The part about the map was disappointing, though she should have expected it. She and Lola hadn't really done a lot of digging for maps during their adventures over the winter, not past basic statewide ones. When you're in a tank, little things like roadblocks or abandoned traffic snarls become events more akin to tiny roller coaster rides than respectable obstacles, making most concepts of "Alternate Routes" pointless. Her former home, Boston, was a lot better about maps for individual areas. Of course, that's what you get when there's a decent amount of population density and lots of places to go. She was a city girl at heart, once upon a time. Recent years had changed that, but some assumptions based upon her former lifestyle held on nonetheless.
Knowing now that they were going to stop two miles out and approach on foot gave Thalia simultaneous feelings of relief and concern. Being out in country, she kind of wished that she had her spear. It rounded her options and ensured that she wouldn't have to get too close to Zeds so long as the numbers were low. And come to think of it, she had left her ack behind, too. Maye it was best to travel light. If the plan worked, they would meet up after, anyway. If it did not, she would hardly need her pack anymore.
Responding to Alexander's question, Thalia could only mutter, "We can only hope..." though logically, she realized that the possibility of another sinkhole that specific in location had to be remote to the extreme.
A smile and knowing nod came from the still chewing form of Gilbert. It did seem to be a curious coincidence, having three come from the same place in the same alternate timeline. Four, if you count Alicia. While not a particularly religious person, Gilbert did skim the various holy texts once upon a time. He recalled from one something about a time of trials, the dead rising from the grave, and people being tested in horrible ways. This sounded a lot like snatches of descriptions he picked up from Alicia every now and again. Even curiouser, Gilbert found that he wanted to speak with some of these people. He had survived pandemics in the past, witnessed what people could turn into when war turned their homelands into waste and ash. Those who made it out alive were a unique breed of person, and this alternate line sounded like it was the most extreme example of pandemic/war that he had personally heard about.
That would have to wait for a little while. Alicia's clipboard was giving its subtle warning that the High Magical Tree was about to upchuck another dead person, and with it another individual for the other Immortals to do... well, knowing some of them (ahem - Gio and Nancy) something questionable. He preferred to stay out of their shenanigans whenever possible, but maintained a sort of grudging neutrality; unless a Paradox was having a particularly bad time of it, Gilbert didn't give but the basest of warnings. At any rate, Alicia had give him the name of one of them that had just arrived, plus the bonus fact that he was a skilled hand with barbecue. Well, was a skilled hand with it. It was a depressing turn of events that getting revived as a Paradox scrambled the skills picked up in their previous lifetime. He did have his memories, though. And it was precisely that which he wanted to peruse. That James fellow, Sophia, and whoever the newer one was. By the sound of it, the first two seemed to take their situation fairly well. Maybe it was time to introduce himself and have a chat.
But first... Gilbert had to handle some dishes that his protege left for him. Or not. He could just leave them sitting there until the next morning, when these things would reset, anyway. Yeah, that was a good idea. He did take the opportunity to run a bit of water over them, though, knocking off the more obvious bits of mealtime flotsam and jetsam, before he added his own dishes to the sink. He filled the sink with water and a bit of detergent and let them soak (you're welcome), dressed the rest of the way, and readied to leave. On the way out, he grabbed a half loaf of bread and some persimmon jam. You know, for the road.
James Grady
Location: Ville au Camp - Main House, Room 107
"Yeah hey, thanks for that." James responded quickly, in reference to her willingness to keep her mouth shut about him being unattended with her in her private room. "Aight, aight, so you sayin' that I can't even cool my heels here, next few years until we get to the 50's?" An odd look crossed his face for a second, "O'course, they wasn't good years on my people, either... Hell woman, I got half a mind to run my ass to Alabama, see if I can't get in with the Tuskegee Airmen! Lawrence Fishburne was the man in that flick, wasn't he?"
He sighed. "But we supposed to be here for a reason, right? Just that you don't know what it is, I don't know what it is, an' the folks in the know are these Enema-daters." Well, that narrowed down his options somewhat. If he wanted answers, he needed to go out and get them. So he'd been dead lately. Apparently these things happened, and sometimes death was a temporary condition that could be averted by taking a detour into the 40s and hunkering down in a godforsaken part of swampland with some particularly interesting architecture. "Aight then, Miss Sophia, if'n you'd be as kind, would you please show me to the "Kitchen House", where a man such as myself can locate somethin' flammable to sip on in the early mornin'?" He was already walking toward the door, a hand on the knob, his other hand reaching out to Sophia. "Maybe even some crumpets & tea?"
Throughout all of the drama unfolding around him, Harper's mind went back to something that the highly anxious Engineer asked a few moments ago. Through the stutter, he could clearly discern the question, "Are you a murderer?" It seemed fairly relavent to the situation just then. Were any of these people murderers? He couldn't speak for the newcomers, but he did have enough in the way of conversation with the rest of the crew over the past week to know that several of them fought in the Unification War. He was part of that too, once upon a time. Not as a ground soldier, but as a pilot. Harper was rated on damn near every type of craft that saw action during the war and he used most of them in pursuit of following orders. That would be Alliance orders, and they were rarely for Harper to go on a coffee run. He got his hands dirty from time to time, but really, he was no better or worse than a common soldier in that regard.
Some of the others were in the war, too. Browncoats. Considering the imbalance of numbers in that conflict, every one of the Independents likely had blood on their hands, too. But did that make them murderers? Harper didn't think so. Things happen in wartime. People do the worst of actions just to survive. Soldiers were not necessarily the same as murderers.
