Sigil

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

---

---

J. Keystone

---

Location: Queensguard Industries R&D, Office
Skills: N/A

---

---

A soft tone emanated from Keystone's company phone. From somewhere in the security areas, a message was sent to their former Director, likely because the formal announcement of the change in hierarchy had not been made yet, announcing that the company was being mentioned on the news. He scanned the message and clicked on the flatscreen in the office. He muted the volume so as not to disturb his infant son and turned on closed captioning to get at least the gist of what was going on.

Live closed captioning was generally a tricky affair, especially with the news. It seemed like the people responsible always seemed to be three lines or so slower than the actual dialogue, and this looked to be no exception. It was not until the story blurb was done and a commercial about paper towels or some such pointless bullshit came on that Keystone acquired the knowledge of the last couple of lines. Maybe he should have keyed up the sound just a little bit, though the risk of waking the child was a harrowing concept to a man horribly surprised at becoming a father and unwilling to screw it up off from the start like his own did.

Supreme Court Justice... recent transplants to Justice... Risa Couri, language coordinator, U.N. ...Lucas Walsh, High School Art teacher...

Regardless of the precautions he took, the staff he called in, the personnel in the room, intruders got in and did horrible things under his watch. He had covered all of the entrances in the time provided, though there was little in the way of advance notice. This was not a valid excuse, granted, but it did make his job more difficult. From now on, that would be Maria's difficulty. He didn't wish to pass such a burden onto the woman, though he was glad to have a freer hand with what had to be done. That news woman - Amy Adams - she was right about something. MSS was out for revenge. They just needed to know where to lay the blade first. And this woman who was in the picture, Valerie Pye? Caesar would have to be informed about her. It was curious that he hadn't acknowledged the message that Keystone had just sent to that effect yet.

---

---

Caesar Gonzalez

---

Location: Queensguard Industries R&D, Receiving
Skills: N/A

---

---

The phone went off again. Caesar wasn't sure if it was the original message making itself manifest yet again or another one coming through. He risked a quick look to see what the deal was. It was from Keystone. No emergency tag, and no second message, either. He would have to adjust the settings on his satphone to make sure that crap like this didn't happen too often. For the meantime, his hesitance to open the message from his subordinate cemented the fact for him that he indeed wanted to open the package that he was handed by his staff, from the mystery man on the motorcycle.

Carefully, Caesar slipped his phone back into his pocket. With equal display of the manual prowess for which he had gained notoriety, that being the positive general notation of common folk who might have glimpsed the older man handle a sharp implement, and a strenuous desire to get the act accomplished without drawing excess attention, Caesar produced a classically styled switchblade knife and actuated the blade mechanism, inserted it beneath the front flap of the manila envelope and pried open the brassy fitting holding the container shut. If anything was to occur from the simple act opening the thing, let it be here in front of witness and camera. Curiosity and impatience blurred with caution as he used the blade to lift the envelope's flap, followed by a committed peering inside to, for good or ill, see what lay inside.

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

---

---

Gilbert & Andromeda

---

---

Location: Lighthouse Beach, Evanston IL, 2009
Skills: History, Spear, Pistol
Skills: Alertness, Spear

---

The Mill looked the same as always, still and serene in the morning light. The trees that surrounded it tended to give a quiet, dappled effect of light, enhanced by gentle breeze every so often. But on the inside, Gilbert's demeanor as neither still nor serene. No coffee or pastry greeted his charge on this day of training, no words of quiet encouragement. No, this was the first day of the last Paradox, and it needed to make a hard statement.

Gilbert was hurriedly getting the last of his gear together, making sure his plans were mapped out to the second. Gio would have laughed to see the ordinarily laid-back Emendator taking such actions. He even remembered to bring his watch. "Andromeda, I am going to apologize in advance. This is not the way I would have preferred to start your combat training." He took up a spear from a rack with respectable selection, eyed Andromeda, and tossed it to her. "You know how to use one of these, correct?"

Andromeda didn't quite know what to expect as she arrived at the Mill. Each of the trainings she had undergone thus far had matched, in at least one way, the style of the Emendator (or Elder Paradox). At first, when the thought occurred to her late last night, she had imagined it would be learning to sword fight with crudely made wooden sticks. Yet as the night progressed, her imagination ran wild until she had an image of him chasing her over a volcano, while bellowing "FIGHT ME, NOW!" as she held - for whatever reason - a crude copy of Captain America's shield.

She caught the spear as he tossed it, nodding. Belladonna had taught her how to use a spear - and a whip. Now that had been an interesting series of lessons. "Yes, I do," Andromeda answered promptly, seeing that they were going straight to business. Most Emendators had begun with some sort of exchange of pleasantries, but this was the last session. She supposed they needed to make the time count.

