DJAtomika

R E D U X .// 2047 //.

23/05/2047, 2:04 AM
Alberquerque, New Mexico

Alex and Shirley had no idea what was coming. But then again, they were, themselves, preoccupied with the secrets of the bunker they were exploring. Unravelling the layers of enchantments and spells that their dead friend had placed upon his hidey hole out in the middle of the New Mexico desert, the Mackey siblings and agent Addison were searching high and low for something. Anything. The front door had led them down a confusing magical path that had held up to Alex's prodding and Shirley's light, and currently they were at an impasse; with Shirley one staircase above their position, Alex and Addison were deciding between a simple fork in the path, unsure of which one to take.

Just as Alex opened his mouth, ready with his decision to move right, an alert sprung into his augmented vision, superimposed against the darkness. It was a bright red triangle with a white exclamation point within it, followed by a simple message.

"SYSTEM INTRUSION DETECTED."

Before Alex could protest or get an order in, the text vanished, replaced by another message

"MISSILE EN ROUTE. BIG MISSILE. 10 SECONDS. FIND COVER AND BRACE."

"Shit- Shirl get down here now!"

Unbidden, his sister was already by his side, having received the same message on her own augmented optics. Wordlessly, Alex gathered Addison and Shirley in his arms, put his back to the stairs they'd come down from, braced himself and waited.

White hot force followed immediately after. Much more than what Alex could withstand. The walking tank stumbled a few steps forward from the initial shock wave and then was sent head over heels by the ensuing wall of super-heated air and flame that rolled through immediately after; the floor he braced himself on being torn to pieces by the blast. Had his footing been more firm, he would have withstood the blast. But instead, with the two women wrapped tightly in his arms, the trio crashed and tumbled down the tunnel, engulfed in an inferno that seemed to last forever, before briefly losing consciousness.

Moments stretched into minutes. Hours maybe. But it felt like the ass end of forever when Alex awoke. The first thing he felt were his systems rebooting after the hard crash that had followed him being knocked out by the missile blast, followed by a rapidly cooling heat and pain in just about every part of his body. Alex waited a moment as he let his cybernetics and nanites restart themselves, taking in his surroundings instead. He was buried under a pile of rubble; concrete, some steel reinforcements, stone and sand. There were a myriad of sounds around him; flames flickering somewhere, pieces of rubble falling from the ceiling and the sound of someone groaning. A lady.

"...Shirley."

Alex wasted no time in pushing himself up off the floor. The visage would've terrified lesser men; a hulk, more machine than man, skin rippling like liquid metal, emerging from being buried by rocks and concrete as if he had been resurrected by God himself. His trench coat was ruined; pieces of fabric drifted from his shoulders to settle on the ground amidst ashes. His hat was gone, as was most of his shirt and cargo pants. The rubber soles of his boots were melted and they were just about ruined as footwear could be. But the one image that hadn't left at all was the Union Jack, still displayed loud and proud on his chest. The walking tank quickly located the source of the noise that had woken him and found Shirley's arm, poking out of another pile of rubble. Her hand was aglow with a faint blue light that stood out from the dark oranges and yellows of the ruins.

"Shirley!"

He rushed over to where his sister was, quickly pulling bigger pieces of rubble from atop the mound she was buried under to free her from her prison. A few moments later, Shirley broke free from her own burial site, coughing loudly as she cleared rocks and dirt from around her, assisted by her brother. Her attire was similarly shredded, but to a lesser degree than her twin brother, thanks in part to the cybernetics she had. At least they mostly stayed intact around her more private areas. As she caught her breath and extricated herself from her rocky prison, Alex was already on the move. His enhanced optics scanned the area, attempting to locate their other companion. But, in stark, grim contrast to Shirley's mostly uninjured state...

Alex pulled a large piece of concrete away from where he'd found Addison Reynolds using the x-ray option in his optics. The special agent was barely breathing, and the cause was apparent: unlike the Mackey siblings, whose second skin of nanites was hardened against physical damage, Addison was only human. A roaring inferno that had barely harmed the twins had severely burned agent Addison's body, not beyond saving but without medical aid close at hand, it was clear that she was not long for this world. As Alex knelt to check if she was still alive, a ragged cough escaped her lungs as the agent weakly lifted a hand to grab what was left of his collar. He leaned down close, understanding the gesture, his ear next to her burned, cracked lips as she whispered to him.

"...find...Hex's...killer...avenge...him..."

Alex closed his eyes as he felt her last breath kiss his ear and then vanish into the hot air. A shudder passed through his shoulders as his sister placed a hand atop them, a few tears rolling down her ash-stained cheeks.

"...she didn't deserve this, Shirl."

"I know. We didn't even know. Had no time."

"Aye...still felt like I could've done something more."

"You did all you could. We did. The least we can do is honour her dying wish, Alex."

