scene from your hometown, though, is the sense of purpose they move about with. Several gargantuan machines occupy the space at the edge of the grand hall that are fussed over by spindly-looking types in white coats, while at the centre sits an elevated platform with a sizeable marquee set up--presumably to give whoever is meant to occupy it some semblance of privacy.

“It’s still a work in progress, so you’ll have to forgive the lack of polish,” Grim says, moving through the scrum of workers and parting all before him like Moses did the Red Sea.

>”So, does this phantom crusade of yours have a name?”
>”Who are all these people?”
>”Where are we, exactly? And why is it so fucking cold?”
>”Before you start sending me out on suicide missions; any chance I can get some food before I collapse?”

>>2914254
>>”Where are we, exactly? And why is it so fucking cold?”

We're inside the fucking HABAKKUK aren't we?

>>2914254
>>”Where are we, exactly? And why is it so fucking cold?”

>>2914254
>>”Where are we, exactly? And why is it so fucking cold?”

>>2914254
>>”So, does this phantom crusade of yours have a name?”

>>2914254
>”So, does this phantom crusade of yours have a name?”

>>2914254
>”So, does this phantom crusade of yours have a name?”

>”Where are we, exactly? And why is it so fucking cold?”

>>2914283
>>2914362
>>2914501
>>2915294
Location, location, location. Writing now.

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>>2914254
You weave your way through teams of… hell, you really aren’t sure. Analysts? Agents? Fuck it. Staff. Just staff until you figure out who’s who in this place.

Speaking of place.

“So, where are we, exactly?” You ask, “And why is it so fucking cold in here? Have you not heard of a thing called central heating?”

“As I said: it’s a work in progress,” Grim tells you with a barely perceptible shrug of the shoulders. “And to answer your other question: we’re in Antarctica. Specifically a purpose-built underground facility I had commissioned.”

“Antarti-what?”

“You heard me.”

“...the same Antarctica that’s on the ass end of the world.”

“Yes.”

“The one that can freeze a person to death if they take a step outside in a few minutes if they aren’t dressed damn warm?”

“Mhm.”

You’d gripe and bitch and gape some more but you’re a little busy glancing around and searching for anything that looks like a spare or unused coat with a little more gusto. Eventually you spot a rack by a short table occupied by a rather busy-looking woman that is, fortuitously, almost directly in your path. With almost too many to choose from, you reach out and snag what looks like a rather expensive thick, black leather coat and throw it on.

The chill is still there, but it’s a fair bit more bearable now.

“Excuse me there, good man.”

A voice stops you even in the hubbub of the great hall. The owner of said voice is unmistakably British, specifically of their renowned upper class; posh and snooty, almost exactly like they sound in the Pictures, but there’s a smooth undercurrent too which tells you of a man who’s very used to being in control.

You and Zafi--who is still supporting you as your waning strength gradually returns--stop and turn around. Zafi seems to recognise the man, as you can feel her relax a fraction.

“Good evening, Nathan,” she greets, with a languid smile.

“Nathaniel, please. It was the name my father gave to me, after all. I’d feel terribly remiss if people didn’t use it,” he responds.

You find yourself face to face with a, by all accounts, fairly typically handsome gentleman with strong, aristocratic features: high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and a set of distinctive amber eyes. Curiously, you note his hair is almost entirely silver, despite not looking a day over thirty at most. A faint scar bisects his right eyebrow at an angle; an old war wound of some sort. Or he just ran into the edge of a cabinet at a tender age. He is dressed in a plain, beige shirt and tan pants, and has a hand extended towards you.

(Cont.)

>>2915373
“I’m terribly sorry to bother you, chap, but I believe you’ve got my coat there. I know, it is rather a bore, but I’d appreciate it greatly if you might return it and get yourself another?”

Your less than noble instincts want nothing with any of it, but it really wouldn’t do to make enemies if you’re going to be stuck here. Reluctantly, you shrug the article off your shoulders and hand it back.

“Thank you,” Nathaniel says, grateful, and slips his coat on. He then reaches onto the rack and rifles through the assorted clothing before pulling out a thick woolen number and offering it to you, which you accept without a second thought. That’s actually much better. You wonder why he didn’t just take that one, instead.

“Now we’ve got that out of the way, Nathaniel Arkwright, at your service,” he says, and, to your bemusement, bows, “I imagine you’re one of the new hires?”

“You could say that,” you mutter, casting a dark glance in Grim’s direction, who has slowed down and is now watching the three of you with that impassive stare of his.

“Ah, I see,” he says, with a twinkle of amusement, “Don’t let it get you down, old boy. You’ll find that you are compensated for your trials. Grim pays rather fairly, all things considered,” He glances down and adjusts his belt. Following the movement, you blink and find, to your surprise, that a sword sits tied to his side.

“Well, I shouldn’t keep you,” he says, “Thank you for returning my coat and ta ta for now.”

“Nathaniel,” Grim intones, stopping the Brit cold.

“Hm?” he turns around, puzzlement all too clear.

“You may as well save me the trouble of searching for you. Follow us, please.”

Nathaniel pauses, blinking before shrugging his shoulders and nodding, “As you wish.”

“Good,” and with that, he turns back towards the marquee and continues on, now joined by the new face.

You enter through and find yourself in something that’s half science fiction, and half occult horror. A small space is dedicated to a smattering of pentagrams and runic carvings, while the rest is taken up by two black chalkboards and more machines, including a phone which stands, amusingly enough, on a little pedestal by one of the more grander-looking machines. You can only guess at their purpose, and you’re almost certain you wouldn’t understand even if it were explained.

(Cont.)

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>>2915374
“Hi, sir,” a chipper Southern voice chirps, snapping your attention around to a bright, slender young woman with startling red hair, cut short, and sky-blue eyes.

“Good evening, Miss Fox,” Grim greets her with a courteous nod, “Is there anything to report?”