"Good." he responded gruffly. He quickly nodded his head and repeated himself, "Good." He walked over to a large mass of rough leather that happened to be a long coat. He threw it on and then paused, looking to Andromeda's style of clothing. "You will want to change out of that dress. There is a chest with things that would fit you over there." He pointed toward one side of the Mill where a handful of said containers lay, "Ash wood with the black iron fittings. You will want pants, and something more appropriate than those heels. When you are done, pick a knife. I will give you the speech about that later." As if to give a modicum of privacy during the transition, Gilbert turned away. He looked to the rack of spears, gave it a mote of consideration, and selected one for himself.

Andromeda couldn't have been happier to get to change out of a dress. She never wore them in life and she went over to the chest that Gil indicated. She looked through it quickly, finding a sturdy looking pair of jeans, a long sleeved shirt and jacket, as well as some boots. She couldn't help but wish this would be a clothing option for every day spent in the loop. Glad that Gil looked away, Andromeda changed into her new outfit, before she selected a knife from the pile that seemed rather simple and sturdy. "Done," she told Gil, indicating that he could turn around.

Gilbert turned around. He had been busy while Andromeda changed her clothing. One such note of busy involved locating and laying a hooded long coat on a table before the pale Paradox. "You may keep this, after we are done. It is cold where we are going. And it washes easily. That last point is important."

Andromeda nodded, taking the coat. She couldn't help but be a bit thrilled to have a coat like this - it was closer to her own sense of fashion than the pink dress was. She undid the buttons quickly and slid it on, before refastening them. If she had had a mirror to gaze into, she would have taken a moment to admire the stark contrast between her pale features and the noir coat.

He buttoned up his own long coat of coarse leather and pulled up its hood. Using his spear like a staff, he walked to the back door and pushed it open. The telltale shimmering within the doorframe indicated that this was indeed a portal. Gilbert looked back to Andromeda and sighed, then stepped through. He emerged to a bleak and heavily overcast setting. It was a white, sandy beach, but a frigid wind blew in from the water that threatened to shove the temperature down even more. Up the beach a little ways there were a series of prefabricated buildings set up as temporary shelters. Unfortunately, the fencing around them had gone down; from the looks of it a while ago. The beach itself was overlooked by what used to be a bustling city behind an inviting park, but now appeared abandoned. A lifeguard tower built to resemble a squat lighthouse was the only other structure on the beach, aside from the hastily assembled shelters. Though if one looked, one might see a long, long line of slowly moving humanoid figures advancing upon their position through the trees. "This is a timeline that Alicia Gonzalez, James Grady and Sophia Harris all shared. Faith too, but she didn't know them. We are on Lighthouse Beach in Evanston, Illinois. This body of water is Lake Michigan, and you..." Gilbert sighed again, "...you are here because you need to shed a dark inhibition. There is no other way to do it. You are going to have to trust me, and be prepared to make a hard choice to stay alive."

She took a moment to take in her surroundings. She had heard a bit about the timeline a majority of the Paradoxes had come from - infested with zombies. It reminded her as something from a comic book - yet she knew how easily her own world could have turned out like this. Did every timeline have its potential for an apocalyptic event? And how many of them were averted? Andromeda was tempted to ask the questions, yet Gilbert's unease and tone of voice advised her not to. She sensed there was some grave reason as to why they were in Zombieland. "...Okay, I trust you," Andromeda said, not lying. After the various training sessions and experiences she had had with the other trainers, she truly had developed a trust - at least for the Emendators and Elder Paradox. Yet it didn't mean that she wasn't riddled with nervousness. What dark inhibition could an ancient warrior be referring to? She doubted it was anything good...

"Come with me." Gilbert said quietly. He moved quickly and quietly, down the beach to the rundown prefab shelters. Just on the outside of a section of downed chainlink fence, he addressed Andromeda at a whisper. "This timeline and others like it produced an Undead Uprising that spanned the entire globe. There was no stopping it. It expressed from within the people themselves after their natural death - they came back as horrible mockeries of human life that existed purely to kill and eat. That movement in the trees, beyond the beach there? That is a massive horde - an arm of the Undead that used to be the population of Chicago. They came north following the sounds of a thunderstorm a few days ago."

His look became serious even more serious. "There are survivors in these shelters. They are sick. Starving. They will not last for very long, but even less so when that horde finds them. This timeline's history had dictated that they die. All accounts, no matter what. They are most likely dead within the half hour. Here is your question: Do they starve to death? Does the fluid in their lungs eventually choke them away? Will they die a horrifying, tearing death at the claws of rotting and stinking corpses?" He stared at her hard, but his voice softened, "Or do we do a terrible thing and show them mercy?" Gilbert looked to Andromeda's spear, then back into her eyes.

