Current
I feel sorry for you if you let AI generate ANY of your prose. Real hack work. That goes for images too.
6
likes
16 days ago
They should give me the power to blow up homophobes with my mind, I think
6
likes
24 days ago
Dead internet theory doesn't really feel like a theory sometimes
2
likes
1 mo ago
Walked along the sand dunes of the Sahara desert for 40 days and 40 nights with nothing but a pack of Newports and a fifth of Henny. I really do this shit
4
likes
8 mos ago
These cops are interrogating me about an ounce of weed as if I didn't kill an Applebee's hostess two miles away
"It is not important to be better than someone else, but to be better than yesterday." - Jigoro Kano
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
_________________________________________________________ (FC: Tony Jaa; Dialogue: Green) _________________________________________________________
S U M M A R Y S U M M A R Y
_________________________________________________________ Ken "Rock" Chaw _________________________________________________________ February 12th | 20s _________________________________________________________ Single | Male | Bisexual
S T A T S S T A T S
_________________________________________________________ Height | 5' 8" _________________________________________________________ Hair Color | Black _________________________________________________________ Eye Color | Brown _________________________________________________________ Hometown | Calder City
The Mountain was one of Calder City’s most distinguished heroes, a living legend. A master of Lethwei, The Mountain was able to turn his very body into a weapon against Calder City’s evils. The Mountain had an incredible healing factor, allowing him to push his body far beyond its limits and always get back up again. This is where he got his name, he was said to be as enduring and unbreakable as the mountains themselves.
The Mountain's real name was Saw Chaw, and he was a fixture among the Vanguard, in and out of costume. A social worker by trade, Saw fought to keep the Vanguard fair, inclusive, and invested in the communities it sought to protect. He created community outreach programs, food and clothing drives for the homeless, and charity fundraisers. Even as The Mountain, Saw advocated for better protections for heroes' privacy and compensation for their appearances and likeness in media. Perhaps his biggest contribution was his fight against the practice of child sidekicks, striving to create protections for the youngest superhumans and prohibitions against their presence in the Vanguard.
This crusade made it all the more surprising when The Mountain debuted his own child sidekick: Rock. Not one of Saw’s four biological children, but an adopted child, not from the local Saint Dymphna’s, but from parts unknown. Despite the pressures from Vanguard to return the child to civilian life, from colleagues and friends alike, Saw grinned and bore it. He seemed to know something everyone else didn’t.
Persevering through the disapproval and the dangers of superheroics, Rock proved himself more than a capable student. He lacked The Mountain’s remarkable durability and healing, but made up for it in agility and martial prowess, demonstrating phenomenal mastery of Lethwei and Muay Thai for a boy his age. With every ounce of power his small body could muster, he could just stand alongside The Mountain as a worthy sidekick.
But as Rock grew larger and his blows fell harder, The Mountain’s expectations grew. Rock had to be better: not just a better martial artist, but a better man, a better hero. It wasn’t long before their paths diverged. As The Mountain dedicated himself to his community, Rock found himself drawn into the world of combat sports. Enchanted by the depth and breadth of technique available to him, Rock found a way to better himself the same way he always had, straightforward training and mastery, free of The Mountain’s sensitivities.
Growing into a young man, Rock travelled the world, training under a dozen masters and learning scores of moves, kata, forms, and more. He had, to his mind, nearly perfected his style. He competed in underground tournaments and took the hidden world of martial arts by storm. Yet, for every victory under his belt, every challenge overcome, each of his masters would insist he was not ready. He was not ‘complete’. He felt as though he was still the same sidekick, wasting away under the vanishingly little The Mountain had left to teach him.
Until one week ago. Front page news: THE MOUNTAIN, SLAIN.
Who could have done it? A hero of his adoptive father’s stature would have enemies, to be sure, but it was hard to imagine one that could cause The Mountain to crumble. How do you kill a man that can’t be killed? That can bounce back from almost anything?
The only thing left for Rock to do is return to Calder City and find out.
Belu Cortex - Saw thought of the name of Rock's ‘power’, evoking the indomitable ogres of Myanmar's folklore. The Belu were monstrously powerful man eaters, and Rock's talent allows him to defeat his opponents just as easily. Saw said that Rock could ‘devour’ the techniques of his enemies.
It toes the line between human skill and superhuman ability. With a unique cortical structure, Rock's brain is optimized for hand to hand combat. He has spent his life immersed and training in all manner of martial arts, and his upbringing has produced a kinesthetic genius. He can duplicate most movements he observes with a handful of repetitions, especially those movements used against him in combat. The ability is distinct from other superhuman's Adoptive Muscle Memory in that he is not simply copying what he sees by rote, but rather developing complex understandings of movement and combat systems on the fly. This allows him to further iterate and produce variations of what he sees, rather than being locked into a cloned motion.
This ability has allowed him to master dozens of combat systems at a stunning rate. Among others, he is a master of Lethwei, Muay Thai, BJJ, Judo, American Kenpo, Okinawan Karate, and Taekwondo.
M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S
Rock wants to find the one who killed his mentor and break them. Despite the years of distance between himself and Saw, the man was still the closest thing he had to a father.
More broadly, Rock has always wanted to be the best. It was what Saw wanted, too. For Saw, being the best meant being the best at helping others, whether through the might of his muscles or the strength of his arguments. For Rock, it has only ever meant growing more knowledgeable, more powerful, for an end that seems less and less clear.
Banged out my lore pretty quick with the power of autism. There may be more to come but this is more or less what is relevant to the first post. Though I try to make it clear what it is and how it works in the upcoming first post, I thought I should provide a primer on Stands for the uninitiated anyway. Hoping to have JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #1 up in the next few days, or at least before my convention the weekend after next.
STANDS: A largely misunderstood phenomenon toeing the line between metahumanity and magic. A Stand typically manifests as a ghost-like entity bound to its user, sharing effects and damage between Stand and user/host. Stands come in a variety of forms, possessing innumerable distributions of power, durability, range, speed, precision, and developmental potential. Almost every Stand possesses some kind of special ability, shared with its host, ranging from elemental control to the manipulation of time itself, though these abilities are typically metered with an esoteric restriction or activation condition. Stands have remained largely unknown due to the secrecy of the phenomenon: the Stand ghosts themselves appear imperceptible to those without Stands or enhanced abilities of their own, though a handful of ordinary humans have managed to overcome this factor through feats of will. Stands were originally believed to come from an extraterrestrial virus, killing most hosts but infecting a select few with powerful abilities. However, further research has indicated Stands can manifest from a variety of phenomena, the nature of which is still being researched to this day.
SPEEDWAGON FOUNDATION: Founded by Robert E.O. Speedwagon in the early 20th century, The Speedwagon Foundation existed primarily as a means to funnel their founders wealth in oil and real estate into effective research of and defense against certain paranatural phenomena. With extensive research into vampirism, ancient humanity, and the mysterious Stand phenomenon, the Speedwagon Foundation particularly specializes in those areas where the line between magic and metahumanity begins to blur. Through liaison with SHIELD and ARGUS, The Speedwagon Foundation remains one of the leading private interests in the globally developing superhuman community.
P.S. Does anyone else still try to do hiders with [spoiler] like I do? A bunch of old forums did it and I still catch myself doing it before I see it doesn't work in the preview.
"Impossible? We did a lot of impossible things on this journey. I’m tired of hearing things are impossible or useless. Those words mean nothing to us."
