[FURY] Alone (Vignette1.0)

scott

Vignette

Just outside SafeCo. Among the concrete and steel.

Cujo gave you that stare again, that silent one that says more than most of the words people spit at each other. The Arrows are going out on another job, you may sleep alone tonight, there’s always that chance that any of them may not come back. Cujo may not come back, that was in her eyes, too.

You hear them shooting shit and packing gear, Tin-girl test-firing the rides out front as the others double check guns and tighten armor. Not a life for you, right? But you’ve been sleeping in the pile for a while now and it’s starting to feel normal. But it’s time for the job and the Arrow’s eyes face forward… this is what it’s like to be left behind…

You hear the low rumble of people in the stadium, come here to watch the damage. The dull echo of the words on the speakers don’t sound like words down here outside the walls, just noise.

‘Tik’-’tik’… a small stone clatters off the castoff concrete through which you walk, somewhere up in the criss-cross of girders and plastic taps overhead those kids giggle and make bets which one can hit you first.

Little red puddles of last night’s rain form in your footsteps and then seep back into the dirt.

Where do you go when you’re alone, Vignette? Where do you feel safe?

What do you do?

John

Banner:

This is good, I think to myself. I need some time to myself, time to be myself, not one of the pack. Not that I am, not really. They have become accustomed to me. This is not trust. This is not liking. I am not one of them, but I am not cast out. I do not know why. I heard August tell Dog I was dangerous. This is funny, because Dog knows I am dangerous. August told Dog I should not be part of the pile. This is not funny. This is not true. I should be part of the pile. I am warm and clean, and the one they call Cujo is there to watch me, make sure I do not eat anyone's brain, or whatever fairy tales they believe about people with the Talent.

Cujo's eyes are never angry anymore when she watches me. I watch her too, and my eyes are never angry either. Last night, there was a deepness to her eyes. Not fear, exactly. Forward regret, for things not yet gained and things not yet lost. I wanted so much to peek into her mind, but I have promised I would not. The pack does not know my promise, but nonetheless... I did not peek. Instead, I moved closer, until Cujo's breathing was louder than the rain outside, until Cujo's lips and mine were close enough to share breath, until we both were breathing hard from the effort of doing nothing.

This is good, I think to myself. It is good to be just me again, to attend to the things that are mine alone. I walk away from the stadium, and the sounds fade away, one by one: the sound of the departing h-bikes fading in the distance, the sound of the crowd, the revving engines and metal smashing metal, until the only sound left is that of my boots on crumbled pavement. I have no job to do tonight. I consider again whether being a whore would be a double benefit. I consider whether getting a whore would let me stop seeing dark eyes and red lips everywhere I look. I decide to do neither.

I pull my hood up, stuff my hands in my coat pockets, and walk toward Pike's. Spider moves to the back of my neck. I feel the light pressure from the tips of its legs as it hangs on. The tiny hairs of its legs brush my neck.

Pike's is a long walk, but there, I will be able to open my mind to the crowd and get lost for a few hours. Here at the arena, with so much violence in the air, this would be dangerous. Most especially, I need to visit a particular noodle shop, drink expensive booze and over-tip tremendously. The owner is a woman whose man had secrets. He does not have secrets any longer. Will never have secrets again. Sometimes I pull harder than I intend. The woman runs the shop by herself now. Without secrets. It is very hard for her.

Rich

After you pull up your hood, feel Spider on your neck, head out, you hear those Tik Tik Tik sounds, and one of the kids utters a curse, "Soak it! Just missed her!"

John

Yes, I heard him. Kids' stuff. The are hurting no one, just trying to prove they are not afraid. But they should be. Someday, they will prove they are not afraid of the wrong someone. I stop walking, let my mind follow the echoes of his voice, upwards. I do not need to see him, do not need to speak. I can tell he sees me, knows the game changes. My mind washes over his like a blood tide, pouring into his secret places. He should be afraid, but today, this time, I only look.

OOC: Angling Read a Person via Casual brain receptivity - no need to interact. It's sufficient that he sees me. And it's Weird-based, rather than Sharp.

Rich

Let's see how this roll goes, Vignette.

John

Read a Person via Casual brain receptivity: (Rolled: 2d6+2. Rolls: 1, 2. Total: 5)

John

OOC: Question from (failed) Read Person: What does your character wish I'd do?

Rich

You sense him. WotCee. He's ten. His dad ran a noodle shop at Pike until you messed with his head. He wants you to die, Vignette. He's terrified of you, but these kids, his only friends, egging him on. They're giving him some real bravery.

He knows where his dad kept that pistol. Maybe some day he'll get the guts to use it. His dad would be proud. He knows he would be. If only he could be brave enough...