Andromeda's knee jerk reaction was to come up with a solution that didn't involve loss of life. If all timeline accounts dictated that they died, why not use a portal to send them somewhere else? Put them on a habitable planet that is devoid of life, tell them to never explain where they came from, check to make sure that the timeline doesn't implode...Or even just give them a reprieve in Ville au Camp. "If they're supposed to die, why not take them to a location where their actions won't have an impact on the course of events?" Andromeda asked. She didn't want to kill them. "There's got to be somewhere in all of time and history where they could go...Like what about a timeline where humanity never took root on Earth? Or maybe another planet capable of sustaining life? If they're inconsequential enough that we can kill them...can't we find someplace to take them to live in peace that would be of no temporal consequence?"

There were so many reasons. So many that could not be adequately explained in the time provided. They could hear the collective sounds of the wall of Undead nearing their position, hungry and otherwise unfeeling, lacking even the baseline curiosity to wonder why they were in the state that they were. "This is their time and place in history. Putting them elsewhere, including the Loop, is dangerous. Not every human who dies can become a Paradox, but they will all die. Everyone who is born is fated to die. They have accomplished the task of their lives, influenced who they needed to, did what their purpose was to do." Gilbert nodded his head knowingly.

He knew how she felt. Despite the blood and carnage of his earliest conscious memory, there were times when he wanted to fall to his knees and scream at the utter and complete unfairness of it all. But the goal was clear on this day. "Now let me tell you what is going to happen next: The few of these people who have the ability to stand will come out, drawn by the sounds of those dead people over there." He pointed at the steadily nearing horde. "They will see us. They will attack, certain we mean them harm. They will not ask questions nor accept our help. If we are killed or driven off, they will attempt to reinforce the downed fencing here before the horde takes them, and they will fail. Even if the fences were whole, they will fail. These people will be ripped to shreds, and there is nothing to be done about it except to give them a clean passing." Gilbert stood, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his coat and hefting his spear. "Here we are in the middle. Act or perish."

Her breath caught in her throat. Every trick that came to her mind as to a way to help these people - Gilbert effortlessly countered them. She supposed she shouldn't have expected anything different - she hadn't even lived a small fraction of his lifespan. The situation reminded her of the Kobayashi Maru - mostly due to the difficult choice it prevented. Either way, these people were going to die - Gilbert had been incredibly clear of that. The spear felt incredibly heavy in her hand. They'd never done anything to hurt her - and to think of death as a mercy...Was she capable of doing that? She honestly didn't know. "...I don't know if I can..." Andromeda admitted quietly, biting down on the inside of her cheek. "But....I will try..."

"Yes." It was an acknowledgment of her statement rather than a affirmation. Gilbert moved aside the corroded and downed portion of chainlink fence before him and beckoned for Andromeda to follow. The sounds of the dead behind them were much clearer now, the rising volume serving as the sands of an apocalyptic hourglass. There were few things like it to provide motivation, most especially to those who attempted survival in this world. Already the first few ambled slowly onto the sands of the beach, thankfully farther up.

Gilbert led his Paradox student to the nearest ruined structure. There was enough of wall and roof for it to be considered a shelter of sorts, so as to keep the worst of weather from off one's back. As they approached along one stretch of wall, a single living man stepped around the corner, partially leaning on the building for support. To say that he was living was a perilous statement; he was on the cusp of collapse. In his hand was a large bore revolver, which he raised with some effort at the two timeline hopping interlopers. As he opened his mouth to call for help, Gil sprang into action, knocking the man's arm down with the blunt end of his spear. He continued the arc to catch him at the knee, upending the poor soul an taking him flatly upon the ground. The fallen man barely seemed to notice the spearpoint enter his ribcage; by the time it was withdrawn and pierced his skull, life had already left his form. "The next one is on the other side of this building, facing more or less in our direction. You may take him by surprise if you go around the back way, hugging the walls." This was much to ask. Gilbert had to prepare his students mentally as well as physically, however, and this was a hangup that they couldn't afford. "I will be right on the other side, Andromeda. It will not take much. They are almost dead already. Go."

Andromeda was taking deep and quick breaths, in through the mouth and out her nostrils in a near huff like sound. It was already a terrible act to consider in the abstract - yet seeing it in front of her, it was almost too much to bear. She could barely keep a grip on her spear and she wanted to sink to the ground and place her head between her knees. The slight food she had eaten before heading to see Gilbert was threatening to come up. She took another panicked breath, looking at Gilbert as she opened her mouth to utter some excuse - before she changed her mind and hobbled slowly around the back of the building as he had indicated. It helped that she hugged the walls, as her knees were wobbling and her eyes were watery.