But they weren't William Harper. Technically, neither was he, but that was a debate for another occasion. The others may have killed in the heat of the moment, knifed some guy in a barfight, traded gunfire with opposition, it could be easily justified enough to place the loss of life squarely away from murder. But Harper was. The guy may have deserved it and the enigmatic pilot had desperate reason to, but he was dead and it wasn't supposed to be Harper's call. Perhaps that is why he acted in the manner that he did, with Anisa standing to one side of him, Daphne on the other, layed out on the floor.
He began to chuckle.
It grew into a silly, barely restrained laugh. But he wasn't laughing at his Captain, nor the other pilot. No, this was aimed nearer at Fitz. Ordinarily a quietish type unless conversation was necessary, it was very possible that no one in his crew had heard that sound issue from his mouth before. He leaned forward, plunking his mug down on the table with the handle still in his fist, letting himself just enjoy the moment of raucous, situationally inappropriate mirth. There were even tears. Of course, he had no clue whatsoever whether that was joy or if he was truly weeping. It seemed that when he cracked the emotional dam, he wasn't fully in control of what came tumbling out. It gave his gale of guffaws a wiry, slightly crazed note. But he kept on laughing. It was distracting at best.
"Oh, oh my dear and shiny Lord, Fitzy..." he started, finding a brief truce with his outburst, "I just got that "are you a murderer" bit." He held back another series of giggles, leaning his head forward as his free hand slipped off of the table. He continued in a loud voice "Shénshèng de gǒu shǐ, that was funny. I haven't laughed that hard since I was a little girl."
Harper leaned back in his seat, partially putting himself back into the mix with Daphne and Anisa. Looking up, he could barely see the Captain's extended arm. He could see her face clear enough, and wondered academically if intervention in any way was possible, let alone preferable. He was competent, but no professional gunslinger. He could fight as well as the next soldier, though kicking off a brawl with guns drawn was stupid. Differing tactic would have to be utilized.
A moderately sized recreational vehicle in dire need of fresh paint and body work stops in the middle of the street. No traffic exists to serve as witness the rolling shitbox come to a sputtering stop, likewise no traffic exists to be held up by the vehicular roadblock. From inside, an argument rages in muffled, indistinct voices. The RV rocks back and forth a few times and an interior light clicks on simultaneously with the mechanical whirring of a small exhaust fan, the light visible only from a single, small window near the rear of the vehicle. The first clear words can be heard from outside, and though barely heard, the intonation is clear.
"Well. Gawd. DAMNIT!"
The words were shout-slurred in a quagmire of a southern drawl, half annoyance and half alarm. All at once, the door to the recreational vehicle exploded open, slamming on the side of the RV and rebounding back to smack the man in egress, a hairy, beer-gutted individual sporting a pair of boxer shorts and flip-flops, tank tee and camouflage trucker's hat. Everything about this man seemed to scream, "Pass Me Another Beer". From the manner in which he descends the short two steps from his mobile fortress, it can be assumed that someone already had, and some several times. Wobbling a bit as he walked, the foul-seeming person made his way to the side of the RV and began pulling out a length of wide, compressible tubing.
The odious man extended the tubing to the side of the road, wherein a storm drain access point cleft the ground underneath the sidewalk. It seemed the perfect spot to unload his unloadables, thanks to a functional automatic pump and a lack of understanding concerning dumping laws. The pump whirred and sputtered to life, and soon, a torrent of chunky brown semi-liquids began oozing underneath the streets of Justice, California.
A similar accent, though with more feminine notes, sounded from the open doorway, "Now, what in Sam Hill're you doin' out there, Sugarnuts? Y'all know that there's eee-legal, riiiiiight?" She was every bit the stereotype; big hair defiled by a poor peroxide job, smoking unfiltered cigarettes and either five months pregnant or just very comfortable with herself in sweatpants and a pink, midriff shirt.
He spoke. Check that, he bellowed back, "You shut yer hole, Boobalicious! Get back in th' ARRR VEE 'fore someone sees yer fat ass!"
"But, Randy..."
"I sed plug yer whore mouth and shut th' fuckin' door!"
"But, Randy?"
"SHITTER'S FULL! Okay, hon? Th' SHITTER IS FULL! Now EVERYBODY knows! The Shitter's full an' I gotta blast a dook, like NOW. You give me m'space, woman!"
"Well, goddamnit..."
The door to the RV shut, Sugarnuts on the outside, finishing up the dumping of some of his best handiwork, Boobalicious (Slavic name, maybe?) considering spiking his whiskey with drain cleaner. Beneath the street, perilous vapors started to accumulate...
Deadlight District, Exterior, Present
The sushi didn't quite set right with Bartholomew. Something had to have been off, considering the steadily growing cramps in his abdomen and the sudden feeling that things may begin to vacate, one direction or the other. Yeah, definitely the sushi. Perhaps the proprietor shouldn't have used his family's ancient and secretive recipe for Aged Mayonnaise in the dipping sauces. Perhaps he shouldn't have covered up the flavor of obviously suspect Yellowtail with lemon juice and diluted window cleaner. Maybe it shouldn't have been hot-held in the same rotary oven he kept his leftover haggis from the last time the Renaissance Faire blew through town, or maybe he should have washed it at some time over the course of the last three years rather than splattering the inside with ranch dressing and letting the neighborhood dogs lick it shiny-ish. It could have been any number of things. But suffice it to say, he suddenly didn't feel very well.