John

"Bloody flood," I whisper under my breath. For just a moment, I begin to tug at his mind. I could make him stop. I could hurt him, make him stop for good. Then, I picture the woman who runs the noodle shop where I eat real meat, drink expensive booze, and overtip--my secret apology, my secret penance. Take her son too? Spider taps my neck, a vote of "yes". Self-serving vermin. Echo of my own fear, my own reluctance to leave sharp objects lying about. I heave a sigh.

I shout up to the boy, "When that day comes, when you have worked up the nerve to do it, ask me about his final thoughts and I will tell you."

I could tell him that I was the knife and not the wielder--and a poor knife at that--the killing was an accident. But boys do not distinguish the killing instrument from the killer when it comes to fathers. It does not matter. We both deserve his hate.

I pull my hood back up and continue on my way.

Rich

When you shout up, you see WotCee in the rafters, he has a handful of gravel in his right hand, he was about to throw at you again. There's a ratty-haired girl hiding under a tarp, blood-streaks in her hair. She was watching, but looks away in fear. WotCee, his mouth drops open, and the gravel slips from his fingers, falling. Falling down to Tik Tik Tik Tik Tik onto the concrete floor far away from you. He collects himself enough to duck down and hide. They don't bother you again.

Dog and the Arrow pack sleep near Safeco. Pike's is a mile and a half away. What's the biggest threat between Safeco and Pike on your way, Vignette? Scavs? Unsafe spots that can suck you under? Raiders? blood-touched animals that have been out in the rain too long?

John

People make this trip all the time, but still there is danger. If you stick to the hardways, you will not be sinking. But if you leave the hardway and get off into the low spots between buildings, your life becomes very short. Highwaymen are sometimes a problem. Ironically, a single hooded figure walking alone at night is less likely to be accosted than a wagon. Low value, and what the flood is someone doing alone out here alone unless they are just that tough. I am not, but people are very afraid of what I can do to mind. I am used to sneaking and hiding, and I know the route well. I know which buildings provide a place to hide and which you should never go into.

Rich

Vignette,

Since you know the way, but the way changes from time to time, why don't you Read the Sitch between here and there? If you choose your best way past, then you're in Pike.

John

Read a Sitch: (Rolled: 2d6+0. Rolls: 1, 1. Total: 2)

John

OOC: what should I be on the lookout for?

Rich

Vignette

Pike's is where much of the city goes to swap, sell luxe scavenge in trade for what they need, or what they think they need. All roads leading there attract highwaymen, little bands of rotten thieves picking off the weak and the careless.

You know the best ways, the quiet ways off the hardway where you can travel safe in the shadows. Problem is, the rain floods, changes, makes old ways treacherous and washes away the trails.

Walking through one of these dark places you stop. The sound of short, panicked breaths tickles your ears... someone's here with you. Someone in trouble… your eyes haven’t quite adjusted to the dark.

The man crouches with his back to the wall near the door of the old antique shop with ruined walls that bubble out, black streaks of mold strains. Dull sunlight floods in through the broken glass doors to the side. He looks worn, a frequent traveler perhaps but not armored and decorated to intimidate like one of the bad ones. He clutches at his chest with one hand... his other holds a hammer, shaking. There's blood on it, a mass of brown hair, too.

He sees you, his hand tenses around the bloody tool and he almost rises to attack... but he wears fear on his face. Panic. He glances over his shoulder to the open air outside... through the glare you see dark figures. You hear someone crying.

Someone outside of the place roughly shouts, “Come out, dirt-pounder! Or your boyfriend here pays the price you owe me for bustin’ my man’s skull!”

He raises his finger to his lips to beg you to be silent.

What do you do?

You should be on the look out for highwaymen like the ones just outside the door. Picking off the first travelers after the rain when the roads are treacherous and the patrols haven't yet made their rounds... not that they do much good in a place like this. You could just turn around and go, they don’t even know you’re here, right?

John

I look at the man for a long moment. I could just leave. Why should I risk if he will not? It offends me, though. Not so much the highwaymen--those are just part of life. What offends me is the abandoning of a supposed friend and ally. Slowly, I start to smile.

Oh, no you don’t! Several emphatic taps on my neck. Oh, no you rotting don’t!

“Yes, yes, I think I do,” I say under my breath. I reach into my hood and pull out Spider.

It’ll be a bloody pain to replace me! You’ll have to go back to the forest!"

“Then please be careful and do not get yourself squashed,” I whisper. “Go. The big one holding the weapon and shouting.” My eyes are already closed in concentration. Spider is already on its way to scuttle into the line of sight of the presumed leader shouting at us.