"I'm so so sorry..." she mumbled, feeling numb and simultaneously on fire as she used her spear on the unfortunate soul. He was a man in his early thirties, with though stress, illness, and starvation he might have passed for fifty. He had a revolver in his hand, but was unable to pull the trigger before the attack hit. Andromeda's spear entered his body and he fell, to his knees at first. A line of drool fell from his mouth, tinged in red, and as he slumped forward one could hear the weakest of cries issue from him; the last ounce of survival instinct he had left.

Gilbert came from around the corner in front of Andromeda. He looked at the man on the ground in between them and he saw the expression that his Paradox student had. This was a line crossed for her. It would require a significant amount of discussion and workthrough later on. Understanding could be heard from the elder Emendator as he spoke, "You have taken a human life. It is never something to celebrate. But understand, there is a difference between killing - and being a killer. If you wish it, we may leave this place now. The horde of Undead will be along in a few minutes and finish the job for us anyway. What do you think we should do?" This was an uncertain moment for the young Paradox. Gilbert stood braced for many eventualities, his mind already working on what was to happen next.

Andromeda didn't know what she thought. She wished that Gilbert had gone and stood in front of the corpse, to block it from her view, yet the image was burned into her mind anyways. She took another shuddery and panicked breath, leaning against the wall behind her for support. She hadn't even had the heart to pull the spear out of him. It all just felt cruel and senseless and meaningless. "I think....I-I-....um...." Andromeda stammered, feeling light headed as she collapsed to the ground on her knees and her back arched almost catlike as she proceeded to vomit.

That was one of the possible eventualities that Gilbert had predicted. It ranged from an odd, psychopathic sense of delight to being outright attacked, but emptying one's stomach was right up there. One of the more common ones, actually. A common, natural response to something that was simultaneously against human nature yet enmeshed in human history. "Take a minute. Absorb what just happened. Do not take too long though, Andromeda. There is so much that I have to tutor you in that I cannot do if we are consumed by that army of corpses outside of the ruined fence. Gather yourself, and make a decision."

"If....If there's....oh god...." Andromeda muttered, dry heaving this time. She coughed, trying her best to wipe her mouth so that way she didn't look entirely disgusting as she sat back on her heels. She didn't think she'd be quite up to stand and talk about this. It had been hard enough a few seconds ago to just stand and think about this. "If there's only a few minutes...I don't think I could do it, get them all..." she managed to say, her voice sounding hoarse. Her body's natural response had also resulted in watery eyes.

"It is okay, Andromeda. Everything is fine. It is a good decision. A considered decision. It shows that you understand your own limits right now. Limits I intend to push during our time together. You will emerge from this a stronger, wiser person for it. And you are correct, time is a factor - we need to move. If you are unable to run, I will carry you." His voice remained calm and understanding, but there was a sense of urgency to his words. "It will be alright. We should go." Gilbert offered his hand down to Andromeda, nodding slowly.

Truthfully, she didn't know if she could run at the moment. And while she had just vomited in front of one of the oldest beings alive, she still had a slight sense of pride left in her. She would try to run, before asking for Gilbert to carry her back to wherever the portal had been stashed. She understood he was attempting to keep her calm with those words and she knew she didn't appreciate it then, but she would later. "I'll see if I can run," she mumbled, wiping off her hand on the coat just in case - she didn't want to get vomit on Gilbert's hand - as she rose to her feet, her knees still trembling and shaking.

Gilbert took a step back, his hand still available to Andromeda and supportive. He merely wished to give her room. Crowding did hazardous things for a person already feeling physically ill, in his experience. "Follow me closely behind, if you can. If you stumble or if you cannot keep up, shout for me. We will start at a jog." Gilbert walked them back to the aperture in the fence. The living dead had already found their way onto the beach in numbers, which was problematic for Gilbert. "Here," said the Emendator, handing over his spear to Andromeda to hold along her own. "Please take this, if you would." He reached into his rawhide greatcoat and pulled out two 45 caliber hand cannons, and stepped boldly onto the open beach. "Lifeguard tower. That is where our portal is located. Stay close and when we get there, run ahead of me. Do you understand?" A fire burned in Gilbert's eyes. He seemed to dip back into the kind of man that he used to be, thousands of years ago. Gone was the laid-back Emendator of Ville au Camp, replaced with the last traces of a wizened and powerful Gilgamesh set against an enemy.