The cat sure as hell didn't. Since ingesting the scrap of tuna, kitty had been feeling none-too-well, himself. Point of fact, Lucky's faster metabolism allowed him to experience every color of the foodbourne illness spectrum, and he was giving serious consideration to arfgarbling right on the spot. He paused to do precisely that, neck reflexively bobbing up and down in preparation of the epic ralphsplatter to come. Bart - not doing much better.
Meanwhile...
Just up the road, there was a particularly uninteresting fellow by the name of Mr. Perkins, an average, non-descript motorist. Mr. Perkins, as his description suggested, was indeed particularly uninteresting, but his circumstances in that moment were not. Much as a single moose has no idea what role it plays in the ecosystem of the Canadian Rockies, he was fully unaware of what would transpire as he carefully drove his vehicle closer to our plucky protagonist, Bartholomew, his distressed and vomiting cat, Lucky, and multiple gallons of obscured human waste in a storm sewer.
Another vehicle was passing by the scene, also oblivious to the Rube Goldberg situation developing, was just finishing off a smooth, refreshing Llama cigarette, and thought to flick the glowing, orange-red butt out into the street. He had just engaged his power window, one button access to a more ventilated car, and aimed solidly for the nearby sewer grate as he passed by. In hindsight, he probably should have just used an empty energy drink can.
The flash of blue and yellow flame could be seen easily by all parties nearby, halting business, stopping pedestrians in the middle of the crosswalks, and even causing a veteran meter maid to pause her ticket-writing and let out a lingering, "Daaaaaaaayum". Manhole covers from all around took to a spinning coin style liftoff, initiating with a series of hollow popping sounds and roaring columns of fecal fire. But it didn't stop there. The first metallic clang sounded like a funeral bell as a manhole cover slammed earthward, showering the area with sparks and tiny bits of blacktop. Poor Mr. Perkins tried like mad to pilot his airport-rented vehicle away from the series of falling steel disks of unimaginable discomfort, jerking the wheel this way and that, to-ing and fro-ing, weaving up onto the sidewalk to avoid getting lobotomized and/or crushed by the physical aftereffects of the impromptu shitfire (or as the Germans call it, "scheißfeuer"). His last wild attempt pointed him squarely in the direction of Bart.
But dear readers, do not be alarmed! For you see, Mr. Perkins was not a poor, non-descript motorist. No, he was an average, non-descript motorist! Deftly, he used his Average Motoring Powers to divert the path of his vehicle yet again, narrowly missing the intestinally compromised Bartholomew, and instead clipping a nearby fire hydrant. Chaos all around him, but Bart remained solid, still standing hard against the very appearance of cataclysmic uncertainty. True, the hydrant was now precariously bent to the side, its moorings strained and poking from underneath the concrete of the sidewalk that had already been damaged by an explosion and the pounding of manhole covers, the water pressure building in that one spot to such a degree that the steel jacketed piping began to swell like a party balloon. But those things were built to last.
It wasn't until the undeniable sound of metal fatigue began to whine and shudder throughout the area that anyone thought anything else might be wrong, but by then it was far too late. Weakened support combined with intense water pressure caused the heavy hydrant up above ground to list heavily to one side, and with a crashing sound not unlike a washing machine hitting the pavement from twelve floors up, the device of city infrastructure ripped free of its metal safeguards and spun, as if knuckleballed by an angry giant, catching Bartholomew full-on in the face and torso. The resulting force blew him and the hydrant into the brick wall behind him, splitting his skull fully open from the face going back, and bisecting his sternum the way one might perform a vivisection with a stray steel girder. People stood horrified, too shocked to move, speak, or breathe, as Bart's body refused to believe that it was dead, even as it was mostly a tangle of bone and syrup wrapped around a hunk of metal that read "Justice, CA Dept. of Water & Sanitation". Hands and arms reflexively tried to grasp forward even as legs shook, unable to execute a flight response no matter how much they desperately wanted to.
The last image burned into the retina of his one, barely functional eyeball as it hung limply there from its optic nerve, swaying lightly in the wind, was Lucky the Cat. He had walked up to the stain that used to be its master and provider, curious to the extreme. Bartholomew was not among the living long enough to witness gravity reassert control on the hydrant, pulling it away from his body with a wet sucking sound, and drop unceremoniously to the sidewalk, nor the apathy with which Lucky began to lick his paws at the whole ordeal.
Across the street, a dental hygienist from Poughkeepsie, NY dropped to his knees and emptied the contents of his stomach upon the ground. He was joined by many others.
Caesar Gonzalez
Location: La Hacienda
Yeah, that wasn't expected at all. He informs that he didn't want to be followed, so naturally, Maria decided that following him must be the proper and wisest course of action in that moment. Her question merely echoed Caesar's statement, or rather the reciprocal of it. She wants to prolong the inevitable? Fine. Caesar would answer, even though it took precious seconds away from his mission.
Caesar stopped in his tracks. He turned around to see Maria looking at him in a manner that seemed both indignant and authoritative, her eyes bright with passionate intensity. He remembered why he married her in the first place, all those years ago. Maria was as strong willed as himself, with considerably better looks. Forcing himself not to smile, the venerable Mexican leaned in closely to her, cleared his throat, and answered, "I am going to apologize. If you follow behind me like you're making me do it, it's not going to happen. ¿Esta bien contigo?"
Fal'shbort - You are tougher, stronger, more Russian!
Tretiy Glaz - An ability that gives a person a sixth sense into the future. Unpredictable and random.