---

OOC: As soon as Spider gets the drop on him–i.e., scuttles into his line of vision, hopefully startling him a bit, I intend to use Spider as my brain relay to Go Aggro via Direct-brain whisper projection. Pausing here for GM feedback before I make my demand and roll. Also, if this seems to violate the Czege Principle, consider that Spider is not a separate consciousness. It is but a shard of Vignette's own, making this really just inner monologue. Also, since this is the first I've done this, recall that we've established Spider as Vignette's "fancy weapon" and given her the ability to mentally dominate it, controlling its actions.

Rich

You can sneak Spider out there to give your command. Let's see how this goes, Vignette.

John

I guide Spider into the guy's field of view...and he doesn't notice.

"You have to get up on that chunk of masonry," I mumble, my eyes rolling back into my head. "Yes, I do appreciate how much effort you put into being sneaky, but if he does not see you, I cannot reach him."
A brief pause, with my head cocked to the side, and then I say, "Actually, it is your entire reason for existence. ... It is not about that. I like spiders just fine."

Spider climbs up onto a chunk of masonry, putting it at the same height as the threatened person's head, about six or eight feet beyond. The presumed ringleader, the guy threatening the man on the ground, sees Spider. My mind touches his. He is not a nice person.

"Hello," I say, whispering into his head. "Has anyone ever whispered inside your head before? I would introduce myself, but I do not know if I will kill you. I do not like to kill people I know. Drop your weapon and leave. Take the others with you. If you do not, I will shred your mind from the inside. You have three seconds. Hurry--spiders do not count well."

John

Direct-brain whisper projection: (Rolled: 2d6+2. Rolls: 6, 1. Total: 9)

scott

The guy in the room with you. He saw... he saw something crawl down your body, crawl across the floor. A shadow, a nightmare to add to his already-nightmare of a morning. He holds his breath until it's gone and then quietly croaks, "what are you..."

But your mind isn't quite all there right now, is it?

---

You can't really see what spider sees, but you sort of know. A little.

He's scared, you can fel it. But not so much that he's going to give up the hunt just now at the end, nit with his prey bleeding at his feet and one of his best men bleeding from the skull.

"Mudsuckin' skank!" The guy hisses, glancing about at random and aiming his weapon this way and that. He must sense that it isn't really the spider itself sending him the message, but he can't see you and he doesn't understand.

He decides, you hear him click the hammer of his revolver with a thumb. If he backs down in front of his people like this, he's loses everything. He's going to kill his hostage.

He's forcing your hand, Vignette. Your claws are tangled already into his mind, hurt him now or has he called your bluff?

What do you do?

John

"Rot it. People should listen when you talk inside their heads."

My head bows and my eyes clench shut with the effort. Until now, the image I have held in my mind was of my consciousness gently washing over his, like the bay tide on the sand. It rolls in, filling every crevice, and rolls back out with the ebb, leaving pools behind, and small rivelets needlessly but relentlessly chasing the ebb as it rolls out. Then the wash sweeps in again, restarting the whole process. Invasive, perhaps, but peaceful.

When he refuses comply, I make that part of my consciousness mingled with his freeze, crystalize, sending sharp spikes of pain through him. I make him scream as much as I can. Perhaps his companions can be taught.

---

OOC: No bluff, but she only does 1 harm. It has the loud tag optionally, and she is very much opting for loud. She wants him screaming like he's dying, even if he's not.

scott

Vignette
The man in the dark with you (We'll call him "Hammer" until you learn different) has been holding still, just enough tension in his arm to hold the bloody hammer just off the floor. He startles at the sudden screaming from outside.

"Yeaaargh!" screams the leader as the gentle lapping of waves in his mind turns to crashing spikes of pain. You can't see but you hear him drop his weapon and he can't stop screaming. You're sure he bleeds.

"Cover! Cover! Shooter!" cries one of his men, from the sound of it there's three or four out there. And one of them must be hurt already... looking at that hammer. Hurt pretty bad. The sound of confused, dangerous men, someone fires a burst of gunshots into a window somewhere and the glass clatters to the ground.

Hammer takes the opportunity, he stands, pushes upen the door and rushes into the courtyard with bloody hammer raised.

He's going to finish what you started.

What do you do?

John

I reach out and touch Spider's mind, looping strands of will around him and pulling him back to me. We give Hammer's feet and those of the others a wide berth.

Hammer will get himself shot, or maybe he kills the man whose mind I hurt. I do not like the man who called me names. I do not think I like Hammer very much either. It was not my intent to aid him in slaughtering these others, just in saving his friend. I will be...unhappy...if he does more than drive them off.