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
_________________________________________________________ Jotaro Kujo Bruce Banner Joe Fixit _________________________________________________________ Both 40s | Japanese and American
S U P P O R T I N G C A S T S U P P O R T I N G C A S T
A L L I E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Rick Jones - Bruce Banner's best friend. ◼ Josuke Higashikata - Technically Jotaro's uncle, though he's more like a nephew. ◼ Jimmy Woo - Jotaro's shield liaison.
A N T A G O N I S T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Thunderbolt Ross
-
P O S T C A T A L O G U E P O S T C A T A L O G U E
Introducing The Hulk! And… an anime character? What’s the deal here?
I’ve always thought that among the worlds of anime and manga, JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure was the absolute closest fit to what happens in Marvel and DC comics, even counting straight up superhero manga like One Punch Man or My Hero Academia. Here’s the story of beautiful men in crazy tights battling each other for the fate of the world with fantastical powers that come from their very souls, in a world that critically looks a lot like our own. Unlike a lot of anime, which put tremendous effort into crafting unique settings, JoJo’s often feels like a period piece, rooted in the era and location it takes place in, whether we’re in 1800s England or galavanting around the Middle East in the 1980s.
The truth is, a lot of my storytelling in these games has been inspired specifically by JoJo’s, so I wanted to take it back to the roots and see what I can do with it by making the inspiration more explicit.
Here, I want to pair Jotaro with Joe Fixit as a harder edge compared to Jotaro’s more straightforward Clint Eastwood-style aspirations of heroism. Joe’s talents as street tough and wiseass will compliment Jotaro’s experiences as a globe trotting hero, and the pair will be able to bond over their unique family situations.
Together, I hope to send the pair to explore the edges of this amalgamated universe, teasing at the edges of our canon. This game has uniquely broadened the scope of allowable concepts, this run hopes to ask why, both in universe and out.
P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )
We of course have to start with a clash of the titans. What happens when the Strongest Stand User fights The Strongest There Is? This was the seed of a One Shot that has spiraled out into the story I now propose to tell. The Savage Hulk will be on a classic rampage, forcing Jotaro to intervene. In the aftermath, Joe Fixit will emerge from Banner for the first time in years. He knows the Hulk was on a mission, but what it was, neither man can tell.
The only thing they know for certain is that Calamity is approaching.
"Impossible? We did a lot of impossible things on this journey. I’m tired of hearing things are impossible or useless. Those words mean nothing to us."
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
_________________________________________________________ Jotaro Kujo Bruce Banner Joe Fixit _________________________________________________________ Both 40s | Japanese and American
S U P P O R T I N G C A S T S U P P O R T I N G C A S T
A L L I E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Rick Jones - Bruce Banner's best friend. ◼ Josuke Higashikata - Technically Jotaro's uncle, though he's more like a nephew. ◼ Jimmy Woo - Jotaro's shield liaison.
A N T A G O N I S T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Thunderbolt Ross
-
P O S T C A T A L O G U E P O S T C A T A L O G U E
Introducing The Hulk! And… an anime character? What’s the deal here?
I’ve always thought that among the worlds of anime and manga, JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure was the absolute closest fit to what happens in Marvel and DC comics, even counting straight up superhero manga like One Punch Man or My Hero Academia. Here’s the story of beautiful men in crazy tights battling each other for the fate of the world with fantastical powers that come from their very souls, in a world that critically looks a lot like our own. Unlike a lot of anime, which put tremendous effort into crafting unique settings, JoJo’s often feels like a period piece, rooted in the era and location it takes place in, whether we’re in 1800s England or galavanting around the Middle East in the 1980s.
The truth is, a lot of my storytelling in these games has been inspired specifically by JoJo’s, so I wanted to take it back to the roots and see what I can do with it by making the inspiration more explicit.
Here, I want to pair Jotaro with Joe Fixit as a harder edge compared to Jotaro’s more straightforward Clint Eastwood-style aspirations of heroism. Joe’s talents as street tough and wiseass will compliment Jotaro’s experiences as a globe trotting hero, and the pair will be able to bond over their unique family situations.
Together, I hope to send the pair to explore the edges of this amalgamated universe, teasing at the edges of our canon. This game has uniquely broadened the scope of allowable concepts, this run hopes to ask why, both in universe and out.
P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )
We of course have to start with a clash of the titans. What happens when the Strongest Stand User fights The Strongest There Is? This was the seed of a One Shot that has spiraled out into the story I now propose to tell. The Savage Hulk will be on a classic rampage, forcing Jotaro to intervene. In the aftermath, Joe Fixit will emerge from Banner for the first time in years. He knows the Hulk was on a mission, but what it was, neither man can tell.
The only thing they know for certain is that Calamity is approaching.
Ain’t as easy to hop trains as it used to be. Growing up we’d run down by the railyard and sneak through our little hole in the fence. Watch the engines surge by, iron horses running faster than our dreams. There were faster things, of course, our paps all loved NASCAR, but those stoic little stock cars had nothing on these behemoths. They cut across the country in plumes of smoke that signal their coming to the heavens, hauling everything a body could want, the very life blood of this country. It was a dream to jump onto one as it slowed and clamber up the sides like monkey bars, then stow away for a spell and watch the rest of the heartland roll on by. Could jump off quick into a field of hay and then be home in time for supper. But it wasn’t like that for the kids of today. Now there were security cameras all over the stations, making sure that no folk can get to those trains without consequence, no matter how harmless their purpose may be. That said, my purpose tonight is anything but harmless, and this is no regular old train.
Heard tell of this loco locomotive as far south as Sonora. They call it the Midnight Train. They say she’s an old steam engine with hellfire in her belly, with wheels that clack like cackling skulls, constrained by no track. Every now and again, she’ll pass on through an ordinary station in the dead of night. She’ll pick up a couple regular passengers, and ramble off into the darkness, where those passengers will never be seen again. No one knows for sure what goes on aboard that train, as dark and massive as a storm cloud. The only way to find out is to find a station and get on board yourself.
Course, I ain’t so lucky as to catch her at the station. Instead I’m straddling a motorcycle getting hotter n’ the devil’s nethers, hauling ass across open desert, chasing her taillights through the shadows and trails of her dreadsmoke. Bike ain’t mine cept the offroad tires, which I expect to be shred to shit by the end of this. I took it off some skinhead prick, figuring I’d need an expendable vehicle. Bike’s engine is sputtering a storm, spewing hot, stinging smoke and bleeding oil. My bandana keeps it all from my mouth, but my eyes are watering so hard I can taste the salt running down my cheeks. But through the tears I see it getting closer.
The Midnight Train’s end couplers stand out of the smog like the spiked horns of a huge beetle. The reversed headlamps shot out cones of blacklight into the haze, the light now just touching my front wheel. The bike jerks like a jitterbug, stuttering across phantom tracks, threatening to shake itself apart. My hands have gone numb on me, but I keep clamped on the accelerator. The engine hisses and whines like a wet barn cat while I wrestle the handlebars one handed, pulling my lariat from its holster. I hear something metallic burst and rattle in the bike beneath me and I know I got just one shot.
I jerk my arm hard and the whip slashes through the night, it catches firm on the train’s blackened rails. My cry of triumph is lost to a new, grinding, tearing sound in my engine. I push off from the footpegs and pull as hard as I can, whirling through the air before I crash into the back of the Midnight Train in a heap. I look back to the bike through the railing, crumpled plastic and cheap parts folding on themselves as it gives way and tumbles off into the desert. There’s a safe feeling, hard metal platform finally underneath me instead of rushing, scouring sands.
