Zombiedude101

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN@Atrophy@FernStone@Blizz@AtomicEmperor@NoriWasHere@everyone
Kari Wilson's House

---

So, 8th Street were squatting in a mansion? Compared to the abandoned factories, warehouses and run-down projects he'd clambered through in the northern half of the Rust Belt, that didn't sound too bad.

Harder to miss, Clancy guessed.

Sloane denied any real knowledge of the book, but she'd mentioned the mansion. Before he could probe further on that point, Luca had mentioned contacting one of 8th Street - someone called Jacqueline, but he still wanted to know about the mansion.

"Who says I can't?" Clancy asked, floating the question bluntly, "You think this is the first time I've got into places they don't want people? How'd you think I got in here? Be easier if someone could just tell me where to go." His tone wasn't hostile; just direct as he thumbed back in Luca's direction. "Y'know... just in case things don't work out."

But it was too late for that, and she was already distracted with something else. The asian man - Ken - was trudging down the steps of the basement with them to show them what he'd known. The space was familiar, and held a dull warmth that he couldn't quite feel anymore, but could've pictured someone else enjoying. It was the kind of place that he'd imagine his old man or his brother would've enjoyed, a long time ago.

He had no clue what the Murasaki or their Dark Drops were, but he could only guess it was another form of the magic lux he'd slowly come to understand, probably with some Jap twist that his Uncle Gerry would've scrunched at with a queer suspicion. Purple Light projected characters of an alien language across the surface of the wall, scrolling like a holographic displauy.

And the space opened. A space that didn't seem as though it belonged to the wall, but was more like a window to somewhere else. It felt different, fundamentally.

An array of belongings. Boxes. Containing treasures or junk, depending on who you asked. They meant nothing to Clancy, but he suspected his sister might have appreciated them. She liked colour, and there was plenty of it here. In the feathers. In the stones - in those that glowed in a spectrum that he couldn't have plausibly believed if not for other things he already knew about the world.

The man was crying. Grieving might've been a better word for it, because tears were just the surface level pain - something he couldn't have shared in even if he wanted to. Clancy didn't judge Kenshiro for this one, considering what he was probably going through. He seemed to be one of the few members of Ashley's old friend circle that seemed to actually give a shit, and apply some measure of organisation and common sense. He could appreciate that, and with the news that the notebooks were missing, and the argument that followed around 8th street and whether or not

"I'm sorry about your friend." Clancy said, directing an outwardly cold -but genuine - condolence to Kenshiro, "It's shitty. But-.. only Kari would've known how to unlock this thing, right? And you-" he shifted his gaze towards Britney, "You said the one who died wasn't your Kari."

He suspected this wouldn't make him popular, but he had to make the argument. It was so obvious that he felt stupid for not giving it more consideration.

"I'm not saying it's her. Your other friend - Lionel? At the graveyard, I heard him call Father Wolf a 'he'." He shot Britney and Adora another look, "Yes, I was there when she told you where to go, too, but I don't care about that right now. So far, everyone who's been killed by this asshole has been part of your old group. Unless you still have enemies that aren't dead or gone, that makes it possible that it could be someone who was one of you. Or that someone of you is caught up in this too. Is that Kari? I don't know. But she's part of this now, and if she isn't dead it's obvious she's hiding or being hidden."

He shrugged. "Back to my point. How many of you are left now? How many of you do you know that are still alive? That isn't to say this rules out any one of you, either-... but I've heard about 8th Street, and this Emily and her group of assholes - they've come up too many times not to be involved, or have some part in this."

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN@Atrophy@FernStone@Blizz@AtomicEmperor@NoriWasHere@everyone
Kari Wilson's House

---

Of all of them to answer his question, it was the scruffy latino that reeked of a decay that wasn't entirely represented by appearance, outside of their abnormally tattered clothing. Luca. He was slowly cataloguing their names, both because he was getting tired of using vague descriptors to match to faces, and because it was the courteous thing that he'd been raised to do, once upon a time.

The boy seemed benign enough, but that rot was needling at Clancy's senses as he spoke. He couldn't figrue out why.

”... yeah, she is an asshole. She was an asshole then too. But someone here forcefully adjoined her to an apparition, so you could say there’s more bad blood because of that.”

Something gave him pause, distracting from the assault on his senses. A moment ago, he'd been ready to consider dealing with the girl and her friends in a coven that sounded more like some of the gangbanger crews he'd ran into back in Detroit. That was an option still on the cards, but he considered whether she was acting of her own accord or because other motives were at the wheel. That they wanted to fix some of the curses that had been inflicted upon them was itself a goal he could understood, but it invoked another thought - who here had forcefuly 'adjoined' her?

He had heard the term before, alongside others, and while the exact meaning seemed vague, he could make an educated guess on what it meant. He thought back to what Ashley had told him. How 'Britney' had crossed a line, done what was necessary - and finally made the connection.

We're all monsters, he recalled.