The sounds of gunfire reported across the sands and trees of what used to be a lakefront park in Evanston, Illinois. The noise kept the foul creatures at bay, even as it drew the greater attention of the main horde. They were coming anyway. It changed nothing. The moment that the two of them crossed the threshold of the lifeguard tower, they ceased to be in the overcast, chill air of the northern United States in the 21st century, instead finding themselves in a very familiar workshop located in an old Mill in rural Louisiana, some many decades earlier. Within the safety of the Time Loop, Gilbert motioned to the spear Andromeda used earlier. "You used that tool to take your first human life. If you wish to keep it you may; it is a good weapon and may also serve nicely as a focal point for your meditations on the subjects of combat and death. Otherwise I will destroy it or put it back into the armory, at your discretion."

She took deep yet somehow shallow breaths as soon as they made it back to Ville au Camp, having surprised herself that she had managed to run largely without stumbling. She had anticipated that after a few steps, she would have fallen to the ground as easily as the Titanic quaked beneath the power of ice. "...C-could you destroy it?" Andromeda requested quietly. Despite having spent her previous life as a collector of sorts, this was one thing she didn't want to collect. She was having trouble with the deed she had just committed and although it wasn't the case, it felt too much like a trophy that a serial killer might keep. "U-unless you n-need it or something, of course..."

"No. We have several more. I will disarticulate and burn the shaft, then reforge the blade into something clean and new. We are done for the day, Andromeda." He accepted the weapon from her, reassuring, "You did very well."

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎
Location: Shadowell Manor: Seat X -> Seat J(!)
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 4
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎

A sudden and striking sight came into the otherwise horribly disinterested Dr. Swamp. It was a vision masked in wispy, worked steel, her attire and voice serving only to accentuate the qualities, both obvious and ethereal, that which extracted the normally antisocial Doctor from his immediate concerns. "I'd give up my chair for that woman." he observed quietly, to himself. It was more of a revelation when he realized that it was most assuredly true; not only would he give up his chair, but, "I shall give up my chair for that woman." Again, too quietly to detect by those around him, partially because there was no one really around him, but it served to embolden his decision nonetheless.

Taking up his stout walking cane, Dr. Swamp pushed himself to his feet. He leaned heavily upon the stick, yet still managed to cover the space necessary to bring him closer to the woman who had influenced him to leave that which he was so amazingly sarcastic to maintain, and just by her arrival. Exhaling a breath from under his osseous, avian mask, he took some presumption in seating himself next to her. "Madame, manners and sociability are not my forte. I tend to be offputting when I ought endear. It is a curse. Instead, unless you object strenuously," he pulled a sketchpad and drawing utensil from his inner vest pocket, "I should wish to draw your likeness. It is solid rarity that I find someone who impresses me as much as myself. The occasion demands recording by a hand as noteworthy as the subject of said record." He made the first arc on the blank paper before halting, enunciating words as if they were unfamiliar, "Might I, ...please?"

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

---

---

Ash Holloway

---

Location: Headland: E. Main Street, E8 (inside Hordebuster)
Skills: Leadership

---

---

The rain seemed merciless. It battered down with such ferocity that Ash could have sworn that there was a hurricane inbound. Or right on top of them. Aside from the torrential downpour, there was no other indication of something quite so damaging as that. Hell, the rain might even have been a blessing. Its presence threw the Dead off just as much as the living, and more practical necessities geared Ash's thoughts toward potable water, so long as it held up. It might be helpful if they had a system for that on standby.

Now that was an idea worth merit. Ash was, once upon a time, an Engineer with the U.S. Army. When he wasn't establishing an inroad for troop movement, his work had decent overlap with civil projects, including providing means of gathering water based upon the location and environment. Under ordinary circumstances, it wouldn't take much to craft a rainwater collection system that was easy to use and maintain. He had done exactly that more than a few times, though on a much larger scale. But facing facts, there hadn't been ordinary circumstances for the last five years. Simple things like installing gutters now required an act of conscious forethought and tiny bits of prayer that they could find or improvise the materials necessary. It was aggravating sometimes.

Speaking of aggravating, the rain was beginning to piss Ash off. Even if this was an ambush setup, which he was having serious doubts about, this weather was making it nearly impossible to cover his people due to limited hearing and visibility. If anyone else were hiding behind the bushes or up a tree someplace, they were bound to be miserable. It was a hell of an anomaly coming across a Nun in the middle of nowhere, and it could very well be just as it appeared. It reminded him of a day when Viking women rode up to the gates of Newnan, insulted him continuously, and still got in. They became valuable members of the community despite how it began, and just then, Ash missed them terribly.