Location: Russian Imperial Circus Tent City (Regent's Park)
Despite the fact that Vladimir's hands were covered in blood that wasn't his, coupled with the fact that he had been very recently holding the severed head of a fellow circus performer, he seemed in relatively good spirits. It could have been an act, or ploy of some kind designed to maintain order among his people. If The Great Bazhooli resorted to panic, it was only a matter of time before the Circus went right along with him. Admittedly, it was an understandably rare occurrence for an accidental death of this nature to darken their hearthy Tent City; luckily it was all out of sight of the visiting dignitaries from the Graveolase.
About at that time, Viktor the Ringmaster made his appearance. He was a man who put as much stock into making a show of his presence as Vladimir was; it was one way that he was very much like a Bazhooli, though other character traits would have taken him out of the running as a "Great" one. Viktor's loyal army of Russian Circus Roustabouts quickly saw to the still-warm body of Alexandra, rolled up in canvas. They passed along jugs of good, clear water, washing the blood off of people and hard surfaces. Vladimir motioned for the Ringmaster to come over to him, which he happily obliged to do, carrying a bottle of his own for Vlad to rinse his hands clean. As the blood ran onto the ground from his fingers, he addressed the man that was essentially the Circus Manager and Master of Finance. "Гравеолаза здесь, Виктор. Я должен увидеть семью Бажули для этой встречи - именно по этой причине мы здесь. Будете ли вы следить за тем, как люди девушки обращаются с этим?1"
Viktor's face was all seriousness and a small amount of alarm as he listened to what Vladimir had to say on the situation. When it came down to it, this is what they did when the pressure was on them: They set aside pride and conflict, deferred to each other's expertise, and got the job done. "Конечно, Великий Бажули. Это будет сделано, и я встречу вас в грандиозном павильоне для ознакомления позже.2"
Vlad had to ready himself and his Sem'ya to meet the Graveolase, maybe get in a dry run of their Grand Mamushka. He definitely had to get his "performance face" on. They all had their roles to play, and his was as the powerful, charming, merry showoff, commanding his people like a Field Marshal and executing impressive displays of martial prowess and coordination. But first...
"Lady Crypt!" he called from his position near the dead lady's horse. "It does heart joy, immense joy to be seeing you vith us this evening! Truly, you bring shadowy glimmer of mystery and passionate enchantment to vhat othervise vould be simple night at circus, da?" He approached briefly, just long enough to relay a more personal greeting. Bowing low, Vladimir began speaking again as he slowly rose to a standing position, shoulders broad and back straight. "It is honor to have one ov such undeniable grace, cold, starlit beauty, and charismatic intensity attending vith us, Lady Crypt. I am at service to you, ov course. Vhen ve have time, I vould speak vith you. But for now, obligations do not allow. For please, enjoy hospitality ov Circus - vhatever you need, ask." He offered another bow in the direction of Elizaveta and Mary, "Grand Duchess, Sister-Knight..." before hurrying back off in the direction of the remainder of his family, already preparing for the show. His retreating form could be heard giving Constantin encouragement.
"Excellent! For thank you! Just cover blood on ground, or give to Viktor's people, da? Enjoy salad after!"
1 = The Graveolase is here, Viktor. I must see to the Bazhooli Sem'ya for this meeting - it is the reason we are here. Will you please attend to the girl's people and handle this?
2 = Certainly, Great Bazhooli. It will be done, and I shall meet you in the grand pavilion for the introduction later.
Sister Mary Ignatia Hale
"Hail Mary, full of grace, The Lord is with thee." Location: Russian Imperial Circus Tent City (Regent's Park)
It warmed Mary's heart to see Virginia approach. The evening was quickly becoming a jumble of important things happening all at once, threatening to overwhelm the already stressed Apostolic. Mary was a Venator, not a politician. She hunted Soulless and represented her Church, acting on their behalf as an agent of God's will upon His creation. Just not tonight. No, tonight Mary had greatness thrust upon her, and she had to sit in the seat of one of the most powerful offices in the world. It was a foregone conclusion that she did not want it, but to turn it over to someone else without sizing them up first could very well ensure a dark period for mankind across the world. Mary had to protect the seat of the Arch Graveolase from those who would pervert its intentions.
Naturally, seeing her friend walk up to her and the Grand Duchess drew a nigh seraphic smile from her. She had come because she needed help, granted, but Mary was just happy to see her. The young Apostolic remained quiet as Elizaveta spoke to Virginia; they were in public and she held much higher station. What she had said to Virginia, leading with the news about the Lady Wyndham, struck Mary with a sense of realization: Veta might intend to seek assistance from Virginia with her plans to ride for Gretna Green. It was both a relief and a cause for anxiousness. Relief, because she would not have to go alone if she could convince the Lady Crypt, and a streak of anxious nerves because there was a very good possibility that Mary would be unable to accompany them. She very much wanted to, especially if it was the three of them. Envy, jealousy, what have you; she would have to confess this later. Out of respect to Veta, certain details would have to be left out.
But even as the Grand Duchess was finishing her words with Lady Crypt and James, and The Great Bazhooli concluded ...being himself... Mary took the opportunity to speak to her. "It is very good to see you, Lady Crypt. I am delighted to see that my message was received quickly and you responded in person. Please, as you are able, tell me everything about yours and the young Viscount's situation. In the interest of disclosure, I should mention that another option has availed itself, though it is not fully confirmed at this time. But first, please, are you or your brother in need of food or drink? The people here are very generous with guests, as you have seen."
Mary made it a point not to discuss the very recent decapitation.