The siblings were silent, for a time. Nothing but the flicker of dying flames and the soft patter of pebbles on concrete. Then a harsh vibration cut through the somber silence. Alex patted his belt where the pager agent Reynolds had given him was, still clipped to the front of his cargo pants, protected from the fires that had raged only moments earlier. One simple message was displayed on its small monitor:

WHO'S LEFT

Alex rose from where he was knelt by Addison's body, pager in hand. With fingers still charred by flame, he typed in a reply that he sent to everyone else. Then he sighed and reached down, gathering the fallen agent's body into his arms, before turning to find their way out of the ruined bunker.

TOWER+BEACON ALIVE. ADDISON KIA.

Fallout: Cascadia

Damn, so many roleplayers I know in this thread.

I may not be applying for a spot, but I'm definitely gonna be reading this one.

Fallout: Cascadia

Well. Good to see you again Hex.

Since there seems to be a lot of people already, I'll watch this topic for now. I always enjoyed reading your roleplays.

Long Beach, A City In Need

We gonna continue this?

Recollections: The Fourth Seal [Mystery/Urban-Fantasy/Horror RP]

╚══════════════╝

Five Springs Church, Central Araminta

---

As Sawyer entered the church and the others followed him, he saw a mousy young lady standing ahead of the group and stopped. His first instinct was to raise his camera to take a photo, which he did; framed expertly against the backdrop of old, rotten pews, cold, moss-covered walls and the light rays streaming in from gaps in the ceiling of the abandoned church. A picture to remember. Then he chuckled as he grinned and rubbed the back of his head rather sheepishly, letting his camera fall back onto his chest. As the young lady explained that her name was Brianna, he blurted out his apology.

"Sorry. Force of habit. You're the one that called us here, eh?"

Sawyer took a back seat as the others asked questions and made idle banter; some not believing the situation they were in, others taking it with a grain of salt, generous in their belief but skeptical of her intentions. Then there was mention of a Witch. A mythical being, although grounded in reality the subject of many 90s young adult novels and fiction. Stuff he'd read about, growing up in such a religious town like Araminta, as the product of the devil's influence in the writers of today. Blasphemous. Sinful. And yet, standing in that abandoned church as a writer himself, Sawyer saw the irony in the situation. Not very deeply religious himself, but here he was, investigating something that railed against every religious bone in his body, of which there were few. Mostly overruled by those of curiosity and concern for the wellbeing of his fellow man. He was here to investigate and to follow this story to its logical, or even illogical conclusion.

So even as some of the group were inclined to disagree with Brianna being able to help them, Sawyer shook his head and chuckled, mostly to himself.

"I uh, I'm not sure what the game is here, but y'know me. I'm always hungry for a new story to write. Consider me-"

And then the noises came. A loud thumping on the closed church doors that rocked them in their hinges, dislodging dust and dirt from the frame as a loud growl issues from the other side, muffled by wood and stone. It startled David out of his mood, and he followed the noise as he backed away from the door, watching where that big something-or-other was thumping its way up the front of the church, up onto the roof. Then it came crashing down on top of them, lost within a flurry of dust and loose stones and ceiling tiles. David leaped out of the way, hugging his satchel and camera to his chest as he tumbled away from the chaos of the roof caving in. He was behind Amanda, the police officer, as she pulled her personal firearm from its holster and pointed it at the spreading cloud of thick dust, but only heard that same loud growling. The journalist couldn't resist the opportunity and raised his camera to take a picture, framing Amanda against the backdrop of dust, her gun pointed at the uncertainty of the monster within the cloud of dust.

But after that, he turned off his camera, held his things close to his chest and scrambled backwards, letting his survival instincts take over as he tried to put as much distance between himself and...whatever that thing was.

Long Beach, A City In Need

Hope everyone's had happy holidays! Late Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all!

Recollections: The Fourth Seal [Mystery/Urban-Fantasy/Horror RP]

╚══════════════╝

---

David's apartment, Downtown Araminta. January 3rd, 6:02 AM

---

The beeping of an alarm clock heralded the start of another morning. David's sleep-addled hand scrambled for the yowling clock and turned the alarm off, before rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he rose.

The man's morning routine wasn't simple; thirty push-ups, forty push-ups and a two mile run from his apartment to Williams River and back again. All done to wake up his body and get the blood pumping. A warm shower to relax. Then a simple but hearty breakfast of toast, eggs and coffee as he read the morning papers. Ironic for a journalist to read the very same paper he wrote for, but his reason was that he rarely, if ever, knew what his colleagues wrote for their columns. Work in the office was mostly segregated by column, even though they worked in a big shared space, so even though he knew everybody in the paper by heart, he rarely knew what they wrote. Such was the case today; his friend Eric Thorn was in charge of the headliner for today's copy, a gripping two page story about the mayor's latest bid to urge the populace to report any suspicious behaviour to the police, in the wake of yet another killing believed to be related to the Horde. The paper was making a killing on the serial killer story, but inwardly David always wondered when the buzz would die down. After he'd finished eating, it was time to get dressed for work.