“Nothing beyond what you already know, sir,” she replies with a hum. She tilts herself at the hips, looking behind him to spot you, “Oh, is this another new face? Will he be joining the others?”

“He will, indeed, Miss Fox.”

“Marvellous,” she all but cheers, and manoeuvres around the bulky old man to approach you, “I’m Desdemona Fox,” she says, extending a hand, “but you can call me Dee, or Dez, Desdemona, or just Miss Fox if you’re feeling formal.”

You really aren’t sure where to start with this one, so you simply nod and accept the hand, giving it a shake.

“Adam Bauer,” you introduce yourself.

“I like your eyes,” she says abruptly.

“I… what?”

“Your eyes. They’ve got a nice colour to them,” she bubbles, as if it wasn’t one of the more… unique ways of greeting a new face.

“Miss Fox…” Grim says with a soft exhale. Is that a sigh?

“Oh, yeah! You’re right, silly me. Busy, busy, busy. Time for chit-chat later. I’ll see you around, Adam.”

And with that, she turns around and potters on over to a stand by the runes and circles, upon which an orb of pitch black glass sits. She rests two dainty hands upon it and and closes her eyes. The transformation is as sudden as it is jarring, and the chipper young lady is replaced by an avatar of perfect concentration.

“She’s… happy,” you note.

“Miss Fox is an exuberant soul,” Grim agrees, “She also possesses quite possibly the most powerful telepathic magic I have ever seen in an individual.”

“She certainly has my respect,” Nathaniel muses aloud, “I certainly couldn’t manage and micro-manage telepathic communications for dozens upon dozens of individual teams even if I *did* possess such magic.”

Telepathic magic is one of the most difficult--and most dangerous--arts you’re aware of. She’s earned at least some respect from you right off the bat.

You turn your attention back to Grim, who is standing before you expectantly.

>Fine. Straight to work it is. Slave-driver.
>Any chance of some grub? I am really hungry.
>Can I have a tour so I can get my bearings?

>>2915375
>Any chance of some grub? I am really hungry.
>And maybe a coat of my own, before this one's owner appears as well.

>>2915375
Supporting >>2915380

>>2915375
>chance of some grub? I am really hungry.

>>2915380
Supporting!

>>2915375
Well, this seems like it will be worth keeping an eye on.

>>2915380
Supporting this.

>>2915375
>>2915380
queue them popping up suddenly.

>>2915375
Supporting >>2915380

>>2915375
I'm also down with supporting >>2915380

>>2915380
Man, you guys really want your own coat, I see.

Writing.

>>2915375
“Okay, I get that you want to get started; time being of the essence and all, but can I at least stop for some grub first? I actually am really hungry.”

Grim continues to fix you with his signature stare but eventually acquiesces with a slow nod. You take the moment to glance down at your temporary winter wear, “And can I also get a coat of my own? I’d rather not be interrupted by this one’s owner turning up in the middle of something too.”

Another pause, another stare, before another nod.

“Fair,” he says. Will wonders never cease?

“Great. Which way to the kitchen? Or canteen?”

It turns out to be a canteen. This too smacks of being yet another of various ‘work-in-progress’-es as it’s literally just a large room with a mishmash of catering equipment set up in one corner and a bunch of benches and tables plopped down in a rough layout that’s not quite disorganised enough to be haphazard, but far from what you’d expect from a supposedly professional organisation.

“We’ll swing by the quartermaster’s and pick up your own winterwear once we’ve finished eating,” Zafi declares, and you nod in satisfaction as you move to grab yourself some eats.

Sausages, boiled potatoes, and a pleasant assortment of mixed vegetables are the order of the day, coupled with bread, cheese and ham. You take a long, deep sniff, savouring the simply wonderful scent of your impending meal. Of all the things still to be finished, you’re glad that the chefs, at least, appear to have a more than solid handle on matters. Zafi and Nathaniel decline to eat, to which you shrug in indifference. The only conundrum now is where you’ll plop yourself down.

A handful of individuals are sat at almost opposite ends of the room, your only company--save for Zafi and Nathaniel, who were told to show you around. One of them is a great slab of meat with a flat cap on and a thick grey woollen jacket who looks quite easily the sourest individual you’ve ever laid eyes on. Another one, blond, blue eyed, smartly-dressed and built like a comic book superhero, sits further away, seemingly much more amiable as he eats what looks like some sort of porridge. Finally is… a really short black guy? No… no, that’s a kid! You bet there’s a story behind his being here.

>Sit with the Hulking Wonder.
>Sit with Aryan Superman.
>Sit with the kid.
>Just sit with Zafi and Nathaniel.

>>2916613
>>Sit with the kid.

>>2916613
>>Sit with the kid.

>>2916613
>>Sit with the kid.

>>2916613
>Sit with the Hulking Wonder.

>>2916613
>Sit with the kid.

>>2916868
>>2917308
>>2917526
>>2917602
Writing.

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>>2916613
You trot on over to where the kid is sitting and plant yourself down next to him. He is quite clearly startled by your presence, having just been staring down at his own meal: a bowl of soup and a bit of ripped-up bread and cheese. Sure enough, your eyes did not deceive you as you look the boy over. He can’t be any older than thirteen at most, with a scrawny build and eyes as dark as the colour of his skin that stare up at you with trepidation. A fair reaction to a stranger, you suppose, particularly a white stranger.

“Hey,” you greet, before getting stuck into your own food. It is as divine as it smells, and you polish off most of it in what feels like a few heartbeats. You hear Zafi and Nathaniel take a seat opposite you and notice the boy’s expression brighten not inconsiderably.

“Hello, JJ,” Zafi says with an expression that could almost be mistaken for tender.

“Good evening, lad,” says Nathaniel, “I trust you’re keeping yourself out of trouble?”

The boy doesn’t reply, smiling bashfully and swallowing a spoonful of soup instead. Nathaniel chuckles.