I move to one of the broken windows to watch what unfolds out there.

scott

Vignette
Hammer rushes out during the confusion, smashes the disoriented and bleeding-from-the-face highwayman in the skull, once… twice. he goes down. Hammer’s younger “friend” has been tied, hands behind his back and kneeling… hostage, he tries to stand.

As you watch, Spider crawls silently in through the broken panes.

But the hostage doesn’t have a chance… another burst of rounds from one of the highwaymen and the younger man falls. Another burst and Hammer himself spins to the ground and can’t get up. Bleeding, he looks around and his eyes fall on your face for a moment through the dirty broken panes. Last thing he’ll see.

The gunman approaches, gun low. He fires two rounds into Hammer’s chest, and a couple more into his friend, just to be sure.

The other living highwayman kicks at his dead boss, the man whose mind you broke moments before. Three men dead. Two live. “Waste of good bullets, man… he was already a goner,” says one to the other.

The highwaymen begin to go through the pockets of the dead. Their leader’s revolver makes a nice prize.

What do you do?

John

I wonder. I wonder many things. Like, whose hostage was the younger man? Would it have been a rescue at all to restore him to Hammer? Was Hammer brave? Trying to save the man? Or vengeful? Opportunistic? These two that are left, they do not seem like nice men. But were any of them? Is it wrong to let them be? Pointless to challenge them? I wonder all these things.

Spiders do not wonder. Spider tip-taps across crumbled masonry and broken glass. I stifle a laugh as Spider slips in fresh blood splashed across one of the panes of glass leaning upright against a chunk of stone wall. No, spiders cannot trip and fall, but they hate the indignity of slipping. Spider’s feet sliding in the blood leave long, vertical trails of red on the glass, a visual echo of the blood rains. Maybe that hairy little splasher did it on purpose–a mean-spirited, “Look what’s become of your kind.” Rot and splash, maybe spiders do wonder.

Spider’s little painting sits in the foreground of a scene of ruin and blood and betrayal, like a summation, a judgment. Blood begets blood. I feel my mind pulled in, my ties to this world weak and insubstantial. I let go, open my mind.

---

OOC: Vignette is intending to Open Her Brain. She’s distraught at the pointlessness of helping people in a world without innocents. She feels like maybe no one here was, indeed, worth saving. She wants to know if these remaining guys are predators or opportunists. Does she risk herself to put an end to them, in the service of some unknown, perhaps equally undeserving flotsam?

John

Open Mind: (Rolled: 2d6+2. Rolls: 5, 1. Total: 8)

scott

Vignette
The guys go through the pockets of the dead, even their once-leader. No ceremony, no respect, just grim opportunity. They're not celebrating the death, not happy about what happned. But it's just what they need to do. The one guy keeps his weapon in one hand, a pretty dangerous looking automatic that he really should use with both hands. The other guy now has his bosses revolver. Both armed, both edgy and alert.

You focus on the red streaks on the glass, the very visible trails left by the embodiment of your own power. Your thoughts painted in red on glass.

What is it like for you, Vignette, when you open your brain. What do you see, what do you feel? How long does it usually last?

Then we'll see what you see.

John

When I open my brain, it is an escape. It is peaceful and quiet. Normal life is riding the surface of an ocean of thoughts, the thoughts of those around me. Or maybe not just those around me. Sometimes, there are gentle swells, sometimes it is choppy and violent. When I open my brain, though, it is like diving beneath the surface. The violence of the surface is left behind, and I glide peacefully through the waters of thought and emotion. I can better choose where to focus, or to not listen at all and just be.

How long do I stay? That is the danger–that I lose myself and forget to resurface. My sense of time is unreliable when in the deep. Sometimes I leave for days and instant passes above. Other times, time is the same.

scott

Vignette
Are they worth saving? Is anyone?

You fall into quiet waters, comforting darkness surrounds you, little glimmers of light like diamonds dance on the surface above. Beautiful… peaceful. And alone.

You feel the echo of the many minds you’ve met, mostly to the South, back home… but you also feel a scatter of minds all directions. Those you will meet in the future. Some of them beyond saving, already doomed, some of them mean you harm. Your thoughts swim with theirs:

A man reaches towards the trees with his last breath. There’s something he must see, but his body is broken and will no longer carry him where he needs to go. Alone in his last moment.

A hunter of men sets his sights on his prey… and decides whether to pull the trigger. Is he a man or is he just a tool. Alone with his decision.

A young man holds a pistol in his hand, contemplates using it… he’s too scared. He puts it back in it’s place and feels ashamed. He feels alone, same as you.