The only thing that interrupted his routine today was the buzzing of his mobile phone during his breakfast. Normally, he didn't check anything on the device until after he was done eating, but today was an exception. The number that buzzed him...well it didn't seem to even have a number, just a text message that appeared on the screen. As David read the message, a familiar feeling welled in his chest, equal parts curiosity and dread. The old church? What did that place have to do with anything? And something about Ghosts? In all his years of seeing strange things as a photographer and journalist, this was by far the strangest. But a promise(?) was a promise(?) and so David went on with the rest of his routine and went to work like nothing had ever happened.

However, his nagging curiosity got the better of him. He had a plan that would both cover his ass and hopefully land him a new story to publish the next week. Near to lunch, David finished proofreading the writing he'd done on a smaller column for the January 7th issue of the paper and closed up his laptop, packing up his things to leave. Eric stopped him with a hand on his shoulder as he stood from his chair.

"Hey David, goin' somewhere?"

David smiled and shrugged.

"Yeah. For lunch. What's up?"

"You got that look about you that says you're about to go do something and not tell anyone."

"Yeah well-" He sighed, shook his head and grinned, running a hand through his hair. "It's complicated, Eric. Long story short, I'm following a lead after lunch. I might not be able to come back to the office after."

Eric raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "One of those hush-hush things eh? This gonna be a front-page scoop or what?"

"I don't know. Only way to find out is if I follow up on it."

"Fair enough I guess. Got anything else that needs doing?"
"Nah. Just let the kids continue working on our website. I'll be back tomorrow to finish proofreading your piece and you can maybe get the guy we're interviewing for the page 5 going up on the sixth to come in tomorrow too?"

"You got it pal. Have fun doing...whatever the hell you're going out to do."

---

Five Springs Church, Central Araminta. January 3rd, 12:32 PM.

---

David pulled up to the church on his faded blue scooter, his signature camera hanging loosely from his neck and his brown leather satchel on his back, all very iconic things about the veteran photographer. There were already a few cars present at the place, parked in the church's old parking lot. The building was ancient, before his time, but he'd covered it for a historical piece in the papers a few years ago. The old dirt path leading up to the front of the church was still there, as was the rusting chain link fence demarcating the area. He'd taken many photos of the grounds and the building, both inside and out, and as he trudged up the worn path, a few familiar faces came into view.

David wasn't sure where he'd seen Officer Amanda Blackmore before, only her face and her name were prominent. He couldn't place if it had been at one of the first Horde killings or the massive pile-up on Main Street, but he vaguely knew her, if not personally then just by recognition alone. Probably had taken a picture or two of her on duty and then the picture had ended up as a page 3 or a page 4 report. Maybe. He couldn't be too sure. Jaden, Clara and Tristan were complete strangers, although there was something about Tristan, a familiar ring to his worn, young features that struck David with a sense of familiarity. One of the Horde killings? Was he related to one of the victims? There'd been so many in the last few weeks that he just couldn't keep track. Jaden and Clara as well, although it was their faces, not their names, that lingered in the back of Sawyer's memory.

Sawyer knew Astraea more by reputation than actually meeting her. One of Araminta's few poets and writers, he'd stumbled upon her work while looking for something that he could feasibly call 'Araminta's Art Scene'. And while Astraea's work wasn't, how d'you put it, conservative, her work stood out to him as a cry for creativity in a city stifled of such promising works. The piece he'd written about her had shed positive light on her work while not overtly calling out why some of the citizens didn't like her, instead he'd woven a story about needing to have understanding and tolerance in their community.

However, it was the last face that gave him pause. Archie Malcom Anderson. Local businessman, one of the city's few mechanics and a recent widow. A few months before the Horde's first victim, David had covered the tragic car accident that had claimed the lives of Archie's wife and daughter. The man who'd struck his vehicle had been arrested on DUI and two counts of involuntary vehicular manslaughter and had been sentenced to life. Since then, David had seen Archie in several bars around town. The man had changed, and not for the better. But the fact that he was out here...he'd received the strange text too. As did the rest of the people here. David briefly wondered how this mysterious sender had drawn a policewoman, a poet, one of the city's best mechanics and the town's lead photojournalist to an abandoned church as he approached the motley group, camera in his hands.

The first thing anyone would hear of Sawyer's presence would be his shoes crunching dirt up the path, followed by the snap-click of a camera shutter as David went on a knee and snapped a picture of the group in front of the church, framed just right that it would do good as a front page spread. He smiled as he turned off his camera and made his way to the group.

"Hey fellas. Guessing this isn't some kinda planned event? My phone says otherwise but, y'know, best to check with everyone, right?"

He watched as Archie strode up to the door of the church and pulled it open, the creaking of the hinges echoing into the silence of the afternoon. Naturally, his inquisitive side gave way and he grinned as he approached the man and clapped him a good one on the shoulder.

"Archie. Been a while, my man. Don't mind if I take the first step?"

And so it was that David Sawyer took his first, precarious step past the threshold and into the abandoned church, camera up and ready.