“JJ? That’s your name?” you ask. The boy turns his up to look at you, and his apprehension at speaking with a stranger warring with the familiarity of the company he keeps is all too apparent. Eventually he nods. Still not a peep from the kid. Odd. Shyness, perhaps?

“So… how’d you come to be here?”

He gives you a measured look, but in time the uncertainty gives way and he responds.

Although not in a way you were expecting as he raises his arms and launches into a flurry of quick and varied hand signs. It takes you a moment to register that he’s using sign language, which of course you don’t speak. Somehow, you suspect he knows that as you catch a growing twinkle in those eyes of his. Cheeky kid.

“Desdemona brought him along,” Zafi informs you, “She, Grim and several others went out on a recruiting drive and he came back practically glued to her arm.”

“And good thing he did,” Nathaniel adds, “the pentagrams? The summoning circles?” he inclines his head in the young boy’s direction, “His work. If you think you had a bumpy ride coming here today, you should have experienced it a few weeks before. Terrible business.”

You notice the boy’s chest puff up with wholly unconcealed pride out of the corner of your eye. Well, hell, the kid was certainly entitled to it. Thirteen years old and already an expert summoner? You’d be pretty smug about it too.

“So, what’s with the gestures?” you ask, glancing back at JJ, who is once more tucking into his meal, looking much more relaxed now he’s had a healthy dose of adult praise. “I mean, he’s clearly not deaf.”

JJ looks up from his food again, appraising you again, a curious look on his face, almost like he’s considering something. He opens his mouth wide enough for you to get a look at--

...oh.

(Cont.)

>>2917745
“We don’t know who did it,” Nathaniel says, his voice low and his expression solemn, “The common theory is that it was done to keep him from speaking of his talents to others, but we’re not certain. I’m not sure if he’s even told Miss Fox about how it happened.”

Shit. That wasn’t any way to treat a talented kid. That just wasn’t a way to treat a kid full stop.

“Hell, I know it probably isn’t my place to say,” you say, actually feeling pretty crummy for the poor little guy, “but I’m sorry, kid.”

His stare softens after a moment before he reaches into a pocket and retrieves a little notepad and pencil, which he scribbles on for a quick few moments, finishes, and tears the paper off, brandishing it at you. It’s chicken scratch writing; only barely legible, and it takes you a few moments to process it.

‘It’s fine. Met Dez. Have a life. Happy.’

“Well… good,” you say, because that’s about all there is to say, “That’s good.”

He nods before returning to his food and chowing down. You do the same and the four of you sit in companionable silence as you and JJ finish off your respective meals. It can’t last forever, though, and JJ soon hops away with a friendly wave, leaving you once more alone with Zafi and Nathaniel. Glancing about the canteen, you find that the other two occupants have both finished their own meals and are leaving now. You stare down at the now empty plates and sigh. No point delaying it any longer.

“All right, let’s get this over with,” you mutter, handing your tray back and letting Zafi and Nathaniel escort you back to what they call the Command Room. More like Command Marquee, but you’re not about to get pedantic and mention as much out loud. To your surprise, you find the two big guys you were sharing the canteen with present as well. Grim sees you enter and greets you with a curt nod.

“Good, you’re back. These two will be your future teammates. There is a third, but she’s been held up in transit and I can’t afford to wait any longer so introductions will have to wait.”

“She?” the great, hulking moose of a man ponders--British, like Nathaniel, but from completely the opposite end of society with a thick Cockney accent you can only barely decipher, “I ain’t gonna be hand holding no--”

“You’ll do whatever it is I ask you to,” Grim cuts him off. The big man blinks and stares, but under the full force of the old man’s scrutiny, eventually backs down.

“Now,” he begins, “let’s get down to business…”

>A US Destroyer has gone missing in the Java Sea following strange transmissions
>Imperial Japanese presence on a seemingly insignificant island in the Pacific is curiously high
>An entire company of British soldiers has disappeared in the vicinity of an ancient ruin in Burma

>>2917747
>An entire company of British soldiers has disappeared in the vicinity of an ancient ruin in Burma

>>2917747
>A US Destroyer has gone missing in the Java Sea following strange transmissions

>>2917747
>>A US Destroyer has gone missing in the Java Sea following strange transmissions

>>2917747
>A US Destroyer has gone missing in the Java Sea following strange transmissions

>>2917747
>A US Destroyer has gone missing in the Java Sea following strange transmissions
Mer folk (fish men included), Kraken, Cthulhu wanted a snack, Megalodon attack, World Serpent flicked it's tail, one of the sea monsters from the seaside North American Natives, Sirens.
Anyone else got something to add to the possibilities? Preparation for anything we could think to expect is important.

>A US Destroyer has gone missing in the Java Sea following strange transmissions

>>2917747
>>>A US Destroyer has gone missing in the Java Sea following strange transmissions

>>2917747
>A US Destroyer has gone missing in the Java Sea following strange transmissions

>>2917772
>>2918011
>>2918015
>>2918639
>>2918540
>>2918955
>>2919032
Time for investigation shenanigans. Writing.

>>2917747
“A United States Destroyer, the USS Pope vanished in the Java sea,” he states. Instantly, you raise an eyebrow.

“A military vessel vanishes in enemy territory,” you murmur, “Gee, I wonder why.”

Grim doesn’t indulge you for a moment, carrying on as if you’d said nothing, “This in itself would be nothing particularly unprecedented but for the very last transmission made before they went dark. We intercepted said message, which I will play for you now.

At a prompt, one of the nameless staff flips a switch on one of the giant machines closeby and you hear a muffled recording of what you assume to be a very panicked sailor. Much of the audio is of terrible quality, not helped by the speaker’s obvious terror and a horrendous, keening wailing in the background. After a half-minute of this, through which you can only just make out the words ‘Damaged’, ‘boarding’ and ‘goddamned monsters’, the speaker screams and the transmission is cut. You try to pretend it was just because he was forced away from the radio set.