For a moment, his eyes fixated on Britney and crinkled, the few flakes of broken plaster in his hand crunched further into dust as fingers clenched and released. It wasn't his grudge to hold, but that did nothing to improve his view of the girl.

Focus. Luca had mentioned a book. He was thinking back to the waking dream, "Where is the book now?"

If this book had the answers, his line of thinking was that they would take the book, whether or not that meant fighting for it. Maybe it could answer other questions too, such as-

He paused that thought for a moment; over Luca's shoulder, he could see some others approaching. One of them was another familiar face - 'Lynn', was it? He recognised her as the one who'd said she was glad Linqian's brother had been murdered. It had been a vile thing to say, one that had briefly disturbed the mental equilibrium within him as he'd watched from afar - it was too close to home when Clancy was the last one standing out of his own siblings.

And now, here she was again, almost scowling at the same woman she'd needled with the brother comment.

"Mention anything about a brother..." he muttered - barely loud enough that only those stood closest might have heard, 'and I'll remove your jaw' is what he almost wanted to say, but he didn't bother trying to continue the point. It would've been wasted anyway, even if he had been heard; she'd walked past them into another room, and the taller, leaner speaker, Jasper, introduced himsef and the other girl - Lila - before returning to painting something he coudn't make out from this angle.

Outside, a commotion was breaking out - or a drunken display, it wasn't clear. A few had droped in, then moved back onto the lawn. Linqian and Sloane were at each other's throats, talking about the latter's supposed business with Eighth Street, and what he could only assume was bad blood between them. "Idiots," he growled, barely loud enough to be heard, "You can kill each other later."

Luckily, Britney had interceded to nip it in the bud - yet again mentioning this 'Vashti' - and they were back on track. For now.
She tilted her head to look back over her shoulder at Britney, still speaking quietly. The plan, it seeemed, was to look for whatever this Kari had left in the basement - clues to who Father Wolf was, hopefully.

He considered whether it was worth bringing the other things he knew to the table. The encounter with Shayton at the Halloween Festival. The business with Dollhouse. The fact that they claimed to be just as interested in dealing with Father Wolf.

Later. They were too distracted to focus beyond a select few workstreams, and had shown little interest when he'd first told them at the Church.

"The book Luca mentioned, have you seen it? Do you know where it is?" He directed the question towards Sloane, and then - thinking back to something Linqian had said to Britney - closed the gap so he was but a few paces away.

"She won't say anything, again- his voice was barely above a whisper, spoken in a hushed tone for what could've only been privacy's sake, "-about your brother." Neither smile nor scowl creased his features as they approached the basement.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN@Atrophy@FernStone@Blizz@AtomicEmperor@everyone
Kari Wilson's House

---

Clancy gave Layla a queer look, thinking back on what she'd said. Blood on his hands...

She was the girl who'd taken Alizee's place, if what little he understood about them was correct. What was she talking about? Blood on his hands.

The mess, left by the nazi asshole at the club?

Friend?

The parasite. He realised now, the shadow wasn't there - not that he would miss it. The entropic wound it formed wherever it stood was absent, though he thought it was a shame that the French girl had needed to die first. "It wasn't your friend. One dead host was never going to be enough. Believe me, you're better off without-"

Something interrupted his train of thought. Lingering further from the doorway, a rotting presence was the best way he could describe it. One of the others, stood outside, a skinny latino with darker, almost-tatty clothes that put his own garb to shame. He wasn't sure why, but he got the impression there was more than a skin-deep deterioration to him. Maybe he'd find out later.

Everyone here had their secrets, it seemed.

Clancy understood that especially.

Britney had questioned him before, and he'd addressed most of her questions as far as he was willing to, but there was one outstanding point. That he'd taken a bullet in front of about half of their number was a point he'd dodged so far.

"Got better," he answered in response to her and Stormy's continued interrogation, "No, don't let me stop you from getting wasted, I'm just here for-"

---

The recollection hit him with no less force then the rest of them, like a waking dream being observed through a filter. A memory slipped into his consciousness, through the eyes of another person. Senses he'd not experienced for a long time. And then it was over - and he was back in the real world, or the closest thing that could pass for it to him.

The sound of something crackling capped off the recollection as they returned back to their senses.

Of the group of them, Clancy was among those that had expressed the most discomfort - for lack of a better word. Not a physical pain, no, but the crinkled expression and fight-or-flight posture were an indicator that the memory had broken some of the mental walls he'd set up for himself.

And, as if to emphasise the point, there was another section of the cabin's plaster wall damaged when they regained full cogniscence, a gouge about the size of a hand, as though someone had pressed their palm to the wall and dug their fingers into the plaster.

White dust coated his sleeve and fingertips, the most incriminating factor. It was the most emotion he'd expressed in the presence of others for a long time, and it was no doubt they could probably see that.

"You're seeing them too, right?" he asked, breaking the silence to draw attention away from the damage. They had to have seen it, otherwise why had they all stopped at the same time?

None of the faces in the memory were familiar to him. The names were, somewhat - albeit in fragments. Names he'd heard in passing. And Kari herself. There was one that gnawed at him, though.