You feel something on your face, a soft touch… you blink and wake. Crumpled in a heap on the floor. It’s silent outside. The men have gone… spider touches your cheek.

It’s time to go.

John

I lift Spider gently in both hands. The hairy little beast nearly fills my two hands. I think he's getting bigger. I raise Spider to my face and make cooing-chittering noises--difficult noises to make, and neither understood nor appreciated by Spider, but it is how I imagine I would like to be talked to if I were a spider. I restore Spider to its perch on my neck, its dark, hairy legs in stark contrast to the white smoothness of my neck.

"Be more careful?" I say, with an indignant huff. "I had you to stand guard, didn't I?"

I raise my hood once again and continue to Pike's.

scott

Vignette
The rest of the way to Pikes is easy. No more highwaymen, no more washouts. Your secret ways remain secret and your paths remain true.

You see Pike's in the distance, the long, low building with it's corrugated metal plates, concrete barriers in the street and wide-open doorways which manage to still look inviting. The smell of cooking meat wafts through the air from a dozen little stacks poking through the roof.

Why do you come here, Vignette? It's a place that attracts crowds, people from all over the city. People on the edge of desperation, starvation, and people fat with shiny looking for a place to fill their bellies and share stories of the road.

It's protected more by reputation than by strength, really not much of a holding if you look at it. But most everyone comes here, neutral ground.

Why do you come?

What do you do?

John

Why do I come to Pike’s? It is surprising, is it not? I have known others like me who avoided crowds, even became reclusive, due to the noise of the thoughts of so many others. I am different. I need the crowds and the varied humanity of Pike’s, to allow my mind to get lost in an ocean of thoughts too numerous track. At Safeco, there are fewer, and on arena days, the thoughts are violent, full of excitement and rage and terror. It is not a good place for me then.

There is another reason. The woman who runs the noodle shop , the mother of the boy throwing debris at me, the boy would wants to kill me. I visit her often, a penance for what I did to her husband. Sometimes, I seek out those in need of my talents, but today, I have more than enough. I am here to get away from the arena and to do my penance. That is where I am headed now.

scott

Vignette
Interesting. So the voices are just kind of there nagging at your mind all the time. Or much of it. White noise, lots of thought. Makes sense.

You come often enough that the guards don't stare too long. Arriving alone, unarmored, unarmed. But they've seen this before and you just pass into the hold as one of the many travelers who make up most of pike's fluctuating population.

You pass through the stalls and towards the eatin' end of the place where more than a dozen different little eateries and drinking houses set up shop and you can find your little noodle house.

So you've come before to visit the widow Kites in her shop. Does she know who you are? What you did? If so, what surprised you about how she reacted when you told her?

scott

Just a note that you've been mentioned in Gates' thread "Pike's Market" in case your attention is needed there.

scott

Vignette,

Answer as you wish, then please head here, Crossing Paths.

John

I dive into the sea of thought lapping at the gates of Pike’s Market. It is good to be back. The Arrow pack has made my mind feel like a stranger’s. I am alone. More than that, I am aloneness. Dog could not be denied. That is what I tell myself, but another voice says I was thankful when Dog pulled me in, that I have a scary-fierce desire to belong with them–I who belong with no one. I return every night, look forward to the arrival of the pack…and the one they call Cujo, whose eyes are all I allow myself to touch, whose eyes are so deep that it is enough. (For now?) Spider taps at that. Irritating beast. Spider, who thinks it knows things I will not say in my mind. Spider, who teases me when I look at the one they call Cujo by walking down my bare back underneath my shirt in a way that gives me goosebumps and makes me think of fingertips.

Here at Pike’s, though, my mind can be at ease. The deluge of thought drowns out the confusing inner voices. I exhale and let my mind float on the surface, rising and falling on the gentle swells of a thousand different minds mixed into an undifferentiated mélange. Almost undifferentiated. Unwelcome, unbidden, a familiar mind disrupts my peace.

It does not matter. I was nearly to Kites’ shop anyway. No peace there. Obligation. Guilt. Humility. She knows, now. Good at her job. Plied me with liquor on one of my visits, out of curiosity, and received more than that for which she paid. I had reached the end of my ability to live with the secret. I thought that to die by her hand was at fitting an end as any. To my continuing surprise, she did not take my life, nor even blame me…entirely. She looked at me a long time, so long that I started to wonder if she was like me. Then, she sighed and talked of how her man was involved in things he should not have been. Things that would have brought him to a bad end, and in her nightmares, brought that end to her son as well. In that respect, she believes I did her a favor of sorts. I am not so forgiving.

Perhaps a delay of this visit is not so unwelcome. I turn to face Gates.