“I’m not expecting to find survivors,” Grim says quietly, “but if we can at least locate and identify exactly what did this, we’ll be able to draw up a plan to remove the threat permanently.”

“So, we are to conduct reconnaissance?” the big, blond man asks, his accent identifying him as German immediately. He shrugs, “Seems like a waste of my talents, but as you wish, I suppose.”

The slab of meat and muscle from Britain scoffs quietly, “Typical Jerry,” he scoffs. The German levels an accusing stare in his direction but the object of his ire is distinctly unimpressed.

“Hey, now,” Nathaniel steps in, before things can escalate, “Our nations may be at war, but here, in this organisation, we’re all on the same team. Any quibbles you have, you leave them out of your work or we’ll have problems, understood?” He gives both men an equally pointed glare.

The big Brit mutters something dark under his breath, folding his arms and nodding. The German cocks his head, “So long as he understands his place, we will have no problems.” The Brit bristles but Nathaniel steps in once more to cut him off.

“I don’t think I like your tone much, old chap,” he says to the German.

“Enough,” Grim intones, slamming his cane on the stone floor and somehow creating a noisome echo that makes you and the others cringe. Desdemona Fox, though, you notice, remains statue-still in her corner, hands still resting on that abyss-black crystal ball of hers, her face still a mask of focus.

(Cont.)

>>2919701
“No more interruptions from anyone,” he commands with even more steel in his voice than usual. “You are here because I or my staff believed you to be the most suited to. Prove us right and act like it or I will start getting testy.”

His voice doesn’t rise a decibel higher than his usual tone, but somehow you feel as though the room temperature dropped a few degrees. Grim gives each you a long, cool stare before--seemingly satisfied--he carries on.

“Now, there aren’t many possible explanations for the disappearance of a Naval Vessel, but none of them are good, so for this, we’ll be getting backup in the form of a United States Submarine, specifically, the USS Shark. We’ll go aboard and examine the Pope’s last known location. Ideally, we’ll find out what caused it, and, provided that it won’t put the crew of the Shark in any unnecessary danger, locate where they went or where they live.”

“What then?” The Brit asks.

“Quarantine,” Grim replies.

“Quarantine?”

“And extermination.”

“Nice,” the Brit says in a way that says it most certainly isn’t.

“I have a question,” the German pipes up. Grim considers before granting him permission to speak with an incline of his head.

“You say we’ll be onboard an American vessel, yes?”

“Correct.”

“And we’ll be investigating this lost ship’s last known position in the middle of the Java Sea, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And I am presuming that this... “ he motions around with a hand, “is all strictly top secret?”

“Correct.”

“The Captain and crew of the vessel are aware of this?”

“The Captain and a handful of his most trusted crewmen are,” Grim says with a nod, “Once we’re aboard, precautions will be taken to ensure no one outside a select few remembers anything that they do not need to that will not compromise their operational efficiency.”

“One last thing,” he adds, “The search will be taking place in the middle of the ocean?”

Grim nods.

“I am just curious as to why all of us here will need to be present for what sounds like a simple search effort. Surely one would do.”

“You are not entirely inaccurate in your assessment,” Grim concedes, “however, the three of you will soon become a team. You will need to learn about each other, because with absolute certainty I can say that you will also need to depend on each other in the near future. There is also the possibility that whatever attacked the Pope either made off to or even dragged the vessel ashore somewhere, in which case more eyes and ears on the ground would be preferable to a single set, would you not agree?”

The German bites the inside of his lip, considering, before nodding slowly. Big Brit works his jaw around and gives you a cursory glance, lingering but saying nothing as he returns his focus to Mr Grim.

(Cont.)

>>2919706
“I’ve also got a question,” you say, and you’re quietly surprised none of the others have picked up on it yet.

“Go ahead.”

“You’ve been using ‘we’ an awful lot. Care to explain?”

He gives you a measured look, and there’s that tiny quirk of the corner of his mouth you spotted a little earlier back home in New York again.

“Ordinarily, I would assign one of our more veteran staff to oversee your mission,” he motions with an arm to Nathaniel. He then looks to each of you and then adds, “However, the particulars of the transmission are of no small concern, particularly if this is merely the prelude to something altogether more sinister. Should my presence be superfluous to requirements, however, I will, of course, head back and leave you in Nathaniel’s capable hands.”

Well, that wasn’t worrying at all…

>I have another question... (write-in)
>Right, let’s get this over with.

>>2919713
>I have another question... Where's the armory?

Let's at least give the monsters a bullet enema before we end up as part of the Clam Chowder buffet.

>>2919726
Supporting!

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>>2919713
Always a good one >>2919726


I have to wonder if there are other super secret organizations out there in this setting. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a secret group within the Catholic Church that has a bunch of old relics lying around and warriors who use them.

If we ever recruit a few, keep them away from other religious groups, and those that use the occult/demonic.

>>2920103
I kinda hope that The Stranger from the videogame Nocturne is in this. It just feels like this is the type of quest to show him off for some reason

>>2919713
>>2919726
"Should we bring hearing protection? Ocean based monsters and a keening wail, plus panic, it could be sirens."

>>2919713
>>I have another question... (write-in)
Support >>2919726

>>2920103
Maybe we'll get a Jewish Golem maker that makes creations out of GUNS!

>>2919713
>Suck Nathaniel's capable dick

>>2919713
>Right, let’s get this over with.

>>2919726
>>2920264
Questions to be answered. Writing.

>>2919713
“I’ve two more questions, then.”

“Go on.”

“First of all: wailing and ocean-based creatures? Could be sirens. I’m thinking we should bring hearing protection.”

“A good idea, Mr Bauer. And your second question?”

“Do you have an armory of some kind? I’d rather give whatever is out there lead to eat instead of my own skin.”

“I would be a poor sort of individual to fail to equip my agents with the means to defend themselves even in the middle of the ocean,” Grim says, “Zafi and Nathaniel will take you to get yourself a weapon or two. Is there anything else?”