Emily.

He'd heard that name before, several times, from different places. Around St. Portwell - mentions of the Eighth Street Coven, and before that, when-

When the name had been brought up by Ashley. During their internet chats, they'd gotten to a point of trust that she felt capable of sharing snippets of herself with him, as he had the same. About family, and loss. Other things too.

Ashley hadn't spoken of her like it was a good thing, he recalled.

Come to think of it, there seemed to be a pattern to this. And 8th Street were a player in this town he knew, and a relentless one at that.

"I don't recognise them." Clancy said, wiping the plaster fragments off on his jeans, "But this Emily-... she sounds like an asshole."

The truth was that he was wondering whether she was the kind of asshole that needed dealing with. That was his first instinct. The second instinct was the question the first, because instinct was a component he couldn't rely on without losing himself.

It was difficult to say. The vision had kicked at his senses, unbalanced him. Maybe it was the same for the others, but his sense of north and south had pivoted in light of the sudden alteration to the established rules of his existence. He didn't dream. Couldn't sleep, even. Had no need for either. And yet here he was, in a waking dream, with strangers.

"Like I said, I don't know most of you, barely have names for faces, but Emily.... she knows who you are, right?" he continued, "You've got history. Is she part of this?"

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN@Atrophy@FernStone@Blizz@AtomicEmperor@everyone
Kari Wilson's House

---

Sloane had shot him a dispassionate expression that he met with one of his own, unrelenting. He was familiar with the unhappy gaze of strangers, the other side of the nuisance-friendly-do-gooer spectrum, the kind of people who were more like to shoo their own kids away from him and whisper thngs to their spouses.

"Finally, some honesty." he acknowledged Linqian - the girl who'd lost a brother, if he recalled from that argument at the church correctly, and she at least didn't entertain this 'facade' they were anything but associates by necessity at this stage. And unlike the rest, she'd suffered personal loss in this. A sibling was something he could understand. He'd had a brother once, lost some seven thousand miles away in a foreign country he'd barely heard of. And the thought of Judy's withered face before had crossed his mind before he dispelled it.

She was asking about his situation? Not something h wanted to broach, in light of the RV. This place ]would have been a half-decent waiting spot, if for nothing else then because it was somewhat close enough to St. Portwell while being isolated enough that he was unlikely to be disturbed by anything but wild game to whet his appetite, "Not on the streets,", he deflected, before shifting onto his next point as the other one, "But respect or not, dead people don't care about what you do with their stuff believe me. Just don't want Smokey Bear-" Clancy gestured to the encroaching suburban wilderness outside by lazily jabbing one sleeve outwards, "-or any of the other neighbours calling the cops because you broke down the door, before..

"No! No, no, I won't stand for this now! Who... What... Why!? Can't we ever get fucking organized? It's just like making plans! Just like it, I make sure I come back for a certain date, I syncronize my cronometer between the two dimensions, I get home on time to texts telling me that things are canceled like Verizon exists in the Kingdom of Molaran?"

The stranger with peculiarly eastern features and a dour expression cut off his train of thought. "Kingdom of what?" He wasn't sure if it was a metaphor, a joke, or something outright tangible. But he was right - the planning department in this group was lacking, and he felt exasperated at having to be the one to tell them - and get no results. Was this why Ashley had decided she was done with them, dead or alive? From the internat chats they'd shared, he was getting the impression this was almost certainly the case.

And he couldn't help but notice that some of the others were looking at him queerly. The bearded man with the chalice - was that the same chalice as the one from the dream? And the other bearded guy, the one who'd dispelled the blinding light that night at the strip club. He wasn't close enough to make out what was being said, but he suspected it would lead to some difficult questions - he'd deal with those later.

The plan to drink a round of sacky or whatever it was called seemed sound enough, for the rest of them. At least they had a better lead than just look through the dead girl's things for clues. He was starting to grow tired of thinking of these people as the bearded man and the grieving eastern man - and decided to be blunt about it.

"You're Sloane. I think I recognise the 'Britney' and 'Adora', but I'm struggling to follow who you are," he recited, "There's a lot of names carved in that tree, and Ashley didn't say much except how some people were assholes. She was family to me. I want Father Wolf. He wants you dead. Does that answer your questions?"

He wondered if he'd regret that in just a few minutes.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

Dreaming

---

The same girl again. Imitations of a human face, a human expression. An oily black fluid. Snakes, writhing in the ooze. When the creature climbed atop the girl, that entropic pit of despair gnawed at the memories deep within his consciousness, and he felt a pang of familiarity that brought no warmth. And then the ooze burst forth from the humanoid creature's constrictor-like maw.

"No," he wanted to scream, but the word gave no voice, "Leave her alone!"