Well, he had experienced all he wanted to from this event. Ash pulled his rifle and himself back into the cab of the Hordebuster and wiped down the barrel as best he could on the quick. He leaned his head back out for a moment to bellow over the pounding rain, "Get in the goddamned truck!" and sliding the grate back into place, rolling up his window, and getting ready to receive uncertain guests.

---

---

Thalia Carmichael

---

Location: Quincy: D13
Skills: Survival

---

---

Manny was saying something; Thalia was sure of it. It was probably something vaguely doctorish, but she didn't want to hear it. It was all going to point in one direction anyway - her hand and part of her forearm were coming off. She liked that hand. A lot of fun things were accomplished with it. Parting with it was going to hurt. A LOT. It was foremost on Thalia's thoughts; that and not dying in the process of its removal. Maybe it was shock and maybe it wasn't, but words didn't seem to register consciously with her right then. This wasn't happening and simultaneously obviously was. Damnit, she wasn't going to make it back out of this house, and if she did, she was going to have to ask Thana to open bottles of ketchup for her every god damned time from this point forward.

Thalia didn't necessarily fear death. Not as much as a lot of people did, anyway. She feared not being able to take care of her duties. Disfigurement wasn't a high point, either. Scars were okay, in some cases kind of badassed, though she wasn't sure what she would do without the use of her sword hand. It was coming off. She just had to accept that for the short time that she still had two hands. As much as she feared losing a physical part of herself, Thalia feared losing all of herself were it to stay attached. Though, what good would she be then? What role could she possibly fill? How could Thalia do anything toward fulfilling her promise to get Thana to Mexico Beach, the meeting point? There were dog tags to collect from someone she assumed was special to the woman. Now she would be a burden to them all. Perhaps it was best that she didn't make it. If she did, perhaps it was best that they leave her behind. She couldn't help very much now.

Shaking, she allowed Beatrice and Manny to get her up on the table. This was it. Thalia looked down at the belt and tourniquet on her forearm, numbly aware that circulation was cut off uncomfortably but reacting to it through a haze of almost paralyzing emotion. Maybe if she was lucky, she would pass out when the cutting started. That would be the closest thing to bliss that she could hope for. Absently, and through a voice tinged with disbelief, she reached out to Beatrice, a woman who had become her friend over the past year. One with whom she had shared smiles and tears; one she had come to trust, and more. She barely registered the comment that her friend made, but she nervously smiled nonetheless. It was sarcasm designed to make her feel better anyway. Thalia's fingers began to entwine in Beatrice's shirt as she tried to focus on the words she needed to speak to her.

"Beatrice? Trice, sweetie..." she began shakily, pulling her as close as her friend would let her. Sweat sheened across her forehead and she swallowed hard, probably beginning to slip into shock at what was about to occur. "Oh, God. Okay." Thalia took in a deep breath, trying to do as Manny suggested and slow her respiration. "Girl, I know you've been watching me." She gulped, continuing, "It's okay. It's okay, I don't mind, yeah? I think you're cute, too." She smiled, a tear pooling and falling from each eye. "Really." Her voice now little more than a whisper, "Please, a little closer... I wanted you to know that, alright? In case... you know. And, if we find anything in here? If we find any..." Thalia fought hard to lean her head forward, her ragged breath hot on Beatrice's skin, "Dibs. On. The Os."

The let her head fall back onto the table with a thunk and began giggling. It was close to hysteria and she was anxious beyond imagining, but at the same time desperately needed this over and done with. She kept one hand, the one that she would still have at the end of the day, on Beatrice. SpaghettiOs or not, this sucked and she needed some support.

---

---

Hank Wright

---

Location: Okefenokee: E14
Skills: People Reading

---

---

Even if the other two didn't know what Wayne was going to do out in the woods, Hank did. It didn't stop him from moving to the back of the truck for his things, but he did acknowledge that he received the message with a pointed, "Jesus, Wayne! Can you put "The Monster" away? Got company, remember? Ah..." A dismissive shake of his head later, Hank pulled a worn backpack from the bed of the dead truck and hoisted a pump action shotgun that looked like it once belonged in a police squad car. He secured the weapon to the side of the pack by its sling and pulled the whole affair over his shoulders. Hank was about 88% sure that these people weren't going to attempt to kill, rob, or violate them in the immediate future, and risked turning his back on them just long enough to grab his belongings.

An irritated groan escaped Hank as he heard the report that Wayne had put down one more Asshole while he was having a little personal happy time. He was quite satisfied that he didn't have to see any of it happen, and the moment that he found some alcohol he was going to try to erase that he even heard about it from his brain. "Fine! That kill counts. Can we go, eh, or is there any other business you have out here in the middle of God's Armpit, Georgia?" He leaned against the formerly mobile truck and tried to look patient when he was clearly the opposite.