You rack your brain for anything else, but shake your head after a moment’s consideration. The other two seem equally mum.

“Good, then I’ll see you back here in a few minutes. Zafi, Nathaniel?”

“Very good, sir,” says Nathaniel with a nod, “Come on, then. Let’s get you something with a bit of kick, eh?”

Zafi says nothing, content merely to turn and fall into step with Nathaniel. You notice that she is still in the white dress you met her in. Is she not cold? Curious.

The Armoury is a short walk away, but secured behind two great doors that you imagine wouldn’t look out of place in a bank vault. Both are guarded by relatively slight-looking men, and you hear the German scoff in disdain as you pass both sets. You know better, though. All four of those men would have no trouble removing the three of you most violently from the world without a second thought if so ordered.

The Armourer is a particularly cantankerous older Lakota man, who bemoans your presence the moment you walk in through the door.

“I just got the damn place spick and span and you’re coming in here with all kinds of riff-raff dragging dirt and God only knows what else into my Armoury!”

“Easy there, chap,” Nathaniel soothes with a gesture, “We’re just here to pick up a few toys for the new lads. First operation.”

The Armourer--who’s name you’ve yet to hear--cocks an eyebrow and eyes up the three of you, grimacing, “New meat. Where are they headed out to?”

“The middle of the ocean,” Zafi answers for Nathaniel.

He fixes her with a blank stare, clearly wrestling with some kind of snappish remark before sighing and shrugging his shoulders, “Right. Fine. What can I get you?”

The Aryan Wonder is eyeing the assorted firearms as if they might suddenly spring to life and attack him, and the Armourer as if he were little more than a speck of dirt on his shoe, “Are you sure we can trust that these guns will not simply fall apart in our hands?”

Oh, Christ above…

There’s a tense moment as you think that the old man is about to explode on him. Instead, he sucks in a deep breath, and fixes the German dolt with a smile so sweet and so completely false.

“Tell me, Big Boy, what do you know about guns?”

(Cont.)

>>2920496
The object of the old Armourer's ire blinks, puzzled by the question, “They are one of the most useful tools ever devised by--”

“Wrong.”

“...excuse me?”

And then the tirade begins. Were it not for the fact that you absolutely cannot follow any of what’s being said; partly due to your knowledge of firearms boiling down to ‘point at thing, shoot thing, kill thing’ but also the obscenely rapid-fire pace of the Armourer’s speech, you’d almost appreciate the dressing down that the arrogant fool is getting. Nathaniel ushers you and the other Brit on deeper into the Armoury while Zafi stays behind, presumably to ensure the lout doesn’t wind up shot.

“Come along, now. He’ll be done in a minute and by then, we should have what you need.”

“What about ‘im?” the mountain of meat jerks his head back in the German’s direction--you really do need to learn their names.

“Despite what it appears to be, Chowder will sort him out. He won’t like it, and I can’t imagine I would either in his shoes, but he’ll do it.”

“Can’t say I’d awfully mind a whole lot if he didn’t,” the bigger Brit remarks with a snide look back. You can already tell that this mission is going to go wonderfully.

“Yes, well… ah, here we are.”

You find yourself standing in a small but fairly open space filled with racks of firearms of all sorts; many you’ve never seen before.

“Pick yourselves anything you like the look of,” Nathaniel suggests, “you’ll find yourself ammunition just in the corner there. Regular and special.”

“Special?” you ask him.

“Ammunition with rather unique properties. I’ll run you through a few of them. Now, keep in mind that, at best, we’ll find ourselves on a rather lush tropical island, and at worst, we’ll be knife-fighting inside a submarine, so I’d not take along anything particularly lengthy.”

Hm…

>Medium/Close range: Carbine Rifle
>Close range: Submachine Gun
>Ultra-close range: Shotgun

Ammunition (you’ll always carry a bundle of regular ammunition. In addition, you’ll also always pack a sidearm unless explicitly stated otherwise):
>Balefire rounds: Incendiary shots that pack a hell of a wallop which burn even in water--that’s magic for you.
>Tracker rounds: Fire a single shot. If it lands, all further shots until the magazine/feed is empty will home in on the location of the first shot, arcing around cover to do so. First-shot tracking round can be deactivated with a spark of power--which is as easy for you as blinking--just in case you miss.
>Vorpal rounds: Bullets that penetrate the target and warp to another dimension inside of it, literally ripping chunks of its guts out along with it.

>>2920497
>Medium/Close range: Carbine Rifle
>Vorpal rounds
Snicker-Snack

>>2920497
>Ultra-close range: Shotgun
>Balefire rounds: Incendiary shots that pack a hell of a wallop which burn even in water--that’s magic for you.
Stopping power is crucial when a monster is tryong to eat your face,.

>>2920497
>Close range: Submachine Gun
>Balefire rounds
While a shotgun downright sings to me, assuming things go bad enough that we have to start shooting INSIDE the submarine, I'd rather not take anything that can punch a hole in said submarine.

>>2920539
Anon, buckshot has shit penetration. Each pellet is roughly equivalent to a .38 revolver bullet

>>2920628
Reminds me of when I learned that games lie about how shotguns work...

>>2920628
>>2920772
Welp, shows what I know about firearms. This is embarrassing.

>>2920497
>Close range: Submachine Gun

>>2920884
Whoops forgot ammo type!
>Tracker rounds:

>>2920497
>Close range: Submachine Gun
>Balefire rounds: Incendiary shots that pack a hell of a wallop which burn even in water--that’s magic for you.
Our character doesn't know about white phosphorus, does he. Burns under water, and is sticky.

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>>2921100
He doesn't and neither did I.

No, really, all I knew about WP was that it burned to shit. TY for the info though

>>2921285
It's also used for smoke grenades because it produces so much of it. So magic probably has it beat for cleanliness if you want to go with that reasoning.