Aziza looked over towards Reginald and sighed slightly. "Did you really mean it when you said you would be willing to get me out of the country?" she asked him as she bit her bottom lip nervously. This was a huge change from the night before, something had to have happened.
This was important. "Of course, my dear. Certainly. My offer concerning the Brighton estate remains, should you desire it. But whatever has transpired since last evening that would prompt a change of heart?" This did seem unlike her, especially now with the bit of mystery afoot. She was not one to leave something unfinished.
Biting her bottom lip still, her eyes darted over towards Harry. He could see that she was nervous and saying any of this out loud, even to the Lord Major had her scared. "Sir, when we reached Miss Tarek's home it had been broken into. Nothing seemed to be stolen but I have seen war zones with less damage. That combined with the attack on her at Alf Leyla Salah's yesterday," Sgt. Walsh began to say and try to fill in the Lord Major as best he could without sounding crazed but making sure to point out the seriousness of the situation. Aziza however cut him off mid-sentence.
"I think my ex-husband is trying to have me killed Reginald, I can't stay in Cairo," she blurted out as she wrapped her arms around herself. She was shaking from saying it outloud. Harry sighed as he stepped over to her and pulled her into his arms, trying to calm her.
The Lord Major straightened himself, his face losing much of the softness that it had ordinarily when dealing with friends and not associates. It seems that this was a piece of business that required his attention. "I see." His voice was businesslike and final. He walked back over to his desk and sat down behind it, pulling out a pen and sheaf of paper. He began writing, pausing every couple of seconds to speak. "Indeed. Worry not; you are at under the protection of His Royal Majesty's Armed Forces, on what is considered British soil. You may stay here for as long as you wish, as my personal guest." He looked over his paperwork, blowing lightly to help the ink dry. "If you are certain that this is what you wish, I shall attempt to expedite your legal immigration by stamping a work permit, concerning the position we had discussed, but are you certain this is that vile man's doing?"
The dancer nodded slightly as she kept her face buried against Harry's chest. Smoothing her hair down a bit, Sgt. Walsh reached into his pocket and pulled out the stone which had collided with the side of Aziza's head the day before. Reaching over he set it down on the desk in front of the Lord Major. "This is what struck her while she was on stage yesterday," he said as he wrapped his arm back around the woman. It was still stained with the blood it had drawn from her. "The person who threw it called her Manbudh as he threw it," Harry added. It was a word that the Lord Major would be familiar with, a term that literally translated to wreckage but when tossed out at a woman meant she was trash, a home wrecker, a whore, and so much more. It was usually yelled out before a woman was stoned to death because of infidelity.
On the stone written in Arabic was Azizas name and some choice words that when translated would read "death is coming." "I thought it was a threat but just in passing until I saw my home today..." she said as she looked down at the stone. "Now I am sure my ex husband is set to finish what he started the day I was driven out of my home and away from my son."
Reginald considered the words of both Sergeant Walsh and his good friend Aziza. He nodded soberly, looking at the pair with weary eyes. "Some people simply cannot act as gentlemen... I am very sorry for this Aziza, and I promise that I shall keep you as safe as I am able." He paused for a moment, then tried to speak with some optimism. "Madame, you will enjoy Brighton, I am sure of it. Beach resort city, and whatnot. Excellent nightlife, quiet during the off seasons, and superior opportunities for persons wishing entrepreneurial ventures. You just tell me when you wish to leave, and I shall do my best."
"I don't want to leave. Not without my son..." Aziza said quietly as she stared blankly at Harrys chest as she rested her forehead against him and sighed.
"You can't help him if you let yourself be killed," Harry said and Aziza nodded, knowing what he said was true. Turning her head slightly she looked over at the Lord Major.
"Yesterday, today, as soon as possible," she finally said. It was obvious she didn't want to go but with everything going on she had to. These type of men never stopped and she couldn't live the rest of her life in the barracks. Leaving the country was the best she could hope for.
"Lord Major, if it is possible, I wish to go with her. I will escort her and keep her safe," Harry chimed without a moments hesitation. Azizas eyes darted up and she let out a nervous smile before burying her head back against his chest and thanking him silently.
A deep breath filled the lungs of the Lord Major, followed shortly by a long exhale. This was to be a means of escape for not just Aziza, but for the retired Sergeant as well. The folly of youth, he supposed. It was a very keen-edged thing, the nature of mutual affection, and not one that was guaranteed to remain indefinitely. Still, Reginald did not really know this man, Sergeant Harry Walsh, remotely as well as he knew Miss Aziza Tarek. The same level of trust had not been established.
If he wished to join her, Reginald would not pose an objection, but he wanted to ensure that Aziza had the upper hand, legally speaking. Though his words were pointed at the dancer, his knowing tone implied that they were meant for the both of them. "Aziza, the paperwork I hold in my hand has declared you the Steward and primary caretaker of the Keystone Estate in Brighton, East Sussex, England, with a contract to the family lasting not less than twenty years and moderate retirement afterward, if desired. The existing staff is at your disposal, and any decision to modify said personnel or share the responsibilities of the office is, of course, at your pleasure." Clearing his throat, he concluded with, "And I am able to make travel plans for two almost as easily as one."
Azizas eyes widen as the Lord Major spoke. She had no doubt that he would help her but on this level? She didn't know what to say but the look in her eyes, which were now tearing up, spoke volumes. He had always been good to her and treated her with respect, well minus that one time where he propositioned her, but she never thought he would do so much. Her lips rolled in as she left Harrys arms and made her way around the mans desk. It didn't matter there was still a stench hanging in the air and on the mans clothing. It didn't stop her from wrapping her spindle like arms around the aging Keystone and hugging him as he body shook and she let a tear or two slip from her eyes. "Thank you," was all she could manage to sob out.