Recollections: The Fourth Seal [Mystery/Urban-Fantasy/Horror RP]

David Sawyer

╚══════════════╝

"Smile for the camera."

[ 44 | 5' 10" | Caucasian | He/Him | 192 lbs ]

[Inquisitive]

---

"It feels like I'm made of fifty percent sandpaper, fifty percent grit."

David Sawyer. Not exactly a tall, strapping man, David is relatively average sized; with an athletic build that has clearly seen the wrong end of age, a minor pot belly and muscles that have given way to flab in places. His normally dark brown hair is peppered with grey in places, especially round the sides of his head, and is kept short and neat as is appropriate for his job. Along with this, he maintains a neat, if light, beard, the hair also brown and gray with his age. His eyes are brown and his features are slightly wrinkled from age and experience, crows feet at the corners of his eyes and wrinkles over his forehead. His normally rather pale skin is almost permanently tanned from all his time spent under the hot, blazing sun, taking photos of wild animals, marathons and sports events. He has tan lines in the form of his watch on his right wrist and on his shoulders from the short-sleeved shirts he would wear to such events. A scar exists on David's face, a small one that crosses the bridge of his nose.

His normal clothing style is simple and rugged; David likes to wear either a brown leather jacket or a short sleeved, collared shirt, with a white tank top underneath. The man only has a few pairs of jeans, mostly blue, and as such all of them display a rugged wear across the knees and rims of the legs that are all part of the years and years of use. David normally wears a pair of leather loafers to work or out to relax, and a pair of brown hiking shoes if he's going out for a long walk in the park or going out of town. David also has several items that are considered part of his 'signature' look; a gun-metal grey diving watch, purchased as a thirtieth birthday gift, that always sits on his right wrist. A black DSLR that almost always hangs from his neck. A weathered brown leather biker jacket with a small icon of a film camera stitched onto the left breast.

---

"If you buy me a drink, we're going to be good friends."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ To live a simple life, open-minded and carefree, taking pictures and relaxing with a beer in his hand.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ "Oftentimes, some of the best stories are those told through pictures."

SECRETS ⫻ David once had a drug problem. Not a bad one, but in the days of his youth, he had to resort to cocaine abuse to keep himself awake during periods of time spent overseas as part of an attachment to a PMC operating in Africa. When he came home to Araminta, the urge remained and the abuse continued until someone at work noticed. He went to rehab for it and came out a better man, but part of that horrible experience still remains, ingrained in his psyche.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Straight.

FEARS ⫻ He fears his past of drug abuse getting out into common knowledge. So far the only person who knows is one of his colleagues at the Araminta Daily, but that's it.

REPUTATION ⫻ David is one of Araminta's prominent writers and the only photojournalist in town, courtesy of the Araminta Daily. The sight of him, his camera and his laptop anywhere is bound to attract the attention of the locals who know him.

QUIRKS ⫻ David has to have his camera with him at all times. It's a modern DSLR camera that hangs from a brown sling on his neck.

FLAWS ⫻ The fear of his secret being found out, and the resulting public ridicule and falling-out with the general populace. Even though he takes pride in the fact that he's been clean for years since, he's afraid of his sterling reputation being tarnished.

---

"I've seen some of the best and worst humanity has to offer. Captured and cataloged in my stories and in my camera."

David was born and raised in Araminta, going to school there, attending yearly festivals and growing up alongside a small, close group of friends that stuck with him all through grade school. High school split up their little clique but they almost always met after class was over for the day, drinking milkshakes and playing tag in Araminta's main park. He took an early interest in documenting the escapades of him and his friends, at first through the media of drawing, but when that failed him, his father suggested the next best thing: a camera. His dad, a photographer by hobby, had an old film camera in his closet that he let his son borrow when he was old enough. All through his teens, David took photos of his adventures, developing the pictures and even scribbling little blurbs about what he and his friends had done that day, like cycling up to the city limits and back, or watching a sunset in the park.

When he graduated, David took his scrapbook of photos and, for a time, sold his services as a freelance photographer. In such a small city, business was brisk; weddings, special occasions, anniversaries and festivals were part and parcel of his life for roughly two years. It was then that the Araminta Daily took notice and sent him a letter asking if he would like to be employed at the newspaper as one of their photographers. He readily agreed and began work for the paper, helping their journalists and reporters capture every little event that went on in their sleepy little town. In between reports and work, David took time out of his schedule to submit some of his better pictures to national competitions, calendars and photography magazines. Most of his work wasn't up to par, but he earned himself several honorable mentions and smaller spots in minor magazines.