That feeling doesn’t last long. The wind is whipping past the train and piercing me through my snap shirt and vest, a straight chill to the bone. I push to my feet and my spurs click against the black metal. Standing here against the Midnight Train’s hide, I feel like I’m wrangling some massive bull, fighting the restraints to stay on. I stagger to the door to the first compartment. It's bigger than I am, socketed into the train’s frame on bolts bloodied with rust. I lock my hands around the door’s crank wheel and work the door open a sliver, before I dart in.
It’s a mite more comfortable inside. I slam the door shut to the howling winds and have just an instant to get my bearings. The interior of the car ain’t much. Low, fluorescent lights swing with the rumble of the engine and cast their shadows across the wooden facade. It’s simple quarters for crew, cotton beds shelved along one wall with round tables and chairs socketed to the floor for gathering. It might have been like any other train, but for the rows of coffins along the right wall, the only proper resting spot for any vampire. That, and the pair of men seated there.
Their skin is plumb white as alabaster, stretched so far over gaunt frames that I can count their ribs through their work clothes. One is dressed like an old miner, in faded coveralls slumping half off his skeletal chest, wearing a yellow helmet with a flickering light. The other is a disheveled train attendant in rags, what once might have been a fine uniform is hanging off him in ribbons. But they both have long, sharp ears, and faces marred by rotten noses and fangs jutting past their jaws. They're what I call Longtooths, thrall-things that’ve been in service past their expiration date. They've both seen me now. They rise from their seats and claw across the tables, bounding for me. I draw my modified lariat, my meteor hammer with the silver weight, but they're already on top of me.
The miner leaps at me and I duck under him into a roll, letting his face crash into the steel door. I go for a swing with my hammer as I come up, but the attendant is already too close, and catches the thick cord of the weapon in his jaw.
“This is no kinda hospitality, fellers!” I shout and yank the hammer. The attendant's tooth snaps and the weight smacks the side of his head, sending him stumbling into the rows of coffins, but now the miner is back up.
“Hsss!” He swipes me with curled claws as I whirl at him. I ignore the slashing pain across my chest and ram the heel of my weapon into his temple. His eyes boggle and I push my elbow into his throat and push us both to the door, pressing him into the metalwork. I look back to the attendant and see him crawling from a wrecked coffin, but I see something move on the far end of the compartment. The door to the next car is rumbling as someone works the lock, threatening to send more suckheads spilling in.
“No cuttin’ in!” I say. I launch my meteor and the weight crashes into the door, crushing the lock and buying me another moment. The attendant picks his moment and rushes me while the hammer is in flight, fangs bared. I drop it and grab the knife on my belt, but something hard slams into the back of my head. Stars flare across my vision and I pitch forward, but close my grip around my bowie and jerk as I fall, slashing wildly behind me. I feel my knife cut through flesh and then nothing as the miner’s body turns to dust on death. I slam into the ground at the same time as his helmet, and then the attendant is on me.
I get my legs between us and his wicked nails pass within an inch of my face, and I taste his breath, old blood and must, through my bandana as he strains to sink his fangs in. I draw the knife up and bring it between us, then release and watch as the attendant skewers himself in desperation. He dies in a sheet of dust across my body.
I hack out a cough and try not to vomit from the noxious dust as I draw to my feet. I have to be ready for what's coming next, and fast. I draw my revolver and fix it on the door. There's a loud snap as whatever is on the other side breaks the fused metal. I rest my finger on the trigger.
A figure in black steps through the door. He's tall and draped in leather, carrying a sword dripping with blood and dust. He takes a step forward and the light catches on his dark shades. I realize I recognize him, from the close crop fade to the spiked adornments on his jacket’s shoulders. He’s the man I’ve come to see; the vampire hunter called Blade.
“If you shoot, don’t miss,” he says. He’s resting his sword on his shoulder, all casual like. But I know from the set of his shoulders and hips that in one motion he could shoot forward and cut me in half, and I don’t need to give him a reason.
“Wasn’t plannin’ to, pardner,” I say. I spin my revolver and slot it into its holster.
“Partner? Not a chance,” Blade’s grip on his sword is still tight as he turns his hand over and gestures, palm out, “give me back my book.”
“Was always plannin’ on it…” I grumble, pulling the slim notebook from my vest. When I mentioned I ‘heard tell’ of this train, I read it in this book. His book. I swiped it the last time I came across him, fallen from his pocket in the fracas. Seemed like it was his little monster hunting diary, all full of juicy tidbits on what his next hunt was shaping to be. Namely, his next job, taking out the head vampire honcho of this here hell train. “But if half the rumors in this thing about this train are true, you’ll need a second gun on this.”
“Yeah,” Blade says. He flicks his sword and sends all the viscera covering it to dapple the compartment’s tables, then returns the cleaned weapon to its sheath. He stows the book and pulls back his coat to show off his twin holsters, “that’s why I carry two.” He turns on his heel and starts to walk back from where he came, deeper into the Midnight Train.
“Hold up! Didn’t come all this way to get left out of the festivities.” I go to follow him and he stops in his tracks.
“What are you expecting here? That you’ll scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours?” Blade asks, and he’s right to. I’ve hounded him across Texas and back, tracked him down across leylines and met him in dens, knee deep in the dead, and there I’d go banging my drum about my story, what I needed from him. He’d just tune me out and set about his work, then leave me in the dust as my back was turned. But here I am, now, at the head of it, with an honest to goodness shot to make right by the man.
“No expectations, ‘cept fer killin’ every vampire I lay eyes on. I got my mission, my purpose. But that purpose has got plenty of room fer gunnin’ down extra bloodsuckers. Got silver bullets burnin’ a hole in my pocket,” I say.
“Fine. At least you have the right gear,” Blade allows. He steps forward and I go to move in time with him, but he stops and turns his head back to me, curious. “How’d you get onto the train anyway, cowboy?”
“Motorcycle,” I grin beneath my bandana, “rough stuff, I tell you what.”
“No shit. Hell of a ride,” he says, scratching his chin. I can practically see my desperate ride reflected in his shades as he thinks on it, sees the grime caking my outfit. I actually catch the edge of his mouth turning up in a smile. “Hope you weren’t attached to it.”
“Naw, it was some Suzuki import piece of garbage. Better as scrap anyhow,” I joke. Blade’s smile vanishes.
“I drive a Suzuki import.”
MIDNIGHT TRAIN Part Two
The cowboy has found me for the umpteenth time. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve seen that drive in a man before, the lengths it will push him to. It’s a common enough story. These hunters will turn up with a dead friend, dead lover, parent, kid, dog. Seen plenty of them come and go. They think their grief gives them license to put it all on the line. Make their choices and damn the others around them. I’ve only seen one man live like that for very long, and that son of a bitch is rotting away on the poison of his own decisions.
I hate working with humans at all, especially on a job like this. They were fine supporters, suppliers, trainers. But they didn’t have the speed or strength to keep up with a vampire, much less to put one down for good. Even the rare few that did were still, by design, full of blood. A meal on wheels begging to be devoured, a beacon of gluttony for any vampire to feast on. It was a temptation I didn’t need. I’d known fewer reliable human hunters than I could count on one hand. There is still room for Vigilante to prove himself to be one. But so far the impression hasn’t been good.
We move through the car I infiltrated, and the click of his spurs ring through the steel car like a cheap fire alarm. Its lined with crates, hauling insulated sacs of blood and whatever gore or viscera are useful in their foul magic. I got aboard in one of these, tucked where a drum of heart and muscle should have been. The Vigilante doesn’t bother inspecting the crates, he just soldiers through the narrow gulley between stacks of boxes. He’s lucky the vampires inside already lay in a neat line of dust; my handiwork.