Swallowing lightly Harry watched Aziza and nodded in gratitude towards the Lord Major. "I have a passport, a member of his kinds empire, no need to make arrangements for me as well sir. I will handle my travel arrangements, I just did not want to be escorted away from her if you were to assign a protection detail is all," he said as he stood there and placed his hands behind his back in a parade rest.
"Indeed. You are quite welcome, my dear." Reginald looked piercingly at Harry, though he returned Aziza's hug with the grandfatherly understanding. It occurred to him that, when Aziza left the barracks, it would very likely be the last time he would see her ever again. It made him genuinely sad. "Aziza," he started quietly, "You will be the Estate Mistress of a great house. It is not a title of nobility, but it can carry a prestigious amount of influence, especially in a port city along the Channel. Establish yourself. Invest. Use this new influence to tend to your own affairs as you see fit. You are in a position to take back control of your life - but do keep my house in proper order, hmm?"
Taking on a more steady, soldierly voice, he continued, "Sergeant Walsh, so far as I am concerned, the two of you are in this together. When I assign a detail, rest assured you shall not be shuffled off. To wit, when the boundaries of military influence have been crossed and more civil authorities take the reins, it falls to you, sir, to ensure Miss Tarek's safety. Take what you need from this base, the both of you. I shall sign for it. Now for the meantime, I have only one question: do you prefer air travel, or would you fancy a ship?"
To say that Keystone despised the Undead was obvious. It wasn't just the fact that they were awful, supposed-to-be-dead mockeries of life, nor that the corporeal ones were oft squishy and smelled like the lower half of a stomach illness. I mean, these things certainly helped Keystone's personal distaste along, but the fact that he kept being hurled against them was cause for considerable annoyance as well. Over time, he had become quite apt at pummeling them into oblivion about as fast as a Cleric could turn them away, but apparently today was not one of those days.
Possibly not the entire day; that had yet to be seen. The fact remained that right at that moment, Keystone could not really get at either of the enemies present. The thought occurred to him that he could attempt to wrestle away the big, fluffy dire wolf that had been ensorceled by that lugubrious little fartmuffin. He wasn't in a good position to do so right then, but a little edging to the side would be immensely helpful for this course of action.
He noticed that the largest single amount of motion came from the Dwarf, Nor. Keystone had a certain amount of respect for Dwarves and their culture. Most of them, anyway. Not all of them were the labor-intense, hard drinking beaters of wholesale ass that best represented their race. Some were... ...a little "off". One in particular came to mind, a socially misplaced fellow who went by the name of Obgyn; one of the rare few that could keep up with his own gaseous expulsions, though with far less control. The words of the bard Virgil flashed through his mind; a very brave soul who happened to be present for one of his more memorable moments in history and committed it to paper, for posterity's sake:
Upon stepping into the foyer, Obgyn grins and rubs his stout hands together with something that looked a bit like childish glee. That or gas, one could never tell. The setting seemed perfect. Yes, a large, richly appointed area from which to study, get his name out, and avoid all the hassles of town elders and authority figures that just don't get his dream. Hanging out with adventurers and Guildsmen may be just what his career needs right now, reasoned the less-than-charismatic healer.
His face contorted into worry for a moment, then confusion, then pain. Then without warning, a sputtering baritone erupted from the back of his baggy trousers, stressing the coarse stitching and seeming to grow in intensity and depth with the assistance of the room's broad walls and solid marble base flooring. If elephants were fairies, and the entire continent stood up in unison and screamed, "I do not believe in elephants!", the death rattle of a thousandfold parades of the behemoths would have been dwarfed by the brutal finality of his post-intestinal ham flapping. The sulphurous assault broke through this reality and into the next nearest to reveal a better, more gratifying world had Obgyn never been born, briefly bringing a tear to his eye with its stunning beauty and advanced civilization. The odor began to age any organic matter it caressed as if it were the screeching of a banshee attacking a lovely young maiden out for a walk along the loch at night, peeling paint and ruining the warranties on whatever household knick-knacks it permeated. The affront to she senses was such that Obgyn's eyes watered further, nostril hairs singed short, and every color of the rainbow exploded in front of him in a fractal of death and longing.
All a once, reality snapped back to its original, default settings. The healer (if that term can EVER be used for him anymore) realized that his health may be at risk were he to linger in the area anymore, and hurried off to find the most defendable room he could acquire for himself. Then realizing there was a wetbar in the house, ran back downstairs to help himself and pretend that none of this ever happened.
And if anyone asked him, by Stryfe himself, he would try to blame this on the Paladin. "Hmm... guess it was gas after all. Heh heh."
As he walked into the house's bar, "Yami, was it? HI! Hi. Good to talk to a fellow healer. So, Holy Warrior, huh? Never dated one of those before..."
It could be said that Keystone was surprisingly well read for a big guy. In any case, the difficulty at hand needed some more time to play out before he could get his hands involved, and so, Keystone chose to hold his action, waiting for a clear moment to present itself.
The young woman braced herself on the dash as the truck decelerated to an solid stop. The stop was necessary, however, as the ground beneath them started to shake yet again, pummeling what used to be an inhabited area into dust. She felt badly for these people even though she did not know them; they were friends and family to people that were her friends and family. That fact alone was not enough to warrant her sticking her neck out, but there was so much more going on here than a heartbreaking natural disaster. As the shake subsided, the Lieutenant Commander addressed Thalia's questions in a stoic manner that she was strangely accustomed to, especially when the subject involved potential mortality.