Three years passed in a flash. By then, David had built himself a rep, both within Araminta and around the country, as a budding young photographer with promising work, an eye for detail and a heart for telling stories. He had gone from being merely a photographer to a full-blown photojournalist, having a small column to himself about his 'Photo of the Week', where he showcased his best photograph he'd taken that week and wrote a few paragraphs about how and where he'd taken it, among other things. David was a familiar face among the townsfolk, so it came as a surprise when he told his boss that he was going to leave for a few months. When prodded as to why, he told him that he had accepted a brief overseas contract; to help further his reputation and to provide him an opportunity, a humanitarian magazine based in New York City had offered to send him with a UN aid convoy in Mogadishu, attaching him there over the course of three months to both help out and to take photos of them. It was an opportunity he couldn't pass up, and later that year, David left his quiet home of Araminta.

It would turn out to be the lowest point of his life. In those three months, he would take photos of some of the worst human suffering he'd ever seen, in the worst conditions. Helpless to do anything except work and watch, David fell to drugs to help himself cope. It didn't help that they were in a rough part of the world, feeding his addiction until his contract was up and he returned to Araminta. Those who knew David reported a change in the once cheery, hardworking man. He was haggard, tired and jumpy, but most attributed it to the stress of his work. The pictures he'd taken there were published soon after and cemented his reputation as a sterling photographer, but the damage was already done. David Sawyer was a changed man, one who prowled back alleys looking for his next fix, addling his mind to maintain his work ethic. However, two months after his return, a colleague stopped him. One of his best friends. He'd noticed the change in David and knew the symptoms of addiction. Worried for his friend, he offered David a chance at redemption: to keep his secret safe, all he had to do was to go to rehab and get himself clean. Then he wouldn't let the rumours of him being an addict spread and he'd keep his job at the newspaper.

Without much choice, David reluctantly submitted himself for rehabilitation, taking each and every day as it came, until he was thoroughly clean and recovering from his addiction. The process was long and he still worked weekends at the Daily, but six months later, David was a new man. Broken apart in Africa, but put back together again. Stronger than before, with a renewed sense of purpose. He resumed his work at the Araminta Daily, supplementing himself with regular runs at the park, exercise to get fit and eating just a little healthier.

However, David would not know of the events that would occur later on in his life, opening his eyes to more...unfamiliar territories.

It first started with a murder. Even though crime in Araminta was low, the city was small enough that a murder shocked the populace. David wrote the initial piece in the papers and followed the story with his colleagues as one murder turned into two. Then three. Then several. It reminded David enough of his time in Africa that he almost fell into a darker place in his mind, but his friends helped him stay on the straight and narrow. Instead, David buried himself in work, helping his colleagues to write pieces for the paper if they were unable to, taking pictures of new crime scenes and dedicating himself to helping out as much as he could as a journalist. Inside, he was frightened: a serial killer? In Araminta? It was almost too absurd to be real, but the bodies that appeared the obituaries every day were proof enough.

Then came the rumours of the Black Shuck. An apparition of a dog made out of black mist that appeared both in the day and at night that led whoever encountered it to another body that bore the MO of the serial killer. By then, he'd already gleaned enough witness testimonies to put together some facts about their killer: they always wore a hooded jacket made of leather and a mask that concealed most of their face, armed with a switchblade and had eyes that glowed orange. But their build and gender varied so much that almost all the sketches ran in the paper were inconsistent with each other. So to think that there was another purportedly supernatural being that was leading witnesses to the bodies of the killer's victims? David didn't think it was possible. Until he became part of a story himself. Late one night, David was woken from a fitful sleep by a scratching at his door. Thinking it to be a stray cat or a raccoon, he answered only to find the ominous figure of the Black Shuck itself standing at his door. Thinking quickly, David scrambled for his camera before following it to the body of another victim, stabbed several times in the chest and left to bleed out. Just before the Shuck disappeared, David managed to snap a picture of it, framed above the dead body, and ran the photo in the paper the very next day. At first, he thought that people would discount his claims and the story, but the rumours only increased in frequency after; many people claimed his experience corroborated their own and that the police should be looking for the dog too. Something within him suspected that there was truth to these claims of the supernatural, pushing back the inbuilt skepticism he had as a journalist about the unnatural world.

After that harrowing incident, David thought he had seen everything. But when a call went out to him from the police chief, talking about a rather massive pile-up in the middle of Araminta and moths being involved, David knew that something strange existed within his home town. The journalist went out to cover the pile-up, taking pictures and noting down eyewitness testimonies about a barrage of moths that flooded the street, obfuscating the view of many drivers and resulting in a myriad of accidents. But the stories only grew more eerie from there; some witnesses claimed to have seen the moths carry away motorists as they staggered from the wrecks of their vehicles, bleary and confused. The moths themselves left no trace, no wings or even bodies; but enough witnesses had the same story that it couldn't have been a mass hallucination incident. After his initial coverage of the incident, he was told by the Araminta police chief to...sugarcoat his following report, leaving out the eyewitness stories about the moths to lessen the panic that was already growing within the city. Without much choice in the matter, David merely did as he was told, and to this day still does not know the why or the how of these incidents. But in his heart he vowed to find out more.

Whatever the cost.

---

"Taking pictures is my life. It's what I do best. And I wouldn't give it up for the world."