“Cut through ‘em like chaff,” he remarks, “not bad fer a city slicker.”
“They get tougher from here,” I say. The farther you are from the engine, the coal black heart of the Midnight Train, the more mundane the cars. It was one of the few concrete details I’d been able to piece together. Vigilante cleared out crew quarters, fitted like a stock car from the civil war, home to lesser undead. Here in storage you can see the start of the rot, the way the metal shell begins to pale like skin. A hick like him might catch that, but he couldn’t see the real truth of it. He couldn’t hear the blood pulsing through the train’s veins behind the pallid slabs of steel. He can’t smell the iron and the fat, or feel the deep, burning longing in his belly and all through his throat. Could he feel the resolve that brings me to the next door without a word? He’ll need to if he wants to make it out.
I have to work the next door to open it. Vigilante steps forward to lay a hand on it, but I snarl and position myself across the entire crank. I wrap my hands around the wheel and twist against stiff resistance. I can hear something moist squelch and gasp through the metal as I wrench it back and forth. Finally I feel it give on the other side, crackling like a breaking back as the lock gives way and the door moves an inch. I jam my shoulder against it and push it against tearing tissue until it's open enough to slip through. A curtain of meat and broken bone hangs limp over the door, the remnants of the locking flap I’d just muscled through.
“What in God’s creation…” Vigilante is pale as death as he takes in the room before him. Planes of ashen skin pocked by pimples and open, oozing cuts lined the cars interior, sutured around protruding, greasy metal gaskets and instruments tracking blood pressure and thumping in time with the train’s heart.
“Flesh car,” I say, “exposed skin for easy feeding.”
“Is this train…” Vigilante gulps, “alive?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “It’s undead. It’s a vampire.” I could imagine rows of bodies beneath the thick layers of skin and metal, fused together by devilish ritual into the same horrific organism, splayed out across the whole train. I’d seen vampires pervert life and death in a thousand ways, though never just like this. The vampire lords loved nothing more than their fleshshaping, making monsters of men. This train was just the natural conclusion of their greed and ambition.
I wonder if he’ll turn and run instead of facing it. I’d seen Hunters with more experience run from things less horrific. Instead he takes his first step into the car and his boot sinks a quarter inch into the slick skin. The look in his eye is as firm as his grip on his holster.
“You see them?” He says and gestures, “down at the end.” Twelve vampires are crouched by the far wall, hunched and sinking their fangs into skin or suckling blood and nutrient pus from exposed sores. We were lucky they were absorbed in their meals, and that they were only lesser vampires, barely a rung above a simple thrall.
“Only one way forward,” I lay my hand on the hilt of my sword.
I can’t deny Vigilante at least has the moves for this job, if not the sense. He draws and fans the hammer of his revolver. His shots all hit home and turn a half dozen vampires to dust. I watch him tuck the hot revolver into his waistband and load a fresh cylinder while the other hand works his other gun. I don’t bother to close the distance as he kills the rest.
“They’ll know we’re coming, now,” I say. They would’ve heard the report of the shots, felt their reverberation echo through the train as it shuddered in pain. I can sense the train’s blood pumping faster, see and smell their liquid delicacy pouring out of the fresh holes Vigilante has blown in the beast. I think how easy it would be to bare my fangs and take my own chunk of it, bite past the skin like a rind and take a helping, so that it could quell the impossible dryness in my mouth filled with anticipation. But I know the second I do I won’t be able to help looking at Vigilante the same way, as a blood bag protected by nothing but an inch of skin. Even now I can hear his heartbeat, pumping its quiet rhythm just below the noise of the train. Pumping that salty, hot…
“Good,” he says, ignorant of my hunger, the way I’m poised to draw and cut him down. His spent cartridges drop soundlessly onto dead skin. “Now… If this is the feeder car… Surely the stock can’t be far?”
That gives me clarity. The only other truth I’d been able to nail down about the train was its propensity to pick up passengers. It was said that every night the train rolled through another station and collected another load of unsuspecting victims. I only managed my entry by stumbling on traces of a vampire supply chain and infiltrating a warehouse. It hadn’t stopped since I got on, but there’s no telling how many innocent people were already aboard.
I unsheath my sword and slash through the next locking flap, snapping it open like a torn tendon. Vigilante steps forward and locks his gloved hands around the crank to the next compartment before I have a chance to. I don’t see the lurch in him that shows a man’s about to vomit, I just see him push his hands into the gore and twist with everything he has.
He opens the door and the next compartments pass in a whirl of blood, gunsmoke, and dust. The feeder car’s dozen were just the head of a storm of undead. We battle through a vanguard of thralls and I skewer their lieutenants to the walls with the stakes lining my belt. Every vampire we cut down feels like the harbinger of two more in the next car, but we work fervently, knowing we are the last chance for anything aboard left alive.
But the farther we fight, the more that chance fades to nothingness. The feeder cars are almost too thick with enemies to see them: the mouths lining the cars, circular like a lamprey’s, filled with fangs that rotate like a wood chipper, processing bodies into meat, gristle, and pure blood. We only see a few in the middle of the process, and we know from their glassy eyes and the way the hellmouths tear them asunder without resistance that they are already dead. If it’s getting to the Vigilante, he doesn’t say anything. He only reloads and looks to me, like the next car will be different.
We must be through the whole of the dining cars now, approaching the head of the beast. The last processing chamber is barer than the rest, free of the gnawing maws and restored to a facsimile of a real train with polished steel facade. But I can still see the tracts of blood that haven’t been fully buffed out, off color patches where men had been dragged bleeding, dying, begging. Three figures stand at the end of the car, suited up in spotless dress clothes. The pair on the flanks have shaven heads and business suits, dark and smartly buttoned but improperly fitted. The one in the middle has long, slicked back hair, and a trim, tuxedo so sharp it looked like he was born to wear it -- or died to wear it..
“You two have made a mess,” Tuxedo says. “This train has been an institution in our kind for generations. A symbol of what we can achieve, constrained by no human will or law.”
“It’s our world, fancy pants. You’re just the ones suckin’ it dry,” Vigilante says, his meteor hammer strung tight between his gloved fists.
“Damn, do I love hicks. All the moralism and self righteousness out of a people born out of the asshole of this country. It makes you people taste just delicious. Take them.” Tuxedo’s minions rush forward on his word. They’re upon us in their celerity before Vigilante can swing, but not before I can. I cleave the one that flung at me in half, and I see a cross section of his guts for a split second before he turns to dust. I whirl to Vigilante’s engagement to see him forcing his knife into the roof of his attacker’s mouth, sending it to the Hell it deserved.
“Are you just as worthless as your bodyguards?” I turn and level my blade at the remaining vampire.
“Mother did always say never to trust the help.” I see Tuxedo’s throat twitching and growing, ballooning and reddening like an allergic reaction. In the quarter second we have to respond I see Vigilante draw and aim, and I realize I’ll have to choose: save myself, or save him.
I shoulder check the cowboy so hard the train’s facade dents on impact and the train roils beneath us. Tuxedo’s mouth opens and his throat squeezes out a red projectile that bursts across my chest. It’s all over me, boiling blood burning through my leather outfit, sending a huge blister across my chest and dappling my face with searing pain. It’s even eating through my shades. I shake them off and see the cowboy is still recovering, clutching his side, and Tuxedo is closing the distance fast, fangs bared, ready to close around Vigilante’s neck.