That just seemed to be Thalia's pattern ever since the first few corpses stood up and decided to start gnawing on the living. Move, survive, meet new people, and calmly discuss putting down a number of enemies, be they living or dead. She considered it a shame when she had to bleed out the living - it was pretty evident that Humans belonged on the Endangered Species list - but the living posed a more pointed and unpredictable threat to survival on the rarer occasions when they would cross paths. Eden would hopefully learn this lesson fairly shortly. Unfortunately, Thalia had some tactical observations about the place they were about to assault.
"Golf course, huh?" Not that she had been a stalwart player of the sport, or really played at all, but she had physically been on golf courses before as part of her work and she was employed by her uncle Caesar's security company since she graduated from college up until the Outbreak. "That sounds like a lot of open ground surrounded by trees and chainlink fence. Buildings near the main road, where I imagine most of the important people would be located, and fuck all if I wouldn't set up roadblocks or snipers or something nasty for people like us."
Concerning the Captain and potential survivors, "So he won't be joining us on this run." It was an observation, not an accusation or judge on character. "For what it's worth, I hope he gets your people out. As many as he can." She might even want to meet the guy who built that monster. "Any chance of getting a hardcopy map of the area? Truck stop, gas station?"
Alicia and Gilbert seemed to have a similar style of table manners while at leisure. That is to say, none really at all except for the broadest of concepts. For example, neither of them had used their sleeves or tablecloth as a napkin yet and both of them were using forks. Being fair, there wasn't a cloth over the table at any rate and Gil wasn't in sleeves, but the principle remained the same. The fork issue was actually something that Gilbert had to learn, once upon a time, as his existence predated the invention of the personal table fork. Still, it was a welcome addition to his repertoire of common human knowledge. Gilbert was knowledgeable of, and indeed fond of formal dining etiquette when it was called for; otherwise he couldn't be bothered. This was particularly true of times when he was eating with Alicia, who again, shared a similar style of table manners.
He would have answered her question straightaway, but one of the few points of tact he possessed prevented him from speaking openly with a mouth crammed full of steak and eggs. He answered her first question (concerning why he couldn't be outside for a few minutes) with a shrug, tilting his head to the side. Not that he minded so much sharing a bit of his meaty preparations with her, but she seemed to have moved on from it as quickly as she brought it up. When she started cooking, Gilbert immediately started kicking himself for neglecting to include Bacon in his breakfast. Tomorrow, maybe.
Alicia's second question also seemed to resolve itself. He had attempted to motion over to where it lay, failing to pass along the message as she had already began turning back around to see to her meal. So, he continued to happily munch away until she had finished preparing her own food.
"Yes, Eve was just here, actually." Finally, a question that he could answer. "I think she was headed in the general direction of the servants' quarters." It was a funny and irregular language, English. He had become quite enamored with the continued use of it. Answering questions seemed a decent expression of the language. "You know some of these people personally? This explains all the noise from earlier." The Emendator known colloquially as "The Hat" scraped a fair portion of chopped steak onto a bread plate and pushed it across the table to Alicia with his index finger. He raised his eyebrows for an instant and leaned back in his seat. Gilbert yawned a little and stretched, raising his arms high above his head and leaning back a bit. While his head was tilted back, his ears picked up the burbling sound of water on the stovetop. Deftly, Gilbert stepped out of his chair and procured two cups, dropped a full tea infuser in each, and poured the simmering water into each. He kept one cup for himself ad set the other in front of Alicia. "Yeah, I'd say we do need stronger hot sauce. I'll see what I can do about that later. It's too bad that we can't easily find a Curry nearby. Have you ever tried Vindaloo? It's the closest thing to fire I think I have consumed. It's from India, or near there. Eh.." Gilbert was starting to ramble.
"But to business," he said in an ironically casual fashion. "Did Evie mention how many will be joining the household today?" The tall immortal swept up his shirts and vest, finishing dressing himself next to the dwindling heap of his very large breakfast. "I am to give the new group a tour of the grounds after they have settled in. I'd rather take care of it sooner than later. But first, you never speak much about your other timeline. The one with zombies? I think that is the term... This is where the new ones are from?"
James Grady
Location: Ville au Camp - Main House, Room 209 -> Room 107
James was relieved to see that she had taken the whole "Thou Art Dead" bit with grace and tact. He had half expected to see a woman who was broken and sobbing with depression. Hell, he kind of felt like doing that, himself. He didn't get to know Sophia all that well prior to her death, but she seemed like a stand-up lady. James accepted the hug and returned the gesture, giving her a formidable but not too forceful squeeze and lifting her off of the ground slightly. It was his way.
"Ha HA, girl! It's damn nice to see another friendly face up in here! I mean, I'm sorry you're dead an' all, but still, it's good to see you. Now, you gotta know I ain't needin' no sugar, Sugar. But I'll be happy to step inside an' visit a while." The optimistic blackneck took a step of two inside of Sophia's room, nodding his head with a grateful, "Thanks ya much." He reminded himself that this was 1943and that they were in semi-rural Louisiana, of all places. "Now, don't you go around tellin' folks we was talkin' all alone-like. Get a brotha strung up a muthafuckin' tree... But hey, how long you been here, an' what can you tell me 'bout what's goin' on?"