He had no mouth, and could not scream. Forced to watch, he thrashed non-existant limbs against equally non-existant walls, raging against the immaterial. Helpless, in a way that cut at his core, unable to intervene or break this creature that forced its poison upon another. To rip, tear, bite, devour-

And then it ended, and the girl had dusted herself and moved on, undeterred - that was more than he would've admitted to doing, where their places swapped. A temple ruin of some sorts, like the comics he used to read. A book of symbols that he didn't understand, save that they meant some form of power

Automaton suits of armour, with sections that precluded a human occupant, following the orders of a 'King' that made little sense to him. The girl seemed done for, once again, as they levelled arms against her - only to be crushed by the arms of a giant sprouting from the ground, a creation of the older woman's blood magic - if such a thing were as it seemed.

Their joy was short-lived. The girl had doubled over, serpentine shapes writhing beneath her skin; the black ooze. Phantom fingers tightened into a fist, but as before, Clancy was an observer and nothing more. He had no control here. Instead, the other creature's words to the girl's "mother" cycled through his mind.

"How can you kill what doesn't live?"

It was a good question.

---

Junkyard

---

Deja vu.

Thoughts of the hunted girl, the chalice and the book were soon pushed to one side.

Morning light spilled into his vision, and he realised he was awake and in the real world. The second dreaming. And not just from the skylight; in the thrashing before his waking - as he had watched the ooze forced upon the girl - Clancy realised his phantom limbs had, in fact, raged against something. The interior of the cabin was in further disarray than when he'd left it, cabinets torn from their fittings on the wall, the windows hatttered and where there had been a finished plywood wall beside the doorframe, there was now a jagged hole the size of his arm where even more light spilled through.

And he recognised the shadowy digits emerging from the hand closest to that entrypoint, long and thin as stalactites, threatening to burst through his fingertips and subsume the rest of his self in the throes of a paralytic rage. He shook the arm, and when that seemed to be insufficient, held it out into the light until those black digits receded.

His next question: had anyone seem him? To his annoyance, he acknowledged that the RV was no longer an option for him now. If the sound of his unconscious-self tossing the place in a frenzy hadn't drawn attention, the sight of the wrecked motor home would. That meant finding somewhere else to settle down his few possessions, and draw together his thoughts - a question he would settle later in the day, or night if required. It was a frustration that he could contain, at the least, but it brought to mind another problem that had emerged since he arrived in town, looking for the one who killed Ashley.

In the days since the island, he felt as though another set of eyes and ears trailed close behind him - perhaps it was just paranoia, but the standoff with Shayton had left an impression that had more permanence than the cane lodged through his eye socket. He was not wanting for 'enemies', if there were. The biker-nazi assholes would have no love for him or the gradually increasing dent he'd made in their numbers. The PRA believed that something had killed Judas, and the real killer - Shayton and his employers, assuming they were Dollhouse - were yet another set of assholes with an agenda that involved dealing with him.

And for all intents and purposes, if Shayton had been telling any shade of truth, which wasn't outside the realm of possibility, neither of the three had anything to do with Father Wolf.

It changed nothing, he recognised, and he felt that pang of frustration at being no closer to understanding any of it. The dreaming that invaded his consciousness, the messages that trailed them. There were only a handful of artifacts he knew of; one was a blade that served as a means to an end, and the other was the axe in his possession, a sharp and sturdy weapon. The Book was beyond his reckoning. The Chalice, he vaguely recalled having seen it somewhere, but not so well as to know or understand its purpose.

Raven Jones - the girl in the dreams - the monster as the voice had dubbed her, was a stranger to him. When this happened, he didn't know. Days, months, weeks, or maybe years ago? Centuries, even.

Was it a trick, a lie?

Clancy shook the thought away. His only lead involved the group of people being targeted by Father Wolf. The Sycamore Coven. A group that seemed bigger by the day whenever he dropped by, and judging by the initials carved into the tree, it seemed as though they once numbered enough to fill out a school year.

There would be time to find a new place of respite later, he affirmed himself, then tugged at the strap of his dufflebag, sloughing off the fragments of shattered plywood sprinkled across the top, then slung it over his shoulder, feeling for the weight of the axe within.

---

@Punished GN@Atrophy@FernStone@Estylwen@everyone
Kari Wilson's House

---

He was early.

And, as far as he knew, alone. The others hadn't quite arrived yet, and he wasn't aware that a third party was watching from afar - although the paranoia of being followed had never quite gone away.

When he'd first approached, the cabin had invoked memories of stalking through forest hiking trails and national parks. It almost seemed too good to be true; where was the moss and overgrowth? He could give their landscraper credit, he supposed.

Getting inside ahead of the others had required a little finnesse, but he'd had plenty practice of quietly slipping inside buildings that offered no warm welcome.

Assessing the wasn't too hard; Clancy had briefly contemplated using the chimney until he realised he was neither jolly nor fat - and realised there was an open balcony that would've just as easily led inside. Scaling the pillar and the railing wasn't a great effort, and prying open the door required just a touch of finesse. That got him inside, although by the time he'd done so, other figures were starting to appear on the horizon, and so he closed that door behind him.

Making sure this wasn't going to be another disaster seemed sensible enough. Why let more of Ashley's idiot 'friends' get themselves killed before they could get results, if such a thing were possible.