I step forward and jam my blade through his shoulder in the instant before he kills Vigilante and he runs himself through near up to the hilt with the force of his leap. He must’ve thought I was just some human, in melting agony from his burning blood. But the pain is only a dull roar beneath the savage hunger snarling in my stomach, and now the satisfaction filling me. I got him.
I let go of my sword and he stumbles backwards, feebly tugging at the blade as his insides begin to fry from the silver. I can smell him cooking, acrid and sulfurous, yet meaty and rich. He was well fed.
“The Structure will not stand for this insult!” Tuxedo hacks out his last words while I pull my gun and put it to his temple. There it is, a name, and one I’d heard before.
“How does the Structure figure into this? I know you people don’t run this train.” I pushed further into his head and could hear its skin sizzling against the silver barrel. The Structure were new as vampire clans went, but new was never something they wanted to be. Vampires cared for nothing more than lineage and pedigree. There was no word on who or what clan was behind the Midnight Train, but it was far too old to be in the hands of upstarts like the Structure.
“I tell you… and you let me live?” It offered. Typical. A vampire only looking out for itself, nevermind the clan it had just sworn would miss it. It was a wonder vampires had it in them to politic at all.
“I’ll consider it,” I say.
“We are… Diversifying. Spreading word of our interests to all vampire clans… Making allies for the coming change…”
That sounded like them. They were, to a point, vampire businessmen. Diversify, diversify, diversify. It figured that the suckheads were building on one of the most vampiric structures in society. I doubted we’d hear anything more useful than that from this wretch. One of the Structure’s few advantages against other clans was its compartmentalization. This one would know his mission, and nothing more. Besides, I already knew what the ‘change’ he spoke of was, and it was just what I was here to fight: the return of the Lord of All Vampires, Dracula himself.
“I’ll let you live…” I say, and holster my Beretta. The cowboy is on his feet, now. I can tell from the way I feel his glare on the back of my head, just as the vampire sighs in relief. “But he won’t.”
The vampire doesn’t have time to react before Vigilante draws and the monster’s head bursts into dust.
“Bad form to have your guests protecting your house,” I say. I nudge Tuxedo’s cufflinks with my boot and send them rolling to rest in the pile of ash that was just wearing them.
“They’re gettin’ desperate. Pullin’ out every favor and trick they got aboard,” I can’t tell if Vigilante is smiling from the crinkle around his eyes or cringing in pain from what had to be a broken rib, “we got ‘em scared.”
“Can’t be much left. The Conductor, his vanguard, and the engine room,” I say, collecting my sword from the pile. “We’re going to destroy this train. Whole damn thing. Car by car if need be.”
“Maybe we’re lucky the train’s a vampire…” Vigilante says, “means we can stake the sumbitch.”
-I’d like to shout out Clive Barker’s short story, The Midnight Meat Train, as a source of inspiration for this story and its title!
-Experimentally with author’s notes, I want to try to give some insight into my craft and what questions and thoughts I have about the piece I’ve made, as opposed to my first AN which I kept to fun facts. I'm always interested to hear about everyone else's process and their thoughts on their own stuff, so I thought I'd share mine, too.
-I surprised myself a little bit with a Blade POV. I don’t think his voice is the most developed, but as I sat down to write this one it only felt right that it should come from him and give a bit more of an informed perspective on the train. I’m not sure whether the next one will be a Blade or Vigilante POV. My instinct is to alternate issue to issue, but I was hoping to conclude this arc with this post and thus with a Blade POV, and go into the next thing with Vig, but things have gotten away from me. We’ll see how things happen in the edit.
-I hope the pacing feels alright. As I mentioned in the previous note, I realized I wanted to keep this arc short and introduce other characters and set pieces, so I wanted to try and wrap this whole thing up in just two posts. But I committed to doing a train and those are typically more than just a handful of cars long, especially in the case of a magic vampiric murder train. I tried to create the impression of a lengthier train with the feeding car segment, so I could get right onto our mini boss. Still, despite my attempt to shorten up it looks like we’re doing it in three instead of two to take down the conductor.
-I’m having trouble in general balancing the gross, horrific atmosphere I want to conjure with the bombastic action I also want to portray. I think I did better here than in my first edition, but I look on it as something to improve upon.
-I’m also worried about diminishing returns in prose over time. I hope to have Blade and Vig visit a variety of set pieces as horrific as this place if not more so. But my prose here is already so tuned up, I worry that those future places will feel like more of the same or even less than the train as I try to use the same technique to portray them.
-I see a lot of places I could improve this with some more dramatic editing, but I don’t think I can justify keeping this one in the chop shop much longer. I have bigger and better places to get to, and I need to set about getting to them, word by word.
A L L I E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Hannibal King ◼ Frank Drake ◼ Quincy Harker ◼ Sir Justin Arthur, Shining Knight ◼ Abraham Whistler ◼ Jamal Afari -
A N T A G O N I S T S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Dracula, Prince of Lies, King of Vampires ◼ Xarus, Son of Dracula ◼ Deacon Frost ◼ William Mowse, The Black Star ◼ Arcade -
I N T E R E S T E D ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Boston Brand, Deadman ◼ Detective Chimp -
P O S T C A T A L O G U E P O S T C A T A L O G U E
I done a hundred different jobs over the years. Tending the farm with Pap, early mornings and long days, muscles aching from dragging farm equipment bigger n’ I was. Was a paperboy a little while. Became a fry cook in my teens and hated it more n’ anything. Was always more of a cow rearer than a burger flipper. Odd jobs after that, running round town like a headless chicken. I repaired shoes, was a tailor, forged a couple no-good sets of nails, sold power tools at some big box store, performed as a trickshooter, plus many more and many much less glamorous. Then, of course, there was the band.
If you’ve heard of me from anywhere, it’s there. Greg Saunders of the Prairie Troubadours, the best little rock band in Texas. Played in packed bars and talent shows and high school football games, anywhere that’d take us, and we loved it. I was the dark horse of that band. Lead gee-tar, backup vocalist, wearing a cowboy hat darker n’ the night sky. We were gettin’ bigger by the day, livin’ in high cotton. Had fans following us in the rain, screaming our names. It was plain to us that a record deal’d be coming down soon. I took a little vacation. Just a week or two away from the boys to get back to my Pap’s old farm and jaw with him about how things were going for his kid. We were worried about selling out, see, wanted to keep the music pure. I thought my Pap would know more about that than anyone. He sure did, but… That conversation seems so far away now, so fanciful. We were talking about our harvest when the field lay fallow and dead before us.
I came back to a bloodbath. I don’t remember what the cops told me. They dressed it all up in fancy language and condolences that fell on my ears like static from an unplugged amp. I begged and they let me see the pictures. Saw the whole band. Billy Gunn, Danny Leong, Bat Lash, Raph Sandoval… They were bled to death, slaughtered like farm animals. The news crushed me beneath it like a bale of agony. The officers couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. They couldn’t decide if it was some serial killer or a one off incident, some spurned fan or a random attack. Not too long before they quit looking. Don’t know if they got paid off, or if they found something too terrible, too dangerous for them to continue. Don’t matter much now. What does is that I took it into my hands.
I took up the name Vigilante. In white hat and red bandana I ran down ne’er-do-wells of every stripe, grasping for leads about anyone who coulda done this. Wasn’t no investigator. Just a kid with a pair of handguns, a lariat, and a righteous fury. Roughed up city slickers and country crooks, gangsters and mafiosos. Inching closer to the truth. Got good at it, running down leads, helping folk wherever I went. I rationalized what happened for myself as I worked. Surely it was a brutal hit or a depraved killer that took my friends from me. It took time to peel back the veil and peer at the hideous truth before me.