A touch of that impatience flared when the Roman fellow made the inquiry about "sticking around here". It was an honest enough question, though if he was being fully serious it begged for sarcastic response. Hank raised his hands to emphasize his phrasing, even as he gathered what words he was going to fling at the oddly garbed man. At the last second, he stopped and shook his head vigorously. "Nope. Too easy. I have my standards there, Julius. I'll give you this one for free: You see the direction this truck was headed? Yeah. That way. The sooner we find a vehicle I can get running, the happier I'll be. Play your cards right, we'll part ways soon enough." He looked the man up and down. "Almost."

Calling to Wayne, "You all zipped up there, buddy? Burning daylight here. I sure as hell don't want to spend the night out where the most popular sport is mosquito fornication."

🦄 Deeper Than The Sands - Merged With T.S.

---

---

Reginald Keystone

---

Location: Qasr El Nil Barracks (Officers' Club)
Skills: N/A

---

---

Reginald opened his mouth to say something to Vera, perhaps a question as to the wisdom in continuing with life's little vices when she was quite clearly unaccustomed to them, but thought the better of it immediately. No one had ever died from choking on a single cigarette, nor taking a single drink. Or two. Or... or maybe this was just a topic best left alone. Vera had quite enough on her plate today, and the Lord Major would not begrudge her the standard means of gathering one's calm, even if she was a novice at the practice. Instead, the only thing for which his slightly agape mouth was used was as a portal by which whisky could enter his stomach.

Josephine was rather forthcoming with the horrible inconveniences of the day. Not the least of which was news of Neema. Reginald removed his officers' cap and placed it over his heart. His eyes drifted downward and he sighed audibly. Setting his glass down, he remembered back to that smell of roasted meat he caught much earlier from toward the front of his courtyard. He felt a little ill, having made the sum of two and two, but spoke with quiet dignity, "I am dearly saddened to hear of this. It is said that when a person of veneration passes away, it is as if a library burns to the ground. Such was dear Neema; I am sure of it." He gave a moment of silence at the news, then continued to business.

"A ferry? By this evening? By Jove, my Lady, this is cause for an immediate course of action, you see. Securing passage upon one of those ships is one matter, but securing storage for our goods and sundries can be another matter altogether." He paced a little bit, considering the options available to him. "Hmm... the travel season is not quite upon us, but I worry. I shall send a man ahead with funds to secure our passage immediately, and upon word of reservation send our larger parcels ahead. Best accommodations possible, of course. We Brits must make a stately showing of ourselves. And I must pack my personals. Yes, much to do."

A brief interruption came from the base's medical officer, a case of whispered conversation with happy conclusion. "A modicum of pleasant news, at least. All of our friends and associates are quite outpatient at this time. They shall be along shortly, I pray. And Lady Munn? I most wholeheartedly agree as to escort. It shall be arranged. Though disheartened and quite saddened by the events of the recent days, I find that I am anxious to begin our operations in earnest. This evening, then. I suggest that we all meet up in this exact spot just before we embark, and travel to the ferry with the protection of the Crown's good fighting men. What say you?"

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

---

---

Vladimir Alexandrov

"The Great Bazhooli"

---

---

Location: Ludwig's Path to Bristol
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), Brivaldi, English

---

It was a strange feeling for Vladimir, being away from his people. He knew that it might be some time before they met up again, and from the looks of things, in another country altogether. The stories of this Land of Scots and their air bladder pipes, blown by men wearing colorful, pleated skirts after consuming kidney fat and viscera stuffed into boiled sheep stomachs came to mind, though they were related by storytellers and performers; men and women who made money by the telling of fanciful and compelling tales. Such made the rumors within much of Mother Russia, at any rate.

The thought crossed his mind as he rode along the path picked out by Ludwig, that he might not make it back at all. That maybe, in Soulless infested Britain and away from the strength of his people, the present incarnation of The Great Bazhooli would meet his end someplace dark and away from the familiar, with nothing but the collective images of the Tretiy Glaz to possibly inform those who were sensitive to it. But, such was life! Such was adventure! Such was the path of The Great Bazhooli! Sallying forth on a quest uncertain for a lady that he was barely introduced to or even informed about, for the sake of his dear Veta and newly discovered, if distant family in the London Crypts. And even Scary Catholic Girl, just because he and his father were fond of her. The fact that Veta found a friend in her was likewise fortunate, though in her own way she reminded Vladimir of Sister Sophia. Maybe it could be looked over.