The night at the island, he'd left with a wretched outlook, stewing in his failure and surrounded by a crowd of people to stoke that fire - the toga party had stirred some conflicted feelings at the back of his mind, which clashed with the expectations and subsequent behaviour he'd seen from them. For a group of supposed friends, it was clear the only consistent factor between them were the ties to the coven and the entity they fought, and these days it seemed as though that friendship was at its limits.

Ashley's response from beyond the grave was telling enough, although he wondered if he wouldn't have said the same in her place among the dead, whether or not he'd known them. Her answer was enough to suggest she didn't want to be disturbed, and he could respect that to some degree.

The other two, however..

Lionel Hunter - he'd named the killer as a 'he', although he never got specific, but the 'club' angle made something of a difference for him. Problem was, there were clubs all over what qualified as 'downtown', and he'd drawn enough trouble at the first club he'd gatecrashed on his way into town. Despite this, Clancy had tried to find something of use, only to run into dead ends.

Kari Wilson - an outlier in that she seemed to have no memories of their friend group - only heavy footsteps before she died. So maybe Father Wolf was a he, unless . They'd talked about her not being 'their' Kari that night, and from what he'd overheard from following the others, they seemed interested in her. That's why he was here tonight.

The other victims had shown up dead too late to be of any use. In the case of Kali Mahendra - the one that seemed to be tied up with the federals and had supposedly died in a public place - he'd tried to get his hands on the security footage from the place he'd supposedly died, but it had been a dead end. The footage had already been taken by the authorities, or was conveniently absent when he'd gone poking through the back offices of a couple of local stores. Whether that was by design or negligence he didn't know, and he realised in poking around he'd exposed himself to more attention than he'd wanted.

Which brought him back to Kari Wilson.

He'd watched, listened, tracked and waited. The surviving 'coven' had been planning a trip here anyway, and given Ashley's things had been tossed over, and the others had died aware they were on the block with no real leads to offer in their dying, he rationalised that visiting Kari's place wasn't unreasonable. A clue at what she'd been doing, what had happened maybe.

That aside, he was tired of blindly fumbling for answers alone - as a stranger to St. Portwell and the history behind it. Back on track. The upper floor had been cleared, for now. He didn't have the context or the background to know what else he might be looking for.

Voices outside. They were close enough now that he could hear them more clearly. Another one of their number had died. Lyss. Clancy made his way downstairs, one eye on the front door, and the other taking in his surroundings.

“.. let’s all huddle up, focus, and give Auri our undivided attention, okay? But first let’s take a moment to pay respects to Lyss. She was a good egg. A lot of us are standing here today thanks to her,”

A pause. Then, in the dark - a fire that resembled gaslight, blue and orange. Were they trying to pick the lock?

He realised it was probably easier to unlock the door from the inside and let them in, but-

“I dunno, maybe we can just give her a moment of si—”

BANG!

It burst open hard enough to dent the interior plaster and rebound back in the doorway, only for someone to catch it. Sloane - he remembered her from the church, although she hadn't noticed him yet - he was stood off to one side, in a blind spot.

“Door’s open. What are you waiting for? Let’s go accomplish fucking nothing again.”

It was clear she wasn't making any friends, judging by the reaction of the others.

”I know because you think Kari is dead; it doesn't matter what we do to her house, but I'm not going to sit here and let you, or anyone else, trash her home. I don't want to be here, and I don't think we should be breaking into her house in the first place, but we need to show her - and her possessions - some respect.”

Good friends indeed.

”She was one of us - the most vital in fact - and you should leave your little world for a second and remember that.”

"You could've knocked," Clancy answered, announcing his presence.

As before, he wore the same green and yellow sports hoodie and awkwardly cut-to-length jeans, now bearing a few extra dark spots from almost two weeks of exposure to dirt, grime and other detritus in the elements.

"At least your friend's kinda onto a point, but you really are a shitty bunch of friends, to Ashley and the rest, d'you know that?" His expression was a cold condemndation, almost glowering, but he shook it off. "If you can remember not to fight like a bunch of high school kids, maybe you'll get something done this time."

As he stepped into view, the duffle bag slung over his shoulder, along the length of his body, came into view.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

ambience

@Punished GN@Atrophy@FernStone
Halloween Festival - Kid's Section

---

Worthless.

Clancy seethed, shards of broken plastic compressed into his palm. The phone had been a dud. Functionally and practically worthless to him in every sense. And one of the few people in this town that seemed to have any leaning towards where he needed to be had disappeared on him in the blink of an eye. one person of interest had disappeared on him, leaving more questions and-

"Holy-... are you OK, son?" A voice in his blindspot, some probably-middle-aged dad, acutely aware of the cane lodged through his eye.

"Hey, call the first aiders-" another voice, a woman - this time in his vision, an expression of horror spread across her features. He ignored them, pacing forward. "Fuck that, kid needs nine-one-one!"