Dead things walk among us. Zombies, ghouls, vampires. You can deny it if you like, but I ain’t got much time for doubters. I know what I’ve seen, men falling apart as they’re walking, creatures that fly on great leathery wings. I been on this trail five years now, searching for answers for that night. Finding the suckhead sons-of-bitches that done it. It's brought me to darker places than I could dream of… Places where things aren’t just bumping in the night. Places like that are where I met him.
Near as I can tell, he’s done just one job over these years, and that’s killing vampires. He tells me that he’s had a lot of names over the years, but that Blade is the simplest. If he’s got a real name, he ain’t sharing it. He don’t share much, in fact, don’t talk too much at all. Least not to me. He’s a tall black feller who can be known by his habits of wearing heavy leather and shades absolutely everywhere he goes. Not to mention the sword hanging off his back. He’s the first professional vampire hunter I’ve ever met. He might be the best there ever was.
But he avoids me like I’m slicker than pig snot on a radiator. Some country bumpkin, ruining his hunt. But I need him. Spent five years spinning my wheels with not much to show for it besides a pile of random mobsters and toughs in chains or dead. Comes a man like him, what actually knows what he’s doing? I can’t let him pass me by.
P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )
Back in the saddle again. Trying to rediscover the passion that let me bang out posts like a maniac in my younger years, I'm rolling a combination of a character that has always spoken to me, and a comparatively new hotness that has captured my imagination. Blade and Vigilante will tear through the south, discovering all manner of strange places and circumstances perverted by vampiric machinations. The vampires' grip on the country and the world entire will prove deeper and more insidious than either man could ever imagine.
But to be frank I don't have much of a plan. I have some cool allies and enemies I'd like to encounter, and I'd love the chance to write alongside and cross over with my friends again, simple as. The hope is to get into a rhythm and do a little more every day, and for me, this spooky pair is the ticket.
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
_________________________________________________________ Kamala Khan | Captain Marvel _________________________________________________________ Student | 15 | Jersey City _________________________________________________________ Prime Multiverse 668 | Open to Collaborators
C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S
S U P P O R T I N G C A S T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► The Khans - Kamala’s parents, Yusuf and Muneeba, and her brother, Aamir, never really seem to get what’s going on with Kamala. They support her in their own ways, but that support can often chafe. ► Bruno Carelli - Kamala’s best friend. He’s a science whiz and almost as big of a superhero geek as she is. ► Carol Danvers - Captain Marvel, the greatest hero around! Since first appearing on Earth in the late 80s, Captain Marvel has proudly protected the solar system and beyond from all manner of threats. Plus, she’s the star of too many of Kamala’s fanfictions to count. But she's the other Captain Marvel, according to… ► Billy Batson - The original Captain Marvel, active in the 40s and on. Somehow, though, Kamala has never heard of him. ► Trixie Tawny - Granddaughter of the late Talkative Tawny. ► Sunny Sparkle - The world's nicest boy. Kamala and Bruno’s classmate. -
Hopeless superhero fangirl Kamala Khan always counted on secretly being a mutant. Or maybe she could breathe in some funky gas, or get into some kind of industrial accident and have chemicals splash all over her. Maybe next week she’d go on a field trip to the Jersey City Oscorp Satellite Lab and get bitten by a radioactive seagull. Not that seagulls were high on Kamala’s list of radioactive creatures to get bitten by (bottom ten, actually), but they were the only animals around here that Oscorp seemed to test on. And anyway, with seagull powers, she could at least fly like the real Captain Marvel.
Hopes of flying with Captain Marvel or not, Kamala remained a steadfastly normal girl, as normal as the only American-born child of Khandaqi immigrants can be in Jersey City. But now she finds herself drawn into the Jersey underground at the call of a hooded man, and the sight of a gleaming, futuristic train car…
P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )
The origin story of the one and only Captain Marvel! Well, the third Captain Marvel at this point, but that won’t quash Kamala’s optimism. I’ve always thought Kamala and Billy were relatively similar characters, pure heated kids with baggage nonetheless, given an awesome power that recontextualizes their world and how they fit into it. I’m enchanted by the fluffy optimism of early Captain Marvel stories, and I’m extremely interested to contrast that energy with the paranoia of an oncoming invasion. Kamala’s position as the child of immigrants will give her perspective on the new immigrants and the new invaders arriving from beyond the stars, and the incredible power of the new Captain Marvel will shake up the superhero community as we know it!
A L L I E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ The Khans - Kamala's family. Muneeba, her mother, Yusuf, her father, and Aamir, her brother. ◼ Bruno Carelli - Kamala's best friend. ◼ Sunny Sparkle - Kamala and Bruno's schoolmate, the nicest boy alive. ◼ Billy Batson - The Captain Marvel of yesteryear, and heritor of the responsibilities of the wizard Shazam. ◼ Trixie Tawny - Granddaughter of the late Talkative Tawny, Esquire. Secretary of the new JSA. ◼ Timmy Tinker - Once the enemy of Captain Marvel, Billy Batson rebuilt this robot into an upstanding citizen who now provides logistical support for the JSA.
A N T A G O N I S T ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ Black Adam - Ruler of Khandaq, and long time rival of the original Captain Marvel. ◼ Mister Mind - Possibly the most devious criminal mind alive. Thankfully, he is literally only a worm. ◼ The Sivanas - Georgia and Thaddeus Sivana Jr. are the children of Doctor Sivana, Captain Marvel's oldest nemesis. They are committed to carrying on their father's work.
-
P O S T C A T A L O G U E P O S T C A T A L O G U E
Uni and Sep were working on a JSA joint and were gracious enough to invite me to it. An idea shaped like this has bounced around in my head for a few years, and I'm happy to finally bring it to life (especially now that my commission is done!), especially given they were considering the good Captain for the roster anyhow.
In terms of ambitions, aside from obviously operating with the JSA, I'm hoping to use the Captain to fill out parts of the universe that don't normally see much play. I want to dig into some of the lesser known cities stateside, but I also hope that through Kamala's connection to Pakistan and the Captain's connection to Black Adam and Khandaq to explore the often ill-defined fictitious Middle Eastern and Asian nations that DC and Marvel are full of.
Big ups to my man Green Grenade for giving me access to his beautiful mind that happened to also have cooked a Captain Kamala once upon a time. We may only have one braincell, but we have the Wisdom of Solomon to take care of the rest.
Ain’t as easy to hop trains as it used to be. Growing up we’d run down by the railyard and sneak through our little hole in the fence. Watch the engines surge by, iron horses running faster than our dreams. There were faster things, of course, our paps all loved NASCAR, but those stoic little stock cars had nothing on these behemoths. They cut across the country in plumes of smoke that signal their coming to the heavens, hauling everything a body could want, the very life blood of this country. It was a dream to jump onto one as it slowed and clamber up the sides like monkey bars, then stow away for a spell and watch the rest of the heartland roll on by. Could jump off quick into a field of hay and then be home in time for supper. But it wasn’t like that for the kids of today. Now there were security cameras all over the stations, making sure that no folk can get to those trains without consequence, no matter how harmless their purpose may be. That said, my purpose tonight is anything but harmless, and this is no regular old train.