Considering the utter confusion and meeting of old friends, James could go for something along the lines of a nice, flammable nerve tonic. "Come to think on it, I could really use some o' the Captain's sippin' mash. We got anything like that 'round here?" Maybe not the most appropriate thing this early, but to James's credit, he'd very recently been dead. Circumstances were a little extenuating. "Maybe we can talk over a drink, hmm?"
Jacqueline was proving to be something of a puzzle for the former Lieutenant Harper. That puzzle was quickly tossed into a drawer and immediately forgotten the moment she mentioned that she was routinely sought after by law enforcement. While his identity would likely remain intact under all but the most intense of Central inquiry, the concept of it was, in theory, an anathema to him. Unless the woman exaggerated the level with which she got hassled by the constabulary, they had a problem. Of course, now her talk had turned to finding a place to settle, that sword had become double edged. Were she to "settle" on board Prometheus, regional lawfolk would be easier to avoid, but she would have to answer to the ever-present authority figures on board. And if her threats were to be taken seriously, one of those authority figures had a nasty habit of tossing people who displeased her out of the airlock.
Was it the best idea to surround himself with people such as these? The standard crew aside, which was already chock full of conflicting personalities and varying levels of sociopathy (himself included), they did all have certain skills that could assist in his survival. Even the foppish Barber that he wasn't too horribly fond of was supposedly some sort of mercenary badass. Like him or not, he was a useful ally to have in his corner, like the exothermic Shepherd or the former Alliance doctor. These people who had insinuated themselves into the crew's table, though? It was a bit of a coin toss. One was a naive but highly educated Engineer and fellow Osiris native, while the other was a self styled "not nice person" with a talent for getting the hell out of town when fleecing the locals gets hairy.
The one had no idea how to survive outside of the Core. The other seemed to do just that, to the exclusion of anything else. Harper leaned to Anisa and spoke quietly, so that even one close to either of them would have to strain to hear, "This whole thing could be a con, Ma'am. But you did say you wanted to bring on an Engineer and a Grifter." Yeah, this felt shady. So did everyone else on that boat. Nothing a well placed rap with a wrench couldn't fix, if it came down to it.
Harper took a sip as the conversation progressed. He was a little disappointed that Daphne decided not to join them in taking a meal. "Grab an app," he suggested. "Shouldn't drink on an empty stomach. Besides, it's on me." Harper offered a reassuring smile. His eyes showed an intelligent twinkle as he turned Fitz and Jacqueline. "My apologies," he started with melodic, low tones, "It has been a very long week, and I have forgotten my manners. Jacqueline, Dr. Townsley, my name is Harper. I'm a Pilot, among other things. Our Captain picked me up on the Rim, though it's more accurate to say that I'm from a colony near Persephone. It's a pleasure, of course."
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[hider=Death Scenes]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3622266]Dexter's Death (or Hammertime!)[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3837944]The UnBEARable Case of Lawrence Long[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4020657]Malfunctioning Space Toilet[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4557122]Rube Goldberg Decapitation[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4569229]Shitter's Full[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4602115]Dirigible (warning, SAD)[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4538295]After "The Last Barbecue"[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4723699]Detoxing Pilot[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4745239]Girls Stick Together[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4749807]Oops[/url]
[/hider]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3214659]"Character Flaw"[/url]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/2968914]Keystone's Daydream[/url]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3040161]Checking for Mental Intrusion[/url]
[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3594115]The Power Of Pain Compels You[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4670484]The Greater Good[/url]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5134610]Burial & Origin of James Mandingo Grady[/url]
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<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;"><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Lady Absinthia's GM Awards">Lady Absinthia's GM Awards [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><ul class="bb-list" style="white-space: normal;"><li></li><li>Save Another from LLA Card</li><li>Kill Any NPC in LAU Card</li><li>Plot Insight Card</li><li>Single Day Extension Card</li><li>Single Day Extension Card</li><li></li></ul></div></div><br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Death Scenes">Death Scenes [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3622266">Dexter's Death (or Hammertime!)</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3837944">The UnBEARable Case of Lawrence Long</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4020657">Malfunctioning Space Toilet</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4557122">Rube Goldberg Decapitation</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4569229">Shitter's Full</a><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4602115">Dirigible (warning, SAD)</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4538295">After "The Last Barbecue"</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4723699">Detoxing Pilot</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4745239">Girls Stick Together</a><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4749807">Oops</a></div></div><br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3214659">"Character Flaw"</a><br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/2968914">Keystone's Daydream</a><br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3040161">Checking for Mental Intrusion</a> <br><br><a href="http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3594115">The Power Of Pain Compels You</a><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4670484">The Greater Good</a><br><br><a href="https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5134610">Burial & Origin of James Mandingo Grady</a><br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Signature Images">Signature Images [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://media.giphy.com/media/xT0GqpswuzhOqHP6gM/giphy-downsized-large.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://media.giphy.com/media/iMnyx7HWjZgPu/giphy.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="http://i.imgur.com/wUTjLTf.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-K04tQV9pRE8/UCFQiE8aoVI/AAAAAAAATJk/hIK7mzvvYpk/s430/99.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="http://i.imgur.com/rigeWJc.gif" /></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://uproxx.files.wordpress.com/2015/05/throughthedoor.gif?w=650" /></div></div></div><br><br><div class="bb-center"><img src="https://image.ibb.co/jVrOhp/Scythefalling.gif" /></div></div>
Zman
Shadow Dragon
Not a Sayan
Simply Not Real
Fetzen
Lewascan2
Arty Fox
Lady Absinthia
Archangel89