>>2921396
>>2921285
What about producing a smoke that's toxic to most supernatural creatures?

>>2921410
That's... an interesting idea. Probably not for this first adventure, but I don't see why I couldn't find a way to slot it in sometime in the future.

Also calling the vote and writing.

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>>2920497
You grab a weapon you find instantly familiar, even though you’ve never so much as touched one yourself--a Thompson submachine gun. You then, after ensuring you have a healthy supply of ammunition without over-encumbering yourself, saunter on over to Nathaniel and the set of racks he stands beside. You rather like the look of one particular set and scoop up a few magazines-worth of rounds.

“Balefire--interesting pick,” Nathaniel notes, “they’ll give you a fair bit of bang for your buck, I daresay. They ignite instantly upon contact, penetrating the target before veritably exploding and releasing their payload within. Anything made of flesh that fire touches will burn until it’s nothing but ashes.”

Which meant, to your mind, that anything you hit would be too busy flailing around trying and failing to put itself out, rather than murder you.

The big man with the flat cap grabs himself a shotgun and something Nathaniel calls ‘Vorpal rounds’, which apparently teleport once they’ve buried themselves in anything. In a living being, you can only imagine the havoc that it’d cause as you transport the contents of their chest cavity into another dimension. When he’s finished, you go over to him, supposing now is as good a time as any to make introductions.

“Hi, got yourself sorted?”

He grunts in affirmative. Not quite what you were hoping for, but at least he isn’t flat-out ignoring you.

“Adam, by the way.”

“What?” the giant blinks down at you in bemusement.

“My name,” you clarify, “Adam Bauer. Pleased to meet you, I guess.”

He pauses for a moment before adjusting his hat on his head. Even in the dim lighting of the armoury, you can denote a horrifically savage scarring around his right eye, and it looks recent. Tempting as it is to pry, you don’t know him well enough just yet, and he looks like the sort to take exception to such inquisitiveness, anyway. So, you turn your attention away from the old wound before he notices you staring, and are surprised to find that he’s offered you a hand.

“Arnold Graves is me name. Just Arnie’ll do in a pinch, though,” his voice sounds like it’s been run through a grinder, and his distinctive accent only makes him harder to understand. You manage it, though. Just.

“Then I guess you can call me Adam,” you return with a shrug, “not that there’s a lot you could do to shorten that down.”

“Guess not,” he says. “What do you make of all o’this, then?”

“Well, I was all but press-ganged into it,” you tell him with a wry look, “So, not a great deal.”

(Cont.)

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>>2921473
Arnold makes a noise that’s half-grunt, half chuckle, “Didn’t know there was so many magic users about. Figured it was just me an’ me mam. Ain’t seen a bleedin’ soul with so much as a spark o’power before yesterday.”

“What is it you do, then?” you ask as Nathaniel starts to lead the pair of you out. The German pushes past you, distinctly red-faced and almost shaking with what you assume is tightly-controlled fury. Zafi follows behind him, and she gives the three of you a sly wink as you pass on by. A not insignificant part of you shivers. The more sensible part quashes it as soon as it surfaces. Attractive as all get out she most certainly is, but her easy deception has left you more than wary of her.

“He looks ‘appy as Larry,” Arnold observes once you’re past the two. Chowder the Armourer gives you a dismissive wave as you and Nathaniel saunter on past with your kit.

“He does, doesn’t he?”

“‘Eard things from some of the sailor lads I used to work with on the ‘arbour,” Arnold muses, “s’posedly, them Jerries think they’re some sort of better class than everyone else. Reckonin’ that’s why he’s all up ‘is arse’ole.”

“Probably,” you respond. It’d certainly make sense.

“Reckon ‘e’ll be trouble?”

“Hopefully not,” you murmur, “but I’d keep an eye on him, anyway.”

“Already on it,” he affirms, “Can’t trust ‘em Jerries further’n yer can throw ‘em.”

It probably helps that your two nations are officially allied, but he seems much more amicable now you’ve had a bit of a chin wag. Maybe you could dig a little deeper?

>Ask what his power(s) are.
>Ask what he’s doing here.
>Leave it for now and wait for the last member of your team.

>>2921477
>Ask what he’s doing here.

>>2921477
>Ask what he’s doing here.
>Ask what his power(s) are.

>>2921477
>Ask what he’s doing here.

>>2921477
>Ask what he’s doing here.
>Ask what he can do

Don't really need to pry into the specifics of his powers, at least not yet, just want to know what we can rely on him to do when we're in the field.

>>2921477
Supporting >>2921795

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>>2921477
SO FROSTY I KNOW YOU SAID WE'RE GETTING A HANDGUN AUTOMATICALLY. LET ME PITCH, FOR YOUR INDELIBLE CONSIDERATION, THE BROWNING HI POWER.

THIRTEEN ROUNDS OF 9X19 LUGER, HEFTY ENOUGH STEEL TO BLUDGEON A MAN ON BATH SALTS, LOOKS SEXY AS ALL GET OUT, AND TRUSTED THE WORLD OVER.

(And there's no functional difference between 9mm and .45 ACP with regards to stappan powah.)

>>2921477
>>Ask what his power(s) are and if that's why he's here.

This quest has pacing issues. We are swept up against our will into a potentially horrifying, definitely life threatening situation with people we don't trust after avoiding the draft. All of the sudden we're just hopping on the bandwagon to kill supernatural things? My suspension of disbelief is being stretched here. Just my two cents.

>>2922083
That's pretty fair criticism, actually. I guess, being primarily inspired from XCOM (and, if it wasn't obvious enough already, Pixel's XCOM Trooper Quest) I translated the whole 'be these people, join org, shoot aliens' a little too, fuck, I dunno, literally? There's a word for it I'm sure but it's late and I can't think good.

I guess all I can say is that I'll try to do better. Any ideas you could give to help facilitate any positive change would be welcome on my end. I'm under no impression that I'm perfect.