[Keen Eye for Detail] ⫻ David's eye for detail as a photographer has been honed through many years of experience, taking thousands of pictures and studying how they made people feel.
[Healthy-ish] ⫻ As part of his rehabilitation, David took up regular exercise to keep himself trim and fit. The lingering long-term effects of his addiction still exist in his body, but a long run every day and an hour in the gym have, for the most part, returned him to tip-top shape.
[Photography] ⫻ The main part of David's repertoire, he is an expert photographer with an eye for prize-winning shots. His camera never leaves his side and neither do the skills he's learned from decades spent on the job.
[Writing] ⫻ The other part of his job, David had to hone his skills in creative writing as part and parcel of his job as a journalist.

---

"If you've been a photographer for as long as I have, you're bound to see some weird things. Comes with the career."

A blank polaroid photo sits here. You don't know what's on it for the picture has not yet developed.

---

"I've been through some dark times in my life. But I'm not letting that shape who I am in the now."

Recollections: The Fourth Seal [Mystery/Urban-Fantasy/Horror RP]

David Sawyer

╚══════════════╝

"Smile for the camera."

[ 44 | 5' 10" | Caucasian | He/Him | 192 lbs ]

[Inquisitive]

---

"It feels like I'm made of fifty percent sandpaper, fifty percent grit."

David Sawyer. Not exactly a tall, strapping man, David is relatively average sized; with an athletic build that has clearly seen the wrong end of age, a minor pot belly and muscles that have given way to flab in places. His normally dark brown hair is peppered with grey in places, especially round the sides of his head, and is kept short and neat as is appropriate for his job. Along with this, he maintains a neat, if light, beard, the hair also brown and gray with his age. His eyes are brown and his features are slightly wrinkled from age and experience, crows feet at the corners of his eyes and wrinkles over his forehead. His normally rather pale skin is almost permanently tanned from all his time spent under the hot, blazing sun, taking photos of wild animals, marathons and sports events. He has tan lines in the form of his watch on his right wrist and on his shoulders from the short-sleeved shirts he would wear to such events. A scar exists on David's face, a small one that crosses the bridge of his nose.

His normal clothing style is simple and rugged; David likes to wear either a brown leather jacket or a short sleeved, collared shirt, with a white tank top underneath. The man only has a few pairs of jeans, mostly blue, and as such all of them display a rugged wear across the knees and rims of the legs that are all part of the years and years of use. David normally wears a pair of leather loafers to work or out to relax, and a pair of brown hiking shoes if he's going out for a long walk in the park or going out of town. David also has several items that are considered part of his 'signature' look; a gun-metal grey diving watch, purchased as a thirtieth birthday gift, that always sits on his right wrist. A black DSLR that almost always hangs from his neck. A weathered brown leather biker jacket with a small icon of a film camera stitched onto the left breast.

---

"If you buy me a drink, we're going to be good friends."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ To live a simple life, open-minded and carefree, taking pictures and relaxing with a beer in his hand.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ "Oftentimes, some of the best stories are those told through pictures."

SECRETS ⫻ David once had a drug problem. Not a bad one, but in the days of his youth, he had to resort to cocaine abuse to keep himself awake during periods of time spent overseas as part of an attachment to a PMC operating in Africa. When he came home to Araminta, the urge remained and the abuse continued until someone at work noticed. He went to rehab for it and came out a better man, but part of that horrible experience still remains, ingrained in his psyche.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Straight.

FEARS ⫻ He fears his past of drug abuse getting out into common knowledge. So far the only person who knows is one of his colleagues at the Araminta Daily, but that's it.

REPUTATION ⫻ David is one of Araminta's prominent writers and the only photojournalist in town, courtesy of the Araminta Daily. The sight of him, his camera and his laptop anywhere is bound to attract the attention of the locals who know him.

QUIRKS ⫻ David has to have his camera with him at all times. It's a modern DSLR camera that hangs from a brown sling on his neck.

FLAWS ⫻ The fear of his secret being found out, and the resulting public ridicule and falling-out with the general populace. Even though he takes pride in the fact that he's been clean for years since, he's afraid of his sterling reputation being tarnished.

---

"I've seen some of the best and worst humanity has to offer. Captured and cataloged in my stories and in my camera."

David was born and raised in Araminta, going to school there, attending yearly festivals and growing up alongside a small, close group of friends that stuck with him all through grade school. High school split up their little clique but they almost always met after class was over for the day, drinking milkshakes and playing tag in Araminta's main park. He took an early interest in documenting the escapades of him and his friends, at first through the media of drawing, but when that failed him, his father suggested the next best thing: a camera. His dad, a photographer by hobby, had an old film camera in his closet that he let his son borrow when he was old enough. All through his teens, David took photos of his adventures, developing the pictures and even scribbling little blurbs about what he and his friends had done that day, like cycling up to the city limits and back, or watching a sunset in the park.