"It's part of the costume." Clancy growled, working to maintain his composure. He was acutely aware of the cane's presence, not least because - while he was himself - it rendered him half-blind. Pain was a non-issue, something he did not and never would fear. He was past that point. But he had failed, and left with more answers than he came from.

"Jesus, he's in shock-" the same, masculine voice chattered away in the background, just noise to him in the midst of it all. With only a peripheral view of the cane's ornate handle spearing out in front of his nose, he reached upwards, fumbling for the length of it, and tightened his fingers around the shaft. When he tried to pull, he felt the strangest sensation of cracking inside his head.

"Woah-woah stop, you'll make it worse!" Someone stepped in front of him, and their voice matched one of those that had been talking about him; a bearded man with a faux-fur and leather jacket that almost resembled the leathers that his brother had once worn, in a memory stored away from what now felt like years ago. That same man reached out to him, trying to shop his hand away from the handle, a well-intentioned irritation encroaching on the boundaries he set for himself, until one of those meaty hands gripped around his wrist.

"Do not touch-" he growled, his voice briefly shifting away from what it should have been that primal, inhuman pitch that overlapped his own, and for a moment he felt the illusion of self and self-control slipping. Clancy twisted and pushed back hard enough that, amidst the sound of splintering wood, he felt the man's wrist strain under the force of it, and sent him doubling over in agony as nerves caught up to damaged bones and muscle tissues.

"-just leave me alone." A warning, uttered in his own voice. In the struggle, he'd broken off the end of the cane, leaving a splintered stake spearing out through his eye socket. As if to emphasise his point, he threw the broken-off handle at the feet of his would-be samaritans, then paced off.

Trying to get the remaining length out of his eye would mean doing this in front of dozens of witnesses, potentially unmasking himself in the process, and he recognised that he was not the only one in the neighbourhood, let alone the whole town, that had strength and power. He needed to leave, there was nothing of use for him here, and plenty of opportunity for things to get worse. For the most part, he'd cleared a small path, pacing through a crush of sugar-addled kids, teenagers and eventually some half-drunken "adults".

"Toga! Toga! Toga! Toga!"

A hint of reefer intermingled with the collective pungence of sugar-barbecuefLeSh-liquor-mEaT!, and it was there that he spotted some familiar faces amond the intoxicated as he moved through the explicitly 21's only pavilions, although he had to squint with his one good eye to see through the eyehole of his partially-torn hood. The faint chanting of "Toga!" was hitting him in a way he couldn't quite understand, as the drunken revelers speared through the crowd in a disorderly conga line. A sense of a loss he hadn't felt. Was this something he would miss out on?

The thought withdrew as he recalled what he'd witnessed that night at the cemetary.

"Fuck off."

Were they really Ashley's friends? Could he trust them? That he doubted in spades. He wondered if things would've been different if he'd been there. Maybe so, but for different reasons than most would've guessed.

Remember.

Pushing the thought to one side, he was also conscious that some of their circle had broken away from, or never been involved with the celebrations, and instead were preoccupied by the G-Men from the church, talking to them. Although they weren't uniformed, he'd been close enough to get a glimpse of their facess on two occasions now, and the impression had stuck with him.

These aren't your friends, he reminded himself, not family, either.

There was nothing for him here. He pushed on through the crowd, past the line of "Toga!" chants, in the direction of the dock.

Off on the horizon, the silhouette of a ferry awaited a small crowd of people waiting a return to the mainland, mostly younger families. He stopped in his tracks, then reconsidered.

Of course, crowds consisted of people, who asked questions when things seemed out of place. Like the jadded end of the cane, still protruding from his skull. Questions that led to the same people bothering him again, like the one he left nursing a broken wrist.

No.

Agitated, hungry and about as close to tired as he'd felt in a long time, he thought it better to take the direct route this time. Clancy tore the canvas hood from his costume, irritated enough by the situation that he could tolerate the poor visibility no longer.

Then, approaching an elevated section of the beachfront, he found a smaller fisherman's dock that wasn't swarming with departures and arrivals, where the lights were dimmed and pnly a few idle visitors slumped in various states of fatigue and intoxication.

Clancy stepped out as far as the structure extended into the sea, until he reached the very edge, then continued forward, his costumed form disappearing into the black water with little more than a splash amidst the raucous celebrations and ambient noise of waves lapping against the shore.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

---

Shayton.

Interactions: Clancy @Zombiedude101.

Cracker Island. Halloween Festival. Not-The-Kids’ Section.
@Punished GN

---

---

The plan hadn’t worked, and so Shayton had slipped the dummy phone back inside its pocket, although he was aware eyes remained on it.

As he viewed it, the "Kid" was a lot smarter than a kid... Shayton's guess at the moment was that this bastard was a shapeshifter who’d assumed the form of a child to throw off suspicion.

Yet, that hadn’t explained why Maggy had jumped straight to shooting him. Shayton remained stony-faced; he had complete control of the situation, even if the ‘boy’ believed he was in control. There was that temptation to phone Luis so he could send a heavy hitter like The Pale Horse, but he knew the kid would snatch his actual or one of his burners... and he didn't need help, anyway..