>>2922146
>impression
Illusion, fuck.
See you in a few hours once I've had some shuteye folks.

>>2921477
Fuck I slept in way later than I was intending to.

You figure you might as well kill a bit of time on the way.

“So, how’d you end up here, then?”

The big man stops in place, a positively thunderous expression flashing across his craggy features before he reasserts control of himself. He blinks and shakes his head.

“I… got into a bad scrap,” he says. There’s definitely more of a story there, but now you’re certain that nosing further would be a bad call on your part, “Dust settled and not an hour later, the posh bloke was there,” he jerks his head in Nathaniel’s direction.

“I’m standing here, you are aware?” the man in question remarks drily.

Arnold ignores him, “Said I could find a way of gettin’ even. So ‘ere I am.”

Even? Interesting.

“As fer what I can do?” he shrugs, “Ain’t nuffin’ special, t’be honest. Can see a few mo’s into the future. Stings me eyes doin’ it though, so I don’t tend t’be usin’ it all the time.”

Precognition? You imagine that’d be pretty absurdly useful in a tight spot. You made a mental note to be close to Arnold whenever danger started brewing. Which would undoubtedly be sooner, rather than later.

“‘Ow’s about you? You seem like a pretty well t’do sort. What’s yer story?”

>I don’t want to talk about it.
>I let my other head do the driving.
>Oh look, there’s our fine, stuffy German friend. Let's continue this topic never.

>>2923162

> “I told you I was press ganged”

>>2923162
>I let my other head do the driving.

>>2923162
"I let my other head do the driving... which led me to being press-ganged into this."

>>2923162
>I let my other head do the driving.

He told us, so it's only fair we do the same to him.

>>2923162
>>>I let my other head do the driving.

>>2923162
>I let my other head do the driving.

>>2923182
Supportan!

>>2922146
Can I ask you, what's the source material for this? Or is just OC with an idea from Xcom quest? If so I'm waiting for an exorcist pop up to slay the fuck out of us

>>2923699
Mostly the idea I mentioned near the top from one of Pixel's threads. Though it helped that I'd been reading a couple short story collections with a distinctly Lovecraftian vibe at the time.

Also, vote called, started the update.

>>2923162
You cock an eyebrow up at the big man, “I said I was press-ganged, remember?”

He stares blankly at you, until something ticks or whistles and and he nods, “Ah. Yeah. S’pose yer did. ‘Ow’d that come about, though?”

You turn around and start walking back to rejoin Grim in the marquee, “Long story short, Arnie: don’t let your other head do the driving.”

“Other ‘ea--oh. Oh.” He flicks a quick glance back in the direction Zafi and the blustering German just went, “So, you an’ ‘er…?”

“I wish,” you grouse, “but nah. Put me under a charm spell. Could have done it from the moment we started speaking. I didn’t figure it out until she’d led me right to my own damn home and now it’s monsters and fighting and possibly dying and--and--” your voice quickens in pace as the reality of your situation hits you all at once. No more than a span of hours ago, you were, as your lumbering, foreign friend might put it: ‘Happy as Larry’. You won one of your biggest hauls to date and you’d planned to spend the evening getting drunk and/or laid.

When the US Government had implemented Conscription, you’d taken one look and said ‘Yeah, thanks, Uncle Sam, but no thanks.’ Being a soldier just held no appeal to you--go where some older asshole tells you to, dig a few holes and get shot at to scrape by on dingy rations, then crawl into a moth-bitten sack and hope nothing exploded on top of you in the night. You weren’t a coward, or at least you liked to think you weren’t--God knew you’d seen enough brawls growing up where you had, and you’d never shied away from any of those, much as your father wished you had.

Fuck… what on earth would he make of all this?

“You all right there, mate?” Arnold asks, cocking his head inquisitively, “Yer shaking an awful lot.”

You don’t have to glance down at your hands to know he’s telling the truth, but you do so anyway. This is all just so… where on earth do you even start?

>Gimme a 1d100

Rolled 61 (1d100)

>>2924058

Rolled 79 (1d100)

>>2924058

Rolled 85 (1d100)

>>2924058

Rolled 29 (1d100)

>>2924058
Rolling anyway, but I'm assuming you're doing the first 3 rolls like several others do?

File: Diedrich_Drescher.png (394 KB, 624x932)

394 KB PNG

>>2924275
Yeah, that's the idea. Apologies for the delay, I was having a whole host of connection timeouts all last night and I just kind of gave up in frustration. Also, realise the image is probably not what any of you had in mind for this particular character, but I searched for a literal hour to find a smug-looking heroic blond type and came up with bupkis. So, until I can, this is what I'm using :/


It takes some effort, but you calm yourself down. There’s still some jitters, and you think they’ll be there for a while, but for the time being, you’re doing all right. Does that mean you aren’t going to have yourself a nice little breakdown at all? Likely no, but hopefully it’ll hold off until you can find a quiet moment to just process it all. ‘Don’t focus on what’s over there,’ you remember your dad telling you, ‘Focus on what’s here in front of you. You’ll get to the end when you get to it.’

Well, old man, what’s in front of you is your life’s been swept out from under you and replaced with something you never wanted for even a moment. But you’ll deal with that when you come back from whatever is going on in the Pacific.

Hopefully.

“Yeah,” you say back to Arnold, “Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Just nerves.”

He nods, “Fair ‘nuff. Last ‘fing I ever expected was t’be dragged into some kind of, of, I dunno, Secret Society fightin’ vampires an’ Lawd only knows what else.”

“Vampires?”

The two of you turn to regard the German, who has caught up to you in admittedly impressive time.

“Well, yeah,” Arnold says, “What, y’never ‘eard of vampires before?”

The German actually looks uncertain, “I’ve never seen any myself so…”

“Right,” you frown, rubbing your chin, “Well, seeing how we’re all getting shit off our chest, may as well as you too. What’s your story? How did you get sucked into this? And give us your name, while you’re at it.”