When he graduated, David took his scrapbook of photos and, for a time, sold his services as a freelance photographer. In such a small city, business was brisk; weddings, special occasions, anniversaries and festivals were part and parcel of his life for roughly two years. It was then that the Araminta Daily took notice and sent him a letter asking if he would like to be employed at the newspaper as one of their photographers. He readily agreed and began work for the paper, helping their journalists and reporters capture every little event that went on in their sleepy little town. In between reports and work, David took time out of his schedule to submit some of his better pictures to national competitions, calendars and photography magazines. Most of his work wasn't up to par, but he earned himself several honorable mentions and smaller spots in minor magazines.

Three years passed in a flash. By then, David had built himself a rep, both within Araminta and around the country, as a budding young photographer with promising work, an eye for detail and a heart for telling stories. He had gone from being merely a photographer to a full-blown photojournalist, having a small column to himself about his 'Photo of the Week', where he showcased his best photograph he'd taken that week and wrote a few paragraphs about how and where he'd taken it, among other things. David was a familiar face among the townsfolk, so it came as a surprise when he told his boss that he was going to leave for a few months. When prodded as to why, he told him that he had accepted a brief overseas contract; to help further his reputation and to provide him an opportunity, a humanitarian magazine based in New York City had offered to send him with a UN aid convoy in Mogadishu, attaching him there over the course of three months to both help out and to take photos of them. It was an opportunity he couldn't pass up, and later that year, David left his quiet home of Araminta.

It would turn out to be the lowest point of his life. In those three months, he would take photos of some of the worst human suffering he'd ever seen, in the worst conditions. Helpless to do anything except work and watch, David fell to drugs to help himself cope. It didn't help that they were in a rough part of the world, feeding his addiction until his contract was up and he returned to Araminta. Those who knew David reported a change in the once cheery, hardworking man. He was haggard, tired and jumpy, but most attributed it to the stress of his work. The pictures he'd taken there were published soon after and cemented his reputation as a sterling photographer, but the damage was already done. David Sawyer was a changed man, one who prowled back alleys looking for his next fix, addling his mind to maintain his work ethic. However, two months after his return, a colleague stopped him. One of his best friends. He'd noticed the change in David and knew the symptoms of addiction. Worried for his friend, he offered David a chance at redemption: to keep his secret safe, all he had to do was to go to rehab and get himself clean. Then he wouldn't let the rumours of him being an addict spread and he'd keep his job at the newspaper.

Without much choice, David reluctantly submitted himself for rehabilitation, taking each and every day as it came, until he was thoroughly clean and recovering from his addiction. The process was long and he still worked weekends at the Daily, but six months later, David was a new man. Broken apart in Africa, but put back together again. Stronger than before, with a renewed sense of purpose. He resumed his work at the Araminta Daily, supplementing himself with regular runs at the park, exercise to get fit and eating just a little healthier.

However, David would not know of the events that would occur later on in his life, opening his eyes to more...unfamiliar territories.

It first started with a murder. Even though crime in Araminta was low, the city was small enough that a murder shocked the populace. David wrote the initial piece in the papers and followed the story with his colleagues as one murder turned into two. Then three. Then several. It reminded David enough of his time in Africa that he almost fell into a darker place in his mind, but his friends helped him stay on the straight and narrow. Instead, David buried himself in work, helping his colleagues to write pieces for the paper if they were unable to, taking pictures of new crime scenes and dedicating himself to helping out as much as he could as a journalist. Inside, he was frightened: a serial killer? In Araminta? It was almost too absurd to be real, but the bodies that appeared the obituaries every day were proof enough.

Then came the rumours of the Black Shuck. An apparition of a dog made out of black mist that appeared both in the day and at night that led whoever encountered it to another body that bore the MO of the serial killer. By then, he'd already gleaned enough witness testimonies to put together some facts about their killer: they always wore a hooded jacket made of leather and a mask that concealed most of their face, armed with a switchblade and had eyes that glowed orange. But their build and gender varied so much that almost all the sketches ran in the paper were inconsistent with each other. So to think that there was another purportedly supernatural being that was leading witnesses to the bodies of the killer's victims? David didn't think it was possible. Until he became part of a story himself. Late one night, David was woken from a fitful sleep by a scratching at his door. Thinking it to be a stray cat or a raccoon, he answered only to find the ominous figure of the Black Shuck itself standing at his door. Thinking quickly, David scrambled for his camera before following it to the body of another victim, stabbed several times in the chest and left to bleed out. Just before the Shuck disappeared, David managed to snap a picture of it, framed above the dead body, and ran the photo in the paper the very next day. At first, he thought that people would discount his claims and the story, but the rumours only increased in frequency after; many people claimed his experience corroborated their own and that the police should be looking for the dog too. Something within him suspected that there was truth to these claims of the supernatural, pushing back the inbuilt skepticism he had as a journalist about the unnatural world.