Heard tell of this loco locomotive as far south as Sonora. They call it the Midnight Train. They say she’s an old steam engine with hellfire in her belly, with wheels that clack like cackling skulls, constrained by no track. Every now and again, she’ll pass on through an ordinary station in the dead of night. She’ll pick up a couple regular passengers, and ramble off into the darkness, where those passengers will never be seen again. No one knows for sure what goes on aboard that train, as dark and massive as a storm cloud. The only way to find out is to find a station and get on board yourself.
Course, I ain’t so lucky as to catch her at the station. Instead I’m straddling a motorcycle getting hotter n’ the devil’s nethers, hauling ass across open desert, chasing her taillights through the shadows and trails of her dreadsmoke. Bike ain’t mine cept the offroad tires, which I expect to be shred to shit by the end of this. I took it off some skinhead prick, figuring I’d need an expendable vehicle. Bike’s engine is sputtering a storm, spewing hot, stinging smoke and bleeding oil. My bandana keeps it all from my mouth, but my eyes are watering so hard I can taste the salt running down my cheeks. But through the tears I see it getting closer.
The Midnight Train’s end couplers stand out of the smog like the spiked horns of a huge beetle. The reversed headlamps shot out cones of blacklight into the haze, the light now just touching my front wheel. The bike jerks like a jitterbug, stuttering across phantom tracks, threatening to shake itself apart. My hands have gone numb on me, but I keep clamped on the accelerator. The engine hisses and whines like a wet barn cat while I wrestle the handlebars one handed, pulling my lariat from its holster. I hear something metallic burst and rattle in the bike beneath me and I know I got just one shot.
I jerk my arm hard and the whip slashes through the night, it catches firm on the train’s blackened rails. My cry of triumph is lost to a new, grinding, tearing sound in my engine. I push off from the footpegs and pull as hard as I can, whirling through the air before I crash into the back of the Midnight Train in a heap. I look back to the bike through the railing, crumpled plastic and cheap parts folding on themselves as it gives way and tumbles off into the desert. There’s a safe feeling, hard metal platform finally underneath me instead of rushing, scouring sands.
That feeling doesn’t last long. The wind is whipping past the train and piercing me through my snap shirt and vest, a straight chill to the bone. I push to my feet and my spurs click against the black metal. Standing here against the Midnight Train’s hide, I feel like I’m wrangling some massive bull, fighting the restraints to stay on. I stagger to the door to the first compartment. It's bigger than I am, socketed into the train’s frame on bolts bloodied with rust. I lock my hands around the door’s crank wheel and work the door open a sliver, before I dart in.
It’s a mite more comfortable inside. I slam the door shut to the howling winds and have just an instant to get my bearings. The interior of the car ain’t much. Low, fluorescent lights swing with the rumble of the engine and cast their shadows across the wooden facade. It’s simple quarters for crew, cotton beds shelved along one wall with round tables and chairs socketed to the floor for gathering. It might have been like any other train, but for the rows of coffins along the right wall, the only proper resting spot for any vampire. That, and the pair of men seated there.
Their skin is plumb white as alabaster, stretched so far over gaunt frames that I can count their ribs through their work clothes. One is dressed like an old miner, in faded coveralls slumping half off his skeletal chest, wearing a yellow helmet with a flickering light. The other is a disheveled train attendant in rags, what once might have been a fine uniform is hanging off him in ribbons. But they both have long, sharp ears, and faces marred by rotten noses and fangs jutting past their jaws. They're what I call Longtooths, thrall-things that’ve been in service past their expiration date. They've both seen me now. They rise from their seats and claw across the tables, bounding for me. I draw my modified lariat, my meteor hammer with the silver weight, but they're already on top of me.
The miner leaps at me and I duck under him into a roll, letting his face crash into the steel door. I go for a swing with my hammer as I come up, but the attendant is already too close, and catches the thick cord of the weapon in his jaw.
“This is no kinda hospitality, fellers!” I shout and yank the hammer. The attendant's tooth snaps and the weight smacks the side of his head, sending him stumbling into the rows of coffins, but now the miner is back up.
“Hsss!” He swipes me with curled claws as I whirl at him. I ignore the slashing pain across my chest and ram the heel of my weapon into his temple. His eyes boggle and I push my elbow into his throat and push us both to the door, pressing him into the metalwork. I look back to the attendant and see him crawling from a wrecked coffin, but I see something move on the far end of the compartment. The door to the next car is rumbling as someone works the lock, threatening to send more suckheads spilling in.
“No cuttin’ in!” I say. I launch my meteor and the weight crashes into the door, crushing the lock and buying me another moment. The attendant picks his moment and rushes me while the hammer is in flight, fangs bared. I drop it and grab the knife on my belt, but something hard slams into the back of my head. Stars flare across my vision and I pitch forward, but close my grip around my bowie and jerk as I fall, slashing wildly behind me. I feel my knife cut through flesh and then nothing as the miner’s body turns to dust on death. I slam into the ground at the same time as his helmet, and then the attendant is on me.
I get my legs between us and his wicked nails pass within an inch of my face, and I taste his breath, old blood and must, through my bandana as he strains to sink his fangs in. I draw the knife up and bring it between us, then release and watch as the attendant skewers himself in desperation. He dies in a sheet of dust across my body.
I hack out a cough and try not to vomit from the noxious dust as I draw to my feet. I have to be ready for what's coming next, and fast. I draw my revolver and fix it on the door. There's a loud snap as whatever is on the other side breaks the fused metal. I rest my finger on the trigger.
A figure in black steps through the door. He's tall and draped in leather, carrying a sword dripping with blood and dust. He takes a step forward and the light catches on his dark shades. I realize I recognize him, from the close crop fade to the spiked adornments on his jacket’s shoulders. He’s the man I’ve come to see; the vampire hunter called Blade.
“If you shoot, don’t miss,” he says. He’s resting his sword on his shoulder, all casual like. But I know from the set of his shoulders and hips that in one motion he could rush forward and cut me in half, and I don’t need to give him a reason.
“Wasn’t plannin’ to, pardner,” I say. I spin my revolver and slot it into its holster.
“Partner? Not a chance,” Blade’s grip on his sword is still tight as he turns his hand over and gestures, palm out, “give me back my book.”
“Was always plannin’ on it…” I grumble, pulling the slim notebook from my vest. When I mentioned I ‘heard tell’ of this train, I read it in this book. His book. I swiped it the last time I came across him, fallen from his pocket in the fracas. Seemed like it was his little monster hunting diary, all full of juicy tidbits on what his next hunt was shaping to be. Namely, his next job, taking out the head vampire honcho of this here hell train. “But if half the rumors in this thing about this train are true, you’ll need a second gun on this.”
“Yeah,” Blade says. He flicks his sword and sends all the viscera covering it to dapple the compartment's tables, then returns the cleaned weapon to its sheath. He stows the book and pulls back his coat to show off his twin holsters, “that’s why I carry two.” He turns on his heel and starts to walk back from where he came, deeper into the Midnight Train.
“Hold up! Didn’t come all this way to get left out of the festivities.” I go to follow him and he stops in his tracks.
“What are you expecting here? That you’ll scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours?” Blade asks, and he’s right to. I’ve hounded him across Texas and back, tracked him down across leylines and met him in vampire dens, knee deep in the dead, and there I’d go banging my drum about my story, what I needed from him. He’d just tune me out and set about his work, then leave me in the dust as my back was turned. But here I am, now, at the head of it, with an honest to goodness shot to make right by the man.
“No expectations, ‘cept fer killin’ every vampire I lay eyes on. I got my mission, my purpose. But that purpose has got plenty of room fer gunnin’ down extra bloodsuckers. Got silver bullets burnin’ a hole in my pocket,” I say.