He gives you a suspicious look before eventually relenting, his chest puffs up with pride and you brace yourself for a long-winded speach, “My name is Diedrich Drescher, Gefreiter of the glorious Wehrmacht...” to your surprise, he trails off, expression falling, posture slackening as he wilts like a dying flower in front of you, “Or at least, I was. My men were ambushed on a routine patrol by foul, vulpine things... I was the only survivor.”

(Cont.)

>>2925747
Despite the inaccuracy of his terminology (and you only barely suppress a shiver as you realise he can’t be referring to anything but fucking Lycans), his attitude is suddenly making a lot more sense to you, now. The shock of having lost his entire squad probably left what you imagine was once a proud man feeling unexpectedly vulnerable. You can’t say you like how he’s gone about it, but all his blustering arrogance is a way of trying to restore his confidence.

...Is what you’d think if something didn’t stink about the whole picture. Said picture you had of the man, bluster and all, was of someone with no weaknesses, no vulnerabilities. For him to suddenly turn around on that and admit to two strangers how small he felt was… hmm. You didn’t like him much even before, but now you really don’t trust him. No one changes their tune that fast in that short a span of time, unless there’s more magic at work. You glance at Zafi behind him, who has adopted a neutral stance and an equally neutral expression. You suppress a sigh. Folks at home were so much easier to read.

Arnold sniffs, but says nothing. You’re not sure yet if that’s a good thing, but at least he’s not provoking the man into a brawl.

“Well, nothing anyone can do about that now,” you say with a light shrug, hiding your unease as best you can--which is pretty damn well, “C’mon. Let’s get back and get this over with so I can rethink my life choices,” because evidently, you clearly hadn’t done a very good job of keeping a low profile for all of this to have happened to you.

The Command Room (and that’s what you suppose you’ll call it from hereon) is still as much of a hubbub as it was when you first arrived, though the staff give you a noticeably wider berth when they register that you’re armed. You step back into the central marquee where Grim doesn’t look as if he’s moved from the spot he had occupied before. He gestures to the summoning circles (or transportation circles, you suppose would be more accurate) in the corner.

“If you are all ready then, gentlemen, we’ll get this underway,” he gives Zafi a glance, “Tell Aleska that she has operational command in my absence. I shouldn’t be gone too long.”

“Of course,” the French femme fatale says with a demure nod.

“So, where will we be gettin’ summoned to?” Arnold wonders, giving the ring of pentagrams and glyphs a cursory glance, “Unless you’ve got some kind of flight magic, I don’t think we’ll much enjoy gettin’ dunked in the great wide sea.”

“Ocean,” Diedrich corrects, “But he has a point, I suppose.”

Grim gives the pair of them a curious look, “I did say we were getting backup from a United States submarine.”

(Cont.)

>>2925748
You’d suspected as much, but this confirmed it. Grim meant to have your little party materialise onboard the Shark.

“Won’t that cause a bit of a stir among the crew?” You ask.

“Not if the Captain has done his job as he says he will and ensured a clear space,” Grim responds, “Altering memories of our sudden and inexplicable appearance before their very eyes will be more difficult than giving them the impression that we are VIPs they picked up the last time they were in port.”

“Great,” you mutter, “Crazier and crazier by the minute.”

“If all goes well, this will be nothing more than a simple reconnaissance.”

“So you’ve said,” Arnold murmurs, “Why don’t I feel reassured?”

Grim fixes you all with a look that only the truly patient can muster, “Step into the circle, please.” He then turns to Desdemona, still locked to her spot and crystal ball, “Miss Fox, if you please?”

Already done, sir.

It’s strange, hearing her chipper voice as clearly as if she was standing next to you, but unmistakably coming from inside your own head.

I’ve already set up a telepathic network between the five of you. For the new guys: it’s easy-peasy: just think of the person--or people--you want to hear you, and send away!

That… would take some getting used to.

But then you had an idea. And it’d help you try this curious network out at the same time.

Grim, you send.

What is it?

You only just manage not to blink in surprise. Not least because that was easy-peasy, but because you’d been expecting him to dismiss you out of hand.

Something’s off with Diedrich--the German guy. He’s hiding something, and I don’t think anyone’ll like what it is when they find out.

I trust my vetting staff when it comes to handling and processing talent, he responds, making you want to just throw up your hands in surrender, But I will consider what you have told me. Keep an eye on him. His own nation agreed to send him to us as a gesture of good faith, but they have not yet confirmed whether or not they are committed to the program.

What, you think he could be some kind of spy?

You get no response, which only worries you more.

Oh yeah, you are not letting Diedrich Drescher out of your goddamn sight.

(Cont.)

>>2925749
With far too many chilling thoughts on your mind for your liking, you step into the circle with the others as Grim utters a quick and short incantation.

Close your eyes! Desdemona chirps as the boss man finishes and you obey, having the impression through your closed eyelids of a great flash of blazing orange hellfire. The sickening feeling of being pulled through all the realms of reality returns in force.

And then it’s gone. Replaced by the scent of iron, an artificial stillness of the air, and a noisome whirring sound. You find yourself standing before a distinctly unhappy-looking man in uniform who you assume to be the Captain of the submarine. A shorter sailor stands at his side, eyeing your party of misfits with an expression of distinct unease.

“Mister, uh, Grim, is it?” the Captain says, “Welcome aboard the Shark.”

>And that’s it for Thread One. New one will be up as soon as I get back from work tonight. Thanks again to everyone who and posted, even if it was just to remark or comment. Hopefully I’ll see you again for the next run. Farewell for now.

>>2925754
Thanks for running!

I think submarines didn't have names, only numbers.

>>2925766
US Navy subs had names. You're thinking the Germans or Japanese.

>>2926939
That was what I thought. Wikipedia wouldn't lie to me, r-right?

New thread:
>>2927202