After that harrowing incident, David thought he had seen everything. But when a call went out to him from the police chief, talking about a rather massive pile-up in the middle of Araminta and moths being involved, David knew that something strange existed within his home town. The journalist went out to cover the pile-up, taking pictures and noting down eyewitness testimonies about a barrage of moths that flooded the street, obfuscating the view of many drivers and resulting in a myriad of accidents. But the stories only grew more eerie from there; some witnesses claimed to have seen the moths carry away motorists as they staggered from the wrecks of their vehicles, bleary and confused. The moths themselves left no trace, no wings or even bodies; but enough witnesses had the same story that it couldn't have been a mass hallucination incident. After his initial coverage of the incident, he was told by the Araminta police chief to...sugarcoat his following report, leaving out the eyewitness stories about the moths to lessen the panic that was already growing within the city. Without much choice in the matter, David merely did as he was told, and to this day still does not know the why or the how of these incidents. But in his heart he vowed to find out more.

Whatever the cost.

---

"Taking pictures is my life. It's what I do best. And I wouldn't give it up for the world."

[Keen Eye for Detail] ⫻ David's eye for detail as a photographer has been honed through many years of experience, taking thousands of pictures and studying how they made people feel.
[Healthy-ish] ⫻ As part of his rehabilitation, David took up regular exercise to keep himself trim and fit. The lingering long-term effects of his addiction still exist in his body, but a long run every day and an hour in the gym have, for the most part, returned him to tip-top shape.
[Photography] ⫻ The main part of David's repertoire, he is an expert photographer with an eye for prize-winning shots. His camera never leaves his side and neither do the skills he's learned from decades spent on the job.
[Writing] ⫻ The other part of his job, David had to hone his skills in creative writing as part and parcel of his job as a journalist.

---

"If you've been a photographer for as long as I have, you're bound to see some weird things. Comes with the career."

A blank polaroid photo sits here. You don't know what's on it for the picture has not yet developed.

---

"I've been through some dark times in my life. But I'm not letting that shape who I am in the now."

Long Beach, A City In Need

"God damn, Helena. Good thing you're okay though. Shit, what's the world come to man? This whole damn city's on fire, ain't nobody doing a single god damn thing about it."

Cole took a swig from his bottle of Coca-Cola and shook his head, exasperated by the story. Helena was a friend of his and to hear that she just went through what he'd been aching over for a long time now. His brother's death had been almost a year ago, but the emotional wounds in his soul were still open and sore, and every time he heard something like this, his heart ached a little more for his lost sibling. It didn't help that he'd also been a victim of petty crime just last week, and as the invisible "let's share our crime stories" ball was passed around the table, it reached him. Cole ran a hand through his hair as he took another swig from his Coke before he began to regale his friends with the tale of his most recent encounter.

---

"Aight so, last week right? I'm at the 7/11, on a night shift. I'm on the register, as usual, right? Middle of the Tuesday night, nothing's bound to happen, right?"

"So then, I'm just sending out a tweet on my phone, it's like, 2:30 AM, right? In walks these two fuckers, a big white guy and another scrawny black dude. I should've known they were 'bout to start some shit; the white fucker had his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets like he was holdin' onto something. Other guy walks up to the counter, starts talking to me, y'know. Guess he was distracting me or some shit, thought I didn't have the stones to fight back if they were gonna start shit. So they didn't know that we had a small TV behind the counter, had the CCTV cameras and shit on it. I saw the white guy sneaking off to the drink coolers. Popped open one of them and grabbed a few beers. Thought I didn't notice."

"I waited for the other guy to walk to the door before I called him out. Y'know, asked him where he was goin' with those beers stuffed in his pockets. That set 'em off. The dude in front of me pulled a knife, waved it in my face, yelled at me and wanted me to get the money out of the register. I'd seen girls with more stones than this guy, y'know? Anyway, I wasn't having any of it. I ignored the knife in my face and told his friend to put the beers back. Sneaked my hand under the counter to grab my baseball bat. Got a hold of it just as the dude with the knife in my face turned around to make sure his idiot friend wasn't followin' what I told him to do. Took my bat and smacked the knife outta his damn hand. Got the dude super pissed off. He tried to leap over the counter to get to me and I punched him in the gut with the tip of my bat. Pushed him off the counter and shouted at the two of 'em to leave, which they did. But I made sure to run after the guy holding the beers with my bat. Made him drop everything and he ran out of the store screamin'."

---

"And that was the rest of my night. Had to clean up all the glass 'n beer that got on the floor, called 911 'n stuff. Hopefully the CCTVs got something usable. Otherwise I would've done all that for nothing."

Cole crossed his arms and huffed, shaking his head at the thought of someone being able to best him. He'd clawed his way out of the criminal hellhole that he'd been in, only to encounter the same sort of menace that he used to be. Except now he had the experience to back up his words. Two bit thugs meant nothing to him, even as a lowly cashier for a 7/11.

"I'd tell y'all another story, but like, you guys have probably seen it already. On the news a year ago. When my brother got shot."

He shrugged. The pain still echoed through his mind and body, but he'd gotten over it enough to talk about it, at least.