Not now.

Not ever.

"Last time we spoke, you told me something: These days, everyone is a target. They don’t know it yet. I remembered that, just like I'd guess you're not the kind of person I'd expect to see playing games with a bunch of Nazi assholes and some losers on bikes. I wasn't born yesterday."

Clancy

"Correct," Shayton answered. "On both accounts."

What is his angle...?

"And I'm still old enough to know that people don't just appear with holes in their bodies, like your last boss did. Nice of you to let me take the fall for that with the G-Men."

Clancy

"Hmph... I killed Judas because, despite acting like he was the big man, he made it clear he was going to crack under pressure," Shayton calmly answered. "Someone like him doesn't belong in the business."

He was silent for a moment before he said,

"Sorry that it interfered with your investigation, but other hands are at play here."

"I still have questions since you cut into that last conversation. Father Wolf. Dollhouse. Ashley Stone. You know enough. Who is coming after a bunch of washed up ex-high schoolers? And your bosses, the real ones this time, what's their play in this? Because I'm sure, you don't want that bit of information spreading around town, any more than it may have gone already."

Clancy

Shayton grinned, the kid’s expression crinkling further..

"... Just so you know, I can escape at any given moment; I just don't want to mess up my suit," Shayton laughed softly before he wiped that smile off his face and answered earnestly. "As far as Ashley Stone, Father Wolf, and the murders... You are getting ahead of yourself because I know nothing about that. I am hoping to eliminate whoever is behind it all as serial killers are... bad for business."

Shayton remained quiet for a moment before he continued, "As far as I am concerned, Dollhouse has nothing to do with the murders. But, even if they did, I would not tell you because I'd be setting myself for death."

Shayton let the words hang in the air; he didn't answer the question about his bosses as Clancy probably would have guessed his bosses are Dollhouse.

"Does that answer your questions? If not, that's unfortunate because I'm done with this discussion," Shayton adjusted his sunglasses as he narrowed his eyes at Clancy, "Let go of me before I break free and make sure you never get off this island..." Shayton narrowed his eyes at Clancy and punctuated his point with...

"... Kid."

Shayton was unblinking as he stared at Clancy, preparing to take other measures.

"You-" the boy growled, his voice slightly intoning to a faint, uncanny resonance beneath the canvas that made up his costume.

Clearly, he’d touch a nerve. ”Not the first-” He'd seen a phone; firing out his other hand into Shayton’s suit-pocket to snatch it away, only to be met with the man’s cane being driven into the boy’s face, boosted by the Cheetah Spirit.

To the outside observer, Shayton had disappeared for just a second, then briefly reappeared several paces away; foreshadowed by a gust of wind rippling over their corner of the festival.

Discretion was done. Clancy doubled back, the cane now speared through one eye and out the back of his hood.

The boy’s head turned, the entire length of the metal-tipped cane pivoting with him - unstained by blood or viscera as one might've expected but still somewhere it didn't belong. Realising too late that the stolen phone in his hand was no more than a worthless lump of plastic, Clancy crushed it in his grasp, catching one last glance at his assailant.

“Hmph,” Shayton shook his head, before disappearing in another gust of wind before anyone had the chance to notice he was there - leaving behind a grisly sight for anyone caught up in the local weather phenomena.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@Punished GN
Halloween Festival - Kid's Section

---

"Funny," Clancy muttered at Shayton's comment about his 'parents', his gaze briefly flicking to the handset withdrawn from the latter's suit; unaware that it was indeed a dummy phone, "Is that another 'report' to your bosses?" He maintained his grip on the sleeve of "Uncle" Shayton's suit, but kept his voice low enough to avoid inviting anymore unwanted attention.

"Last time we spoke, you told me something: These days, everyone is a target. They don’t know it yet." Word for word, he repeated what Shayton had told him, the night of the brawl at the club.

"I remembered that, just like I'd guess you're not the kind of person I'd expect to see playing games with a bunch of Nazi assholes and some losers on bikes. I wasn't born yesterday." Ever so slightly, he tightened his grip as they walked past some half-drunken teen trying to impress their friends by recreating some retro tune on an ocarina. Clancy shook his head in a disapproving gesture.

"And I'm still old enough to know that people don't just appear with holes in their bodies, like your last boss did. Nice of you to let me take the fall for that with the G-Men." Clancy's expression was masked beneath the costume, but the tilting of his head and the creasing of the canvas gave some indication that the boy might've been offering a humourless grin.

"I still have questions, since you cut into that last conversation. Father Wolf. Dollhouse. Ashley Stone. You know enough. Who is coming after a bunch of washed up ex-high schoolers?" Those were the most firm queries he had.

"And your bosses, the real ones this time, what's their play in this? Because I'm sure you don't want that bit of information spreading around town, anymore than it may have gone already"

Clancy was skeptical he'd get answers, but it was a starting point,

"The sooner I have answers, the sooner you can go back to talking up women half your age and pretending you're safe. Or?" He felt at the dufflebag strapped to his back, subtly noting the outline ofnthe artifact within, "Your last boss and Nazi friends went with or."