“Fine. At least you have the right gear,” Blade allows. He steps forward and I go to move in time with him, but he stops and turns his head back to me, curious. “How’d you get onto the train anyway, cowboy?”
“Motorcycle,” I grin beneath my bandana, “rough stuff, I tell you what.”
“No shit. Hell of a ride,” he says, scratching his chin. I can practically see my desperate chase reflected in his shades as he thinks on it, sees the grime caking my outfit. I actually catch the edge of his mouth turning up in a smile. “Hope you weren’t attached to it.”
“Naw, it was some Suzuki import piece of garbage. Better as scrap anyhow,” I joke. Blade’s smile vanishes.
A B I L I T I E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ DHAMPIR PHISIOLOGY Though Vigilante doesn’t know it, Blade is half man and half vampire. This gives him many of vampires abilities, including enhanced speed, strength, and senses, but without their associated weaknesses to sunlight and silver. He does, however, still feel the blood hunger known to all his vampire cousins… -
T O O L (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ HANDGUNS Both men wield pairs of handguns with silver ammunition. In Vigilante’s case, they are a pair of revolvers with custom grips. In Blade’s, they are Berettas. ◼ MOTORCYCLES Each man drives a motorcycle. Vigilante possesses a red Harley, where Blade rides a suzuki crotch rocket. ◼ LARIATS Vigilante has always used a whip, but since encountering vampires, he’s added a second to his arsenal, with an attached silver weight, allowing it to function more as a meteor hammer. ◼ KATANA Blade’s sword, custom forged for his use. A silvered edge allows him to bisect vampires with ease. -
N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S N O T A B L E S K I L L S & T A L E N T S
S K I L L (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ TRACKING Between them, Vigilante and Blade are adept hunters of men, beasts, vampires, and everything inbetween. ◼ MARKSMANSHIP Vigilante is an ace marksman, able to use both his handguns and his lariats with startling precision. Blade is no slouch in this department either, but it is Vigilante’s particular expertise, allowing him to even achieve ricochets many men would think impossible. ◼ MELEE COMBAT Between his swordsmanship and his martial arts ability, not to mention his enhanced physicals, Blade is a deadly melee combatant. Vigilante’s skills on the other hand are more in the realm of the bar brawler. -
T A L E N T (S) ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ◼ BORN TO BE A STAR Greg was born with perfect pitch and a beautiful singing voice. Further development of this talent and his other musical abilities have let him perform on stage for thousands. -
T H E S T O R Y S O F A R... T H E S T O R Y S O F A R...
I done a hundred different jobs over the years. Tending the farm with Pap, early mornings and long days, muscles aching from dragging farm equipment bigger n’ I was. Was a paperboy a little while. Became a fry cook in my teens and hated it more n’ anything. Was always more of a cow rearer than a burger flipper. Odd jobs after that, running round town like a headless chicken. I repaired shoes, was a tailor, forged a couple no-good sets of nails, sold power tools at some big box store, performed as a trickshooter, plus many more and many much less glamorous. Then, of course, there was the band.
If you’ve heard of me from anywhere, it’s there. Greg Saunders of the Prairie Troubadours, the best little rock band in Texas. Played in packed bars and talent shows and high school football games, anywhere that’d take us, and we loved it. I was the dark horse of that band. Lead gee-tar, backup vocalist, wearing a cowboy hat darker n’ the night sky. We were gettin’ bigger by the day, livin’ in high cotton. Had fans following us in the rain, screaming our names. It was plain to us that a record deal’d be coming down soon. I took a little vacation. Just a week or two away from the boys to get back to my Pap’s old farm and jaw with him about how things were going for his kid. We were worried about selling out, see, wanted to keep the music pure. I thought my Pap would know more about that than anyone. He sure did, but… That conversation seems so far away now, so fanciful. We were talking about our harvest when the field lay fallow and dead before us.
I came back to a bloodbath. I don’t remember what the cops told me. They dressed it all up in fancy language and condolences that fell on my ears like static from an unplugged amp. I begged and they let me see the pictures. Saw the whole band. Billy Gunn, Danny Leong, Bat Lash, Raph Sandoval… They were bled to death, slaughtered like farm animals. The news crushed me beneath it like a bale of agony. The officers couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. They couldn’t decide if it was some serial killer or a one off incident, some spurned fan or a random attack. Not too long before they quit looking. Don’t know if they got paid off, or if they found something too terrible, too dangerous for them to continue. Don’t matter much now. What does is that I took it into my hands.
I took up the name Vigilante. In white hat and red bandana I ran down ne’er-do-wells of every stripe, grasping for leads about anyone who coulda done this. Wasn’t no investigator. Just a kid with a pair of handguns, a lariat, and a righteous fury. Roughed up city slickers and country crooks, gangsters and mafiosos. Inching closer to the truth. Got good at it, running down leads, helping folk wherever I went. I rationalized what happened for myself as I worked. Surely it was a brutal hit or a depraved killer that took my friends from me. It took time to peel back the veil and peer at the hideous truth before me.
Dead things walk among us. Zombies, ghouls, vampires. You can deny it if you like, but I ain’t got much time for doubters. I know what I’ve seen, men falling apart as they’re walking, creatures that fly on great leathery wings. I been on this trail five years now, searching for answers for that night. Finding the suckhead sons-of-bitches that done it. It's brought me to darker places than I could dream of… Places where things aren’t just bumping in the night. Places like that are where I met him.
Near as I can tell, he’s done just one job over these years, and that’s killing vampires. He tells me that he’s had a lot of names over the years, but that Blade is the simplest. If he’s got a real name, he ain’t sharing it. He don’t share much, in fact, don’t talk too much at all. Least not to me. He’s a tall black feller who can be known by his habits of wearing heavy leather and shades absolutely everywhere he goes. Not to mention the sword hanging off his back. He’s the first professional vampire hunter I’ve ever met. He might be the best there ever was.
But he avoids me like I’m slicker than pig snot on a radiator. Some country bumpkin, ruining his hunt. But I need him. Spent five years spinning my wheels with not much to show for it besides a pile of random mobsters and toughs in chains or dead. Comes a man like him, what actually knows what he’s doing? I can’t let him pass me by.
P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )
As per the title Dead South, Vigilante and Blade will mostly be operating around the southern US and into Mexico. That said, I chose this pairing to be open to collaboration. They’re on the move, and are more than likely to visit New York or Hub or wherever their quest brings them.
I’ll be real, there’s not much of a plan here. I’m more a planner than a panster, but at this point I’ve fallen off the writing horse a bit, and like Roman, I’m trying to force myself back into it, but I’m taking something of a different approach to him. Where he has lovingly crafted his masterplan, I’m throwing the concept of a plan out the window. When I wrote Vig back in UOU, I piloted him more or less on vibes and vague ideas, and at least in terms of word count, it was possibly my most successful outing. I don’t have time like I did back then… But maybe if I can replicate the methods, I can replicate the success.
Vigilante and Blade will go on a vampire hunting romp and encounter some major characters from Marvel vampire lore, pending negotiations with the magnanimous Half Pint, and characters from DC’s Western comics. I’ve always thought Vigilante played best when dealing with problems beyond the scope of an ordinary cowboy hero, and vampires fit that bill. As for Blade, at one point I was writing him as the primary POV of a different version of this tale, but found I wanted someone newer to the supernatural, so I thought I’d pull out an old favorite. Will there still be a Blade POV? Hey, maybe!
Captain Uni
RPM
Sep
Ducksworth
xVampire3go
Antlers
Kaithe Dame