But his mind digressed. Adventure! He could barely contain discussing it. "Am running ovv vith probably strangest man that have ever met (and just met, is true), guided to city I have never heard of, sail avay over vaters I have never seen vith eyes, to land feets have never touched. Land vhere men vear skirts, peoples marry qvickly, and innards eaten with oakbarrel booze!" He threw a free hand into the air and let out a riotous guffaw, his great ebon horse baeringhim onward. "Yes! Is.. vait. Vhat hell means 'hour and hour more', eh? Is hour and little more time? Or is two hour? Huh?" Inquiring minds wanted to know.

---

---

Sister Mary Ignatia Hale

_{“It will be revealed with fire, and the fire will test the quality of each person’s work.” -1 Corinthians 3:13}

---

Location: Near the road between Nottingham & Manchester
Skills: Horseback Riding

---

---

Following a brilliant light in the distance might work out just fine for people in storybooks and the like, but this one looked to be a torchbearer dropping them off of a cliff. Rain, dying light of a once bright flame, and creatures of uncertain origin prowling around in cover of shadow and foliage. This seemed to the quite the coincidence, or quite the trap. Mary could not say either way; she could only assess their situation and act within the best interests of herself and Virginia.

Her horse, Cassius, did not want to be there, and so neither did Mary. They had a preexisting reason for being on the road North, and it was high time that they got back to it. If Providence allowed, of course. Mary had to assume that these creatures were Soulless. And the two of them needed the horse, not just to complete Virginia's task with Millicent and Mary's with Rutherford, but at that juncture to survive enough hours to find safety elsewhere, were any to be had. They might likely perish on foot with Soulless prowling the woods. They certainly would not make it to Gretna Green in time. Mary allowed for the instinct of the horse to prompt their egress, though in a fashion showing control over panic.

"Virginia," Mary said quietly, remaining as alert to her surroundings as she could, "I make for the road." She held the reins in one hand while the other gripped her halberd as a spear or lance, counterbalanced for quick strikes yet providing necessary distance. "If we must fight, we should do so on open ground. If we must escape... we need a clear path to accomplish it."

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎
Location: Shadowell Manor: Chair 2 -> STAYING IN CHAIR 2
Skills: Will
Hit Points: 4
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎

A sigh and a chuckle escaped the stately Dr. Swamp as he watched people scatter. It was just a mechanically propelled chair, hurling an unsuspecting lady(?) high into the air to await her inevitable concussive liquefying on the ground below. It's not like they were out of bacon. The good Doctor made a mental note to inquire that they were not, in fact, out of bacon; such things could ruin their "blackmail reveal" party. Seriously, were they out of bacon?

Such was the lack of spare fornication that Dr. Swamp gave the situation at present. He was a man of education, as befitted his profession. The Doctor had seen the path that the chair had taken; estimated where it should land, and while it was sure to make some noise and considerable arterial drenching, he figured that the best spot to be was right where he was sitting. It would take a hell of a lot more than a springloaded seating death apparatus promising an exhilarating ride followed by the separation of his innards from his outards on the cold ground below to get him to move. After all that drama, Chair 2 was his, and that was the end of it.

He did make note of the human flotsam and jetsam running and/or diving for cover, including the two persons who were formerly on either side of him. Given their wildly fluctuating demeanors on the subject of sitting next to one another, Dr. Swamp thought that this might be a gratifying turn of events for them. Just as soon as the corpse-splattering crash sounded further back on the line, the Doctor decided that it was the proper time to share his observations. He adjusted the clockwork flower on his lapel, crossed his ankles in front of him, and casually mentioned, "Madame, Sir - At your pleasure, several new seating options have very recently opened. Do enjoy your ride in." Absently, he wondered if this little accident would delay them very much. It was quite cold out, after all.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

---

---

J. Keystone

---

Location: Queensguard Industries R&D, Office
Skills: N/A

---

---

Caesar had been diligent about sending updates back. Very diligent. There was a lot to sift through. There seemed to be a fair amount of conflicting tone in the messages, many of which could have been accounted for by way of grief, alcohol, or some measure of conscience that ebbed and flowed as the events in Mexico transpired. Keystone had a less than fair time compiling and setting them into a single section of file. Provided that the information was accurate and not addled nor typoed by the haste and intoxication rumored to be part of a large Gonzalez funeral, there were some good, solid puzzle pieces presented.

One in particular seemed to grab Keystone's eye. It was a name, captioning a picture, with two familiar looking figures in it, albeit from decades ago. "Nah, can't bloody be..." he said in hushed tones. "She was right bacon-damned 'ere, too. Huh." This