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@FernStone@silvermist1116@Punished GN
Halloween Festival - Kid's Section

---

Hate group. Hate group? The words echoed in his mind, along with the second string.

White supremacists. Assholes, Clancy affirmed himself, and the realisation hit him. What?! He shook it off. He was no asshole like the bikers and their Nazi friends. One thing he did not suffer in his presence were bigoted assholes.

"I don't need help-"

A pang of... something irritated him, but he wasn't sure why. An old memory from a while ago, resurfaced, that he quickly pushed back as Lihn pulled out the 'spare' accessory which might've blunted the damaging effect of his costume.

"Cat ears," he echoed, the words joyless and almost disdainful, "Sure, why not?" That sarcastic edge, once again - but he took the ears without argument, slipping the headband atop his head and over the hood like a crown, so he looked like a perculiar caricature of a cat-ghost, or more accurately - a robed, white cat-boy, missing the tail in either case.

At the least, he could distance himself from the stupid assholes who wore robes and burned crosses on lawns, the blanks slowly filling in.

Stupid costume.

It was too late to seek alternatives now, in any case. He'd figure that out later, and began dwelling on another consideration.

Was he wasting his time here?

Remember what you...-

Noise in the background derailed his train of thought.A vaguely familiar voice, the accent distinct enough that it caught his attention.

"... drop on you...".

Turning away from Lihn, who at this point was probably moreso concerned about the uncharacteristic behaviour of someone she had known for thirty seconds, Clancy verified that the voice belonged to the man he suspected.

Shayton.

The suit, the white hair, and the distinctly foreign accent, only slightly dulled by time in this country. He was conversing with the other asian girl, the one who'd been watching a little boy.

"Prepared." Clancy muttered under the hood, observing the facial paint modeled after the cheetah.

Now or never.

A combination of restlessness, frustration, and persistence drove him to act. While Lihn tried to offer a helping hand, Clancy broke from their conversation without a word, pacing towards Shayton and his would-be associate, brazenly cutting into whatever conversation might've sprung up.

"-been looking for you everywhere, don't leave me like that ever again."

A robed hand clamped around the sleeve of the man's tailored suit, tightening just enough that pulling away would not be a viable option without tearing something up.

The intention was implicit.

"We've got tons of catching up to do, don't we, Uncle S?" There was little sarcasm and no bite to the statement. Only a cold determination masquerading as a poorly costumed child.

Recollections: Under The Sycamore Tree Part. 1

@FernStone@silvermist1116
Halloween Festival - Kid's Section

---

The rot in the air had pulled back, to the point he couldn't feel its proximity touching at him. Perhaps it was no coincidence that some of the raucous across the other side of the festival had died down a little, drowned out by the various speakers and other digital apparatus broadcasting their playlist of modern pop songs.

It was not to his taste, coming in as a watercolour of lighting, blended words and differing instruments, but he could admit that music was one of the few things he might still find relatable in this world, that he could still briefly find a level of inner-balance with when the right track came along.

It was how he'd centered himself, once - with the help of a walkman and the cassette left on a fallen oak tree, one tiny little moment of warmth and familiarity out in the wilderness some thousand miles back east. He wasn't sure why he was recalling that bit of personal history, until he realised someone was talking to him.

"You look a little lost.” A dull, buzzing noise in his ears, that had manifested as words. Clancy he ignored it for a moment, thoughts elsewhere. “Is somthing bothering you? Perhaps I can help.”

Clancy pivoted on the spot, ready to tell the next passer-by to mind their own business, fingers closing beneath the bleached canvas cowl that formed his garb. This time he pivoted, his eyes like dull, flinty chips of ice peering out through the holes he'd cut into the 'hood' of the costume. The passer-by in question, they - to be specific, she - was the asian woman dressed as a witch, or more specifically, the child's rendition of a witch, not dissimilar to those he'd seen when he was a little boy.

She was pointing at his outfit.

“I take it you're a sheet ghost? It looks a little, hmm, like something else. People might take it the wrong way. I’d recommend taking off the hood at least.”

For a moment, it dawned on him to tell the lady to mind her own business, or something else, but at the same moment something unusual had briefly touched against him that he couldn't parse. A strange, almost alien sensation. Warmth? Lihn's aura had touched at the guarded walls of his inner psyche, like warm oven gloves pressed against frozen metal - that was enough to give him some pause, even if she barely scratched the surface.

"No," he answered, "I'm actually just Pinnochio, can't you tell?" The dry edge of sarcasm was present in his tone, but only just - that momentary warmth sanding it down to a more rounded point. He hadn't caught on to her meaning, wondering if it was just some moral guardian trying to protect the children from the scary ghost costume while everyone else around them dressed like it was the monster mash.

"It's just a stupid costume, why do you care?"

It wasn't a challenge or an act of aggression, but a genuine question that had sprung to mind by her well-intentioned intrusion, only marginally underlined by the irritation he felt with people in general.