My uh, posts are a bit longer than they will be in the future I think. They're a bit bloated because I feel compelled to write down her first impressions and observations of others. Observing people, noting quirks and suspicious behavior, are kind of important to Trisha's character.
Ashgan
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The corner of her vision was peeled on Dorman-Smith β but it was Alex who reacted the most visibly to her introduction. Mouth slightly agape, but tried to cover it up. Couldβve sworn she lost some color too; hard to tell in the uncomfortable, fluorescent lamplight. A reaction of surprise. Shock? Perhaps a bad conscience. Probably no reason worth noting. Trisha figured that the girl maybe possessed and consumed Weed, possibly tried some harder stuff for kicks. Unlikely she was involved in any real crime. Herby, on the other hand, had some very real crimes on his conscience, but his face was unreadable. Figured.
Trisha was caught very much by surprise by the apparent popularity of McCoyβs little session. Just when she thought everybody had been accounted for, a throng of new people shuffled in, each apologizing for being late and citing some quickly-explained excuse.
The first of these was a certain Mr. Dreymund. A man she could only describe as being at odds with himself. His face and deliberate beard gave him an antiquated, but dignified appearance, befitting perhaps of an old gentleman from the colonial age. But his rain-soaked clothes were visibly dirty β more than dirty, they were muddy. The jacket had been on the floor outside. Something was awkward about his gait too. He hid it well, but he restricted movement of his torso very much, like somebody who felt pain if they moved in a wrong way. Suggestive of dull, not sharp, pain. Bludgeoning damage? Perhaps heβd been in a fight? Unlikely, judging by his appearance. Or, if he was, he lost. Badly. Man shouldβve called the police or gone to a hospital instead of coming here. Why didnβt he? He looked quite nervous too. Or maybe just distracted by something. Trisha couldnβt put her finger on it, but something was off about him. Perhaps she would ask him later what happened to him.
The second man was something else. He had criminal written all over him. Ghetto-style clothing, tattoos, an intimidating physique and a bad attitude β or, at least, the pretension thereof. She had seen guys before who looked tough but were gentle giants. Of course, sheβd seen those who were the real deal too. She wondered which of these Joe Toledano turned out to be. She eyed him cautiously, like an owl watches a fellow hunter pass by, until he was seated; right next to her. Coincidence or not? Had he noticed her unflinching gaze? Did he smell a cop? Or did he simply find her hot? Perhaps she read too much into it.
McCoy urged the newcomer to continue the introductory round right away. Surprisingly he complied without protest; cooperation was not a trait she thought him to have. Impressions could deceive, but not always. Admitting to a criminal past with the βcartelsβ β whichever ones he was referring to β he at least affirmed that he fit his stereotype. Looked like heβd seen enough though and wanted to pull out. Poor Joe; pulling out doesnβt undo your crimes. She wondered just what he was guilty of. At this point, he could have been anything, from a mere drug pusher to a murderer. Or worse. And Trisha figured he didnβt need those muscles to sell crack to a few kids. Joe bothered her, but she reminded herself that, no matter his crimes, he could never be as bad as him. And since he was the standard by which she measured evil, almost anyone could pass for a half decent person.
The rounded moved on to Alex Fusco, the only other female in the room. As her story went, her boyfriend went missing a while ago and she comforted herself with alcohol. It was exceedingly rare to find an alcoholic who was willing to admit to being one. Doubly so for young people. But if it was true β and Trisha had no reason to believe otherwise β then Alex should seek help now, and not from a pseudo-scientific group session like the one she was in. Of course, one detail still remained unexplained: why the distraught reaction to Trishaβs outing as a cop? She said her boyfriend went missing. If anything, she should be glad to meet a detective; theyβre the sort of people she needs right now. Why the opposite reaction? Feelings of guilt? Survivorβs guilt? Or something more sinister? Perhaps an unfortunate accident. At any rate, she hoped the police was on the case. Although if he went missing long enough ago that she had time to develop a dependency on alcohol, then Trisha did not rate his chances of being alive very highly. People donβt go missing for a few months only to turn up fine. She pitied the girl, and the boy whose life was most likely spent. They were both too young to go through something like this. She would lend the girl an ear if she needed it.
While Alex told her story, another person β again, slick with rain β entered the room with an apology. After a wordless welcome from McCoy, he found himself a seat next to Dreymund. He was difficult to read, and that was a good thing. There were enough troublemakers as it stood. He looked relatively average: reasonably well groomed, clothing that saw regular washing and was picked with a modicum of care for appearance. No obvious quirks, just a bit of exhaustion. Did he take the staircase? He was probably in a hurry not to be late. She wondered if the elevator wouldnβt have been quicker regardless. She had nothing to pin on him at the moment, but she knew that his looks deceived her. After all, he would not have been here if there wasnβt something that ate him up from the inside.
It was McCoyβs turn to speak up again; instead of letting the rest introduce themselves, he decided to change it up, going so far as to putting the dreaded word βgameβ in his mouth. Trisha inwardly cringed. If this turned out to become a circus, she would have no shame in leaving. She was an adult, a busy one at that. She had no time β or patience β for games.
βπΈ π πππ π’ππ ππ πππππ π’πππ ππ’ππ πnπ πππππ πππππ πππππππππ. πππππ about πππππ’πππππ ππππ πππ πππ π’ππ ππ ππππ ππππππ,β he began. Boy, oh, boy, doctor. Sheβd rather not. Of course, now that he prompted her, she could not stop herself from opening the lid on those dreadful memories. The girl in the playground was one of those that hurt the most. Arms tied around the supporting chains of a swing, body bent over it. Needless to speculate why she was in such a position. Broad daylight, children had been laughing in this place hours before. She wanted to plunge a knife into the manβs black, rotten heart. But how had nobody, neither child nor adult, noticed anything until after the fact? How had nobody stopped him? Hell, how did nobody even see the suspect at all? None of it made any god damn sense!
She clutched her fist; knuckles became white. Her face remained calm, a mask of stone. She had well trained restraint. What was the source of her will to go on? Hell if she could give it a name. A sense of justice? No, something rawer. Vengeance? The anger of a wolf mother?
No. But all of those played their part as well. There was something else she could not deny: she felt awful. Every single time she found a dead girl, she felt like she had personally failed the kid. Every other victim was only permitted because she had failed to catch him yet. Her dalliance was costing children β and their families β their lives and happiness. The Violator was incapable of feeling shame or guilt.
So Trisha felt it for him.
Melancholy had almost taken over enough of her senses to momentarily blind her to the world, but a peculiar smell brought her back and urged her to close the lid on that dark chasm. That was bad. He had probably intended for them to lose themselves in thought, while he had not only dimmed the lights, but ignited a bunch of candles she had neglected to notice. Careless! She felt like she deserved a slap in the face for being so inattentive. Bunch of colors, circular β or haphazard β arrangement. She did not like it, but not because of the occult connotation. It was the strange smells, incense most likely. Could be it was entirely harmless, or offensively smelling at best. But what if it wasnβt? What if there was some kind of deliriant that made the mind more pliable? Or an incapacitating agent? No, the latter was somewhat unlikely. After all, McCoy was not immune. Drugs were not out of the realm of possibility, however. She had to speak up.
βMr. McCoy, do you mind if I ask about the candles? Iβm not the incense type. Is this strictly necessary? And whatβs in them?β
In spite of her state of mild alarm, her voice was as calm as ever, even stoic. Her intense eyes found his own, even in the dim light; the dark could not hide him from her iron gaze.
Trisha was caught very much by surprise by the apparent popularity of McCoyβs little session. Just when she thought everybody had been accounted for, a throng of new people shuffled in, each apologizing for being late and citing some quickly-explained excuse.
The first of these was a certain Mr. Dreymund. A man she could only describe as being at odds with himself. His face and deliberate beard gave him an antiquated, but dignified appearance, befitting perhaps of an old gentleman from the colonial age. But his rain-soaked clothes were visibly dirty β more than dirty, they were muddy. The jacket had been on the floor outside. Something was awkward about his gait too. He hid it well, but he restricted movement of his torso very much, like somebody who felt pain if they moved in a wrong way. Suggestive of dull, not sharp, pain. Bludgeoning damage? Perhaps heβd been in a fight? Unlikely, judging by his appearance. Or, if he was, he lost. Badly. Man shouldβve called the police or gone to a hospital instead of coming here. Why didnβt he? He looked quite nervous too. Or maybe just distracted by something. Trisha couldnβt put her finger on it, but something was off about him. Perhaps she would ask him later what happened to him.
The second man was something else. He had criminal written all over him. Ghetto-style clothing, tattoos, an intimidating physique and a bad attitude β or, at least, the pretension thereof. She had seen guys before who looked tough but were gentle giants. Of course, sheβd seen those who were the real deal too. She wondered which of these Joe Toledano turned out to be. She eyed him cautiously, like an owl watches a fellow hunter pass by, until he was seated; right next to her. Coincidence or not? Had he noticed her unflinching gaze? Did he smell a cop? Or did he simply find her hot? Perhaps she read too much into it.
McCoy urged the newcomer to continue the introductory round right away. Surprisingly he complied without protest; cooperation was not a trait she thought him to have. Impressions could deceive, but not always. Admitting to a criminal past with the βcartelsβ β whichever ones he was referring to β he at least affirmed that he fit his stereotype. Looked like heβd seen enough though and wanted to pull out. Poor Joe; pulling out doesnβt undo your crimes. She wondered just what he was guilty of. At this point, he could have been anything, from a mere drug pusher to a murderer. Or worse. And Trisha figured he didnβt need those muscles to sell crack to a few kids. Joe bothered her, but she reminded herself that, no matter his crimes, he could never be as bad as him. And since he was the standard by which she measured evil, almost anyone could pass for a half decent person.
The rounded moved on to Alex Fusco, the only other female in the room. As her story went, her boyfriend went missing a while ago and she comforted herself with alcohol. It was exceedingly rare to find an alcoholic who was willing to admit to being one. Doubly so for young people. But if it was true β and Trisha had no reason to believe otherwise β then Alex should seek help now, and not from a pseudo-scientific group session like the one she was in. Of course, one detail still remained unexplained: why the distraught reaction to Trishaβs outing as a cop? She said her boyfriend went missing. If anything, she should be glad to meet a detective; theyβre the sort of people she needs right now. Why the opposite reaction? Feelings of guilt? Survivorβs guilt? Or something more sinister? Perhaps an unfortunate accident. At any rate, she hoped the police was on the case. Although if he went missing long enough ago that she had time to develop a dependency on alcohol, then Trisha did not rate his chances of being alive very highly. People donβt go missing for a few months only to turn up fine. She pitied the girl, and the boy whose life was most likely spent. They were both too young to go through something like this. She would lend the girl an ear if she needed it.
While Alex told her story, another person β again, slick with rain β entered the room with an apology. After a wordless welcome from McCoy, he found himself a seat next to Dreymund. He was difficult to read, and that was a good thing. There were enough troublemakers as it stood. He looked relatively average: reasonably well groomed, clothing that saw regular washing and was picked with a modicum of care for appearance. No obvious quirks, just a bit of exhaustion. Did he take the staircase? He was probably in a hurry not to be late. She wondered if the elevator wouldnβt have been quicker regardless. She had nothing to pin on him at the moment, but she knew that his looks deceived her. After all, he would not have been here if there wasnβt something that ate him up from the inside.
It was McCoyβs turn to speak up again; instead of letting the rest introduce themselves, he decided to change it up, going so far as to putting the dreaded word βgameβ in his mouth. Trisha inwardly cringed. If this turned out to become a circus, she would have no shame in leaving. She was an adult, a busy one at that. She had no time β or patience β for games.
βπΈ π πππ π’ππ ππ πππππ π’πππ ππ’ππ πnπ πππππ πππππ πππππππππ. πππππ about πππππ’πππππ ππππ πππ πππ π’ππ ππ ππππ ππππππ,β he began. Boy, oh, boy, doctor. Sheβd rather not. Of course, now that he prompted her, she could not stop herself from opening the lid on those dreadful memories. The girl in the playground was one of those that hurt the most. Arms tied around the supporting chains of a swing, body bent over it. Needless to speculate why she was in such a position. Broad daylight, children had been laughing in this place hours before. She wanted to plunge a knife into the manβs black, rotten heart. But how had nobody, neither child nor adult, noticed anything until after the fact? How had nobody stopped him? Hell, how did nobody even see the suspect at all? None of it made any god damn sense!
She clutched her fist; knuckles became white. Her face remained calm, a mask of stone. She had well trained restraint. What was the source of her will to go on? Hell if she could give it a name. A sense of justice? No, something rawer. Vengeance? The anger of a wolf mother?
No. But all of those played their part as well. There was something else she could not deny: she felt awful. Every single time she found a dead girl, she felt like she had personally failed the kid. Every other victim was only permitted because she had failed to catch him yet. Her dalliance was costing children β and their families β their lives and happiness. The Violator was incapable of feeling shame or guilt.
So Trisha felt it for him.
Melancholy had almost taken over enough of her senses to momentarily blind her to the world, but a peculiar smell brought her back and urged her to close the lid on that dark chasm. That was bad. He had probably intended for them to lose themselves in thought, while he had not only dimmed the lights, but ignited a bunch of candles she had neglected to notice. Careless! She felt like she deserved a slap in the face for being so inattentive. Bunch of colors, circular β or haphazard β arrangement. She did not like it, but not because of the occult connotation. It was the strange smells, incense most likely. Could be it was entirely harmless, or offensively smelling at best. But what if it wasnβt? What if there was some kind of deliriant that made the mind more pliable? Or an incapacitating agent? No, the latter was somewhat unlikely. After all, McCoy was not immune. Drugs were not out of the realm of possibility, however. She had to speak up.
βMr. McCoy, do you mind if I ask about the candles? Iβm not the incense type. Is this strictly necessary? And whatβs in them?β
In spite of her state of mild alarm, her voice was as calm as ever, even stoic. Her intense eyes found his own, even in the dim light; the dark could not hide him from her iron gaze.
I haven't quite established a detailed timeline of her life, but I'm putting her towards the end of her thirties.
@DJAtomika Older lady? ;'D She'd twist his neck if he said that out loud.
You have a point when it comes to video games, but I think the situation is a little different here - which is good for us. Unlike a game, which has to be coded in a static way and which cannot react to the player's wishes and choices in a dynamic way, the GM in this RP totally can. He's doing this because he has a story to tell us, and he knows we're not gonna do a new game+ either. I would imagine that the skill checks put in place are first and foremost for flavor and to make sure that every character has their moment to shine; not to lock us out of the most interesting story options.
At least, that's my interpretation of it, I haven't questioned Poet's decision to go with skill points so far. Fair question it is.
Edit: Ay, ninja'd. Well, there you go. I actually did not know this either. Good to know. xD
At least, that's my interpretation of it, I haven't questioned Poet's decision to go with skill points so far. Fair question it is.
Edit: Ay, ninja'd. Well, there you go. I actually did not know this either. Good to know. xD
In RPGs with point distribution you often have different point-values for different types of games. For example in Pathfinder, you have:
The point being that, the lower the values, the more underpowered the characters are. In horror games, lower power values tend to work in favor of the intent, that is, to put characters in peril and situations of failure - or fear of failure. With 25 points in this system, I guess the intent was to make sure that nobody can be even average in everything if they tried to be.
That said, from a power gaming perspective, I'm not yet sure if going for a balanced approach (even distribution) semi-focused approach (3 relatively high stats) or focused approach (2 very high stats) is the best. Time will tell :)
Ah, and it goes without saying: it's all about writing a fun story, not about beating the final boss. :D
- Low Fantasy: 10
- Standard Fantasy: 15
- High Fantasy: 20
- Epic Fantasy: 25
The point being that, the lower the values, the more underpowered the characters are. In horror games, lower power values tend to work in favor of the intent, that is, to put characters in peril and situations of failure - or fear of failure. With 25 points in this system, I guess the intent was to make sure that nobody can be even average in everything if they tried to be.
That said, from a power gaming perspective, I'm not yet sure if going for a balanced approach (even distribution) semi-focused approach (3 relatively high stats) or focused approach (2 very high stats) is the best. Time will tell :)
Ah, and it goes without saying: it's all about writing a fun story, not about beating the final boss. :D
Cool, he's a nice addition to the group that contrasts well with the other personalities and stories. Dangerous guy though, not sure how trustworthy he can be. :D
This show really was for all genders and ages, wasnβt it? Trisha thought, watching John shuffle into the room. Not quite as elderly as the good doctor, perhaps, though not far away either. At least in his sixties. Expensive suit, no obvious signs of wear; must be new or almost. Clearly heβs got money. Good for him. Something wrong with the way he sat down β yes, the way he supported himself. Awkward right hand, reduced mobility. Crippled? Awkward facial expression too, now that she thought about it. Maybe he feels like heβs in the wrong place. That she could understand. Interesting man, more to him than meets the eye.
Trisha eyed John as discretely as she could, pretending to be more focused on the doctor. It was only a moment before this one revealed the newcomerβs name: Dorman-Smith. That sent a lot of alarm bells going off in her head. The name carried weight and a lot of connotation. She was never personally involved in any investigation pertaining to the man or his family, but she was aware that he almost certainly had dirt on him. How much, and what kind, she did not know. Hopefully nothing worse than tax evasion or money laundering. Not that those things were right, but at leastβ¦ at least they werenβt what she had to deal with. But how strange; their good doctor McCoy had enough of a reputation to attract not only average Janes like herself and the platinum-haired girl, but apparently Wall Street came to visit too. Things were getting more interesting by the minute. Maybe later tonight she would jot down some notes on each character she would meet at these sessions.
Take it away, doctor, she thought to herself and keenly eyed him as he began to talk about, essentially, paranormal events. Typical fodder for conspiracy theories and nut jobs: ghosts, demons, aliens, the whole shebang. At least he was political in his choice of words, never implying that any of these things were real β or that he believed that they were real β but nonetheless leaving some room for personal interpretation and belief. As expected, he was a talker. Years of experience must have made him a master at twisting words just the right way. But words are not the only vector of communication. She could tell he was holding back. Not lying, but clearly he would have gone on at greater length if he were talking to somebody he could trust not to laugh at his wilder theories. Perhaps he really did think aliens were probing us. No, donβt focus on the aliens. The symbol on the whiteboard? Smelled occult. Demons, then? Perhaps he wasnβt quite the good Christian he was raised to be. Or perhaps too much. Didnβt make him a criminal, but it did set him up for harboring dangerous, risk-associated beliefs.
Something was wrong with his gaze also: he was not looking at any one of them and that was highly unusual. Most people, when addressing a group, would alternate between looking at various members of their audience at roughly equal intervals, to make sure nobody felt left out and to keep the group engaged. He, however, stared at something behind her. She could not turn around β it would be too obvious β but she took note and would look what was there on her way out. If only sheβd paid more attention to the room when she came in, she could have recalled right away. Sloppy work; must be the fatigue.
Trisha did not make much of his coughing bout. She had seen enough smokers suffering from similar symptoms to believe him. The napkin box was almost empty, though; hopefully he did not have a second fit. That could get messy, she thought, looking at the blood stains on some of the discarded tissues. He brushed the event off with an attempt at humor, although both he and Trisha knew that the situation was not funny for either of them.
And then the moment came where he asked his βpatientsβ, she guessed the term was, to share their stories. How dreadful. Neither of the other two seemed particularly forthcoming either and slowly but surely she felt the awkward tension of silence build up. She wanted to sigh but did not. As much as she did not want to do this, somebody had to start talking, and she would assume the role of a mature adult by doing just that. Old man was probably still catching his breath, and it was unfair to put the burden on a child.
Trisha cleared her throat to garner some attention and began: βMy name is Trisha Hayes. Iβm in my late thirties and I work as a police detective.β Technically, that was a lie; she lost her job, although in a way she still did exactly that. Better to put it this way than to admit that she was squatting at a friendβs, unemployed, and stalking a killer in her free time. If mama could see her nowβ¦
βIβm working on a very difficult case, and have been for a long time now. Iβll admit that itβs stressful. I guess thatβs why Iβm here.β
She spoke in as neutral a tone of voice as she could, doing her best to mask any feelings or thoughts. It was almost as if she was reading something off of a note. While speaking, she made sure to keep an eye on John Dorman-Smith, gauging his reaction when she dropped the word detective.
Trisha eyed John as discretely as she could, pretending to be more focused on the doctor. It was only a moment before this one revealed the newcomerβs name: Dorman-Smith. That sent a lot of alarm bells going off in her head. The name carried weight and a lot of connotation. She was never personally involved in any investigation pertaining to the man or his family, but she was aware that he almost certainly had dirt on him. How much, and what kind, she did not know. Hopefully nothing worse than tax evasion or money laundering. Not that those things were right, but at leastβ¦ at least they werenβt what she had to deal with. But how strange; their good doctor McCoy had enough of a reputation to attract not only average Janes like herself and the platinum-haired girl, but apparently Wall Street came to visit too. Things were getting more interesting by the minute. Maybe later tonight she would jot down some notes on each character she would meet at these sessions.
Take it away, doctor, she thought to herself and keenly eyed him as he began to talk about, essentially, paranormal events. Typical fodder for conspiracy theories and nut jobs: ghosts, demons, aliens, the whole shebang. At least he was political in his choice of words, never implying that any of these things were real β or that he believed that they were real β but nonetheless leaving some room for personal interpretation and belief. As expected, he was a talker. Years of experience must have made him a master at twisting words just the right way. But words are not the only vector of communication. She could tell he was holding back. Not lying, but clearly he would have gone on at greater length if he were talking to somebody he could trust not to laugh at his wilder theories. Perhaps he really did think aliens were probing us. No, donβt focus on the aliens. The symbol on the whiteboard? Smelled occult. Demons, then? Perhaps he wasnβt quite the good Christian he was raised to be. Or perhaps too much. Didnβt make him a criminal, but it did set him up for harboring dangerous, risk-associated beliefs.
Something was wrong with his gaze also: he was not looking at any one of them and that was highly unusual. Most people, when addressing a group, would alternate between looking at various members of their audience at roughly equal intervals, to make sure nobody felt left out and to keep the group engaged. He, however, stared at something behind her. She could not turn around β it would be too obvious β but she took note and would look what was there on her way out. If only sheβd paid more attention to the room when she came in, she could have recalled right away. Sloppy work; must be the fatigue.
Trisha did not make much of his coughing bout. She had seen enough smokers suffering from similar symptoms to believe him. The napkin box was almost empty, though; hopefully he did not have a second fit. That could get messy, she thought, looking at the blood stains on some of the discarded tissues. He brushed the event off with an attempt at humor, although both he and Trisha knew that the situation was not funny for either of them.
And then the moment came where he asked his βpatientsβ, she guessed the term was, to share their stories. How dreadful. Neither of the other two seemed particularly forthcoming either and slowly but surely she felt the awkward tension of silence build up. She wanted to sigh but did not. As much as she did not want to do this, somebody had to start talking, and she would assume the role of a mature adult by doing just that. Old man was probably still catching his breath, and it was unfair to put the burden on a child.
Trisha cleared her throat to garner some attention and began: βMy name is Trisha Hayes. Iβm in my late thirties and I work as a police detective.β Technically, that was a lie; she lost her job, although in a way she still did exactly that. Better to put it this way than to admit that she was squatting at a friendβs, unemployed, and stalking a killer in her free time. If mama could see her nowβ¦
βIβm working on a very difficult case, and have been for a long time now. Iβll admit that itβs stressful. I guess thatβs why Iβm here.β
She spoke in as neutral a tone of voice as she could, doing her best to mask any feelings or thoughts. It was almost as if she was reading something off of a note. While speaking, she made sure to keep an eye on John Dorman-Smith, gauging his reaction when she dropped the word detective.
Perception is always god-tier in RPGs :D
So, question to the players: Do you think any of your characters are particularly likely to be the first to start talking? I figure, if everybody is hesitating, I will have Trisha take the lead, but she's not exactly enthusiastic and so would definitely give everyone a fair moment to take heart and start instead.
So, question to the players: Do you think any of your characters are particularly likely to be the first to start talking? I figure, if everybody is hesitating, I will have Trisha take the lead, but she's not exactly enthusiastic and so would definitely give everyone a fair moment to take heart and start instead.
The searing hot engine grumbled and shook like a wild beast barely containing its primal anger. The bikeβs driver, keeping the vehicle on standstill with one foot on the pavement, glanced to her right, scanning the house numbers to make sure she was in the right place. Satisfied that she was, but shaking her head with disapproval, she killed the engine with a twist of the key. Just like that, the furious growling died and only the sound of rain spattering against the hard exterior of her helmet remained. She dismounted and disabled the vehicleβs front wheel with a disc lock that she produced from a small bag on the rear of the seat. Imperfect security, but it was better than nothing; either way she hadnβt planned on being gone for too long.
Removing her helmet, she left the bike behind and leisurely followed the sidewalk. It was evening β long, wet shadows crawled across the street, pushed back only by the fluorescent light of lamp posts. No pedestrians in sight; some women would feel rightly afraid of being alone in such a place, but not her. She had grown accustomed to walking in dangerous places on her lonesome long ago. Whether it was bravery or foolishness, she could not say.
Trisha entered the door code and, after waiting for a few moments, pushed open the door when a buzz signaled the release of the locks. She stood in the lobby for a while, letting the door shut behind her, and took in the sight with distrustful eyes, as the rain dripped off of her black leather coat. One could still hear the downpour outside battering against the building, muffled but immutable. The absence of a receptionist β even just the janitor β bothered her. When she cocked her ear to listen, she could hear no sound coming from anywhere besides the rain. It was altogether too quiet. Frowning, she approached the elevator and the adjoining information board. Every step of her solid outdoors-boots echoed across the empty room. The sound unsettled her. She preferred being quiet when possible. Scanning the board quickly, with eyes trained through the analyzing of lengthy documents for years, she spotted her mark: the psychiatric office on the sixth floor. She scoffed. Is this what she has come to now? Does she really need a shrink to deal with her life? No, she reminded herself. Sheβs doing this for Abigail. And only for her.
Taking a mental note of the other noticed posted on the board, she called the elevator and rode it to the sixth floor. Inside the elevator was a mirror where she could catch a glance at the presentation she would make. Wet, black hair tied in a bun. Dull grey eyes framed by a dark coloration β mascara at a first glance, though in truth just the mark left by exhaustion. No lipstick or other make-up. She wasnβt that kind of woman. Not anymore. A knee-length leather coat and thick leather pants protected her not only on her bike, but would also prove useful in a scuffle. She had tested knife cuts against them.
The door opened, accompanied by the ring of a bell. Before leaving, she looked ahead into the corridor. Seeing it was empty, she stepped out and looked to the left and right as well. Nothing. Ahead, an open door permitted light to shine into the otherwise dim hallway. Must be it, she thought. Slowly she headed for the light, this time taking care to step softly. The whiteboard next to the entrance caught her eye and, compelled by her detective nature, she tried to read not only the things written on it now, but the things erased and barely visible. Nothing too interesting, until she saw it β a faded glyph in the upper right corner. She did not recognize it, but she has seen things like it in the past. The Violator often left occult symbols at the scenes of his crimes. It was enough to bring it all back.
Mothers devastated. Children mutilated. Bound bodies, their faces contorted with unspeakable pain. DNA traces. Autopsies.
They had him by the balls so many times. Cornered him in a hotel once, all exits blocked. She even caught a glimpse of him as he rushed into another room, closing the door behind him. But then they breached the room and it was empty. No other exits. The man just vanished without a trace. Fucking magician.
Trisha closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Breathe in, breathe out. She suddenly felt very drained. Every heartbeat felt like a laborious, conscious effort. Fumbling on the inside of her coat, she produced a packet of pills. Without second thoughts, she swallowed one and put the rest back where they came. Breathe in, breathe out. Her eyelids felt so heavy.
Again she focused on the symbol on the whiteboard. There was no way this was just some kidβs doodle β too unusual a place, and too high to reach. Somebody deliberately put this there once, and they knew what it meant. It was an omen she would have to take seriously. But at least, she thought, there was now a good reason to go to this therapy after all. Perhaps she could implicate the doctor with the Violatorβs crimes. Perhaps he had a clue. She put her hand over her coat, across where her left-side ribs would be, and felt the comforting contour of her gun underneath. If push came to shove, she always had this.
Waiting for a few moments for the caffeine tablet to kick in, she eventually took heart and stepped from the shadow into the light. A dozen chairs arranged in a circle β she really was in the loony bin now. She had to swallow her pride and submit to this, she reminded herself. It was for a good reason. For Abigail and, as it turned out, perhaps for herself. She just had to stay sharp and make sure that nobody else caught on to the fact that she was ready to pounce.
βEvening,β she muttered, βShrink therapy, correct?β
She took a seat that was equally distant from her two nearest neighbors β a considerable distance, as there were very few attendees. Shortly afterwards, the doctor began his opening speech. Lovely, she thought. Rehabilitation? He made it sound as if she was still on probation, with one foot in the madhouse. He did not even offer a cure of any kind. Just talk. Well, talk was cheap. It was exactly what she had expected: a waste of time.
While McCoy spoke, she took the time to assess his profile and that of the others in the room with her. McCoy looked to be a man in his sixties or seventies, superficially benevolent and friendly. But everybody knows psychiatrists choose their job first because they want to understand the madness within before they want to understand the madness without. Trisha had no doubt that his friendliness was a well-trained act. She knew how to do it too. Besides, it would take someone truly strange to become one of the only psychiatrists in their field to specialize in, what the information board below called, βobscure eventsβ. Obscure sounded about right, at least. The Violator was no normal human being. The disappearances, the occult nature of his crimes, none of it was normal. Obscure, like that symbol by the door, isnβt that right, old man?
Besides herself, there was a younger girl in the session, perhaps in her teens or early twenties. Trisha could not fathom what she could be doing here. Superficially she was quite ordinary, perhaps a bit on the nerdy side with those thick glasses of hers. Hard to say if they were a style choice or if she really did need glasses. Maybe she was here out of curiosity. Or maybe she was really good at not showing outward signs of distress. Well, what did it matter to her, anyway? The girl was not involved in her case, she had to remind herself. Not yet.
Trisha crossed her legs and leaned back, taking note that the chairs, at least, were quite comfortable. For now, she let other people talk; she had never been the best talker, her talent was with observation. Even when she was interrogating suspects, she ultimately based her assessments less on the exchange of words and more on the suspectβs body language and reactions. Besides, she was none too eager to tell a bunch of unrelated strangers about the worst criminal in Americaβs tragic history.
Removing her helmet, she left the bike behind and leisurely followed the sidewalk. It was evening β long, wet shadows crawled across the street, pushed back only by the fluorescent light of lamp posts. No pedestrians in sight; some women would feel rightly afraid of being alone in such a place, but not her. She had grown accustomed to walking in dangerous places on her lonesome long ago. Whether it was bravery or foolishness, she could not say.
Trisha entered the door code and, after waiting for a few moments, pushed open the door when a buzz signaled the release of the locks. She stood in the lobby for a while, letting the door shut behind her, and took in the sight with distrustful eyes, as the rain dripped off of her black leather coat. One could still hear the downpour outside battering against the building, muffled but immutable. The absence of a receptionist β even just the janitor β bothered her. When she cocked her ear to listen, she could hear no sound coming from anywhere besides the rain. It was altogether too quiet. Frowning, she approached the elevator and the adjoining information board. Every step of her solid outdoors-boots echoed across the empty room. The sound unsettled her. She preferred being quiet when possible. Scanning the board quickly, with eyes trained through the analyzing of lengthy documents for years, she spotted her mark: the psychiatric office on the sixth floor. She scoffed. Is this what she has come to now? Does she really need a shrink to deal with her life? No, she reminded herself. Sheβs doing this for Abigail. And only for her.
Taking a mental note of the other noticed posted on the board, she called the elevator and rode it to the sixth floor. Inside the elevator was a mirror where she could catch a glance at the presentation she would make. Wet, black hair tied in a bun. Dull grey eyes framed by a dark coloration β mascara at a first glance, though in truth just the mark left by exhaustion. No lipstick or other make-up. She wasnβt that kind of woman. Not anymore. A knee-length leather coat and thick leather pants protected her not only on her bike, but would also prove useful in a scuffle. She had tested knife cuts against them.
The door opened, accompanied by the ring of a bell. Before leaving, she looked ahead into the corridor. Seeing it was empty, she stepped out and looked to the left and right as well. Nothing. Ahead, an open door permitted light to shine into the otherwise dim hallway. Must be it, she thought. Slowly she headed for the light, this time taking care to step softly. The whiteboard next to the entrance caught her eye and, compelled by her detective nature, she tried to read not only the things written on it now, but the things erased and barely visible. Nothing too interesting, until she saw it β a faded glyph in the upper right corner. She did not recognize it, but she has seen things like it in the past. The Violator often left occult symbols at the scenes of his crimes. It was enough to bring it all back.
Mothers devastated. Children mutilated. Bound bodies, their faces contorted with unspeakable pain. DNA traces. Autopsies.
They had him by the balls so many times. Cornered him in a hotel once, all exits blocked. She even caught a glimpse of him as he rushed into another room, closing the door behind him. But then they breached the room and it was empty. No other exits. The man just vanished without a trace. Fucking magician.
Trisha closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Breathe in, breathe out. She suddenly felt very drained. Every heartbeat felt like a laborious, conscious effort. Fumbling on the inside of her coat, she produced a packet of pills. Without second thoughts, she swallowed one and put the rest back where they came. Breathe in, breathe out. Her eyelids felt so heavy.
Again she focused on the symbol on the whiteboard. There was no way this was just some kidβs doodle β too unusual a place, and too high to reach. Somebody deliberately put this there once, and they knew what it meant. It was an omen she would have to take seriously. But at least, she thought, there was now a good reason to go to this therapy after all. Perhaps she could implicate the doctor with the Violatorβs crimes. Perhaps he had a clue. She put her hand over her coat, across where her left-side ribs would be, and felt the comforting contour of her gun underneath. If push came to shove, she always had this.
Waiting for a few moments for the caffeine tablet to kick in, she eventually took heart and stepped from the shadow into the light. A dozen chairs arranged in a circle β she really was in the loony bin now. She had to swallow her pride and submit to this, she reminded herself. It was for a good reason. For Abigail and, as it turned out, perhaps for herself. She just had to stay sharp and make sure that nobody else caught on to the fact that she was ready to pounce.
βEvening,β she muttered, βShrink therapy, correct?β
She took a seat that was equally distant from her two nearest neighbors β a considerable distance, as there were very few attendees. Shortly afterwards, the doctor began his opening speech. Lovely, she thought. Rehabilitation? He made it sound as if she was still on probation, with one foot in the madhouse. He did not even offer a cure of any kind. Just talk. Well, talk was cheap. It was exactly what she had expected: a waste of time.
While McCoy spoke, she took the time to assess his profile and that of the others in the room with her. McCoy looked to be a man in his sixties or seventies, superficially benevolent and friendly. But everybody knows psychiatrists choose their job first because they want to understand the madness within before they want to understand the madness without. Trisha had no doubt that his friendliness was a well-trained act. She knew how to do it too. Besides, it would take someone truly strange to become one of the only psychiatrists in their field to specialize in, what the information board below called, βobscure eventsβ. Obscure sounded about right, at least. The Violator was no normal human being. The disappearances, the occult nature of his crimes, none of it was normal. Obscure, like that symbol by the door, isnβt that right, old man?
Besides herself, there was a younger girl in the session, perhaps in her teens or early twenties. Trisha could not fathom what she could be doing here. Superficially she was quite ordinary, perhaps a bit on the nerdy side with those thick glasses of hers. Hard to say if they were a style choice or if she really did need glasses. Maybe she was here out of curiosity. Or maybe she was really good at not showing outward signs of distress. Well, what did it matter to her, anyway? The girl was not involved in her case, she had to remind herself. Not yet.
Trisha crossed her legs and leaned back, taking note that the chairs, at least, were quite comfortable. For now, she let other people talk; she had never been the best talker, her talent was with observation. Even when she was interrogating suspects, she ultimately based her assessments less on the exchange of words and more on the suspectβs body language and reactions. Besides, she was none too eager to tell a bunch of unrelated strangers about the worst criminal in Americaβs tragic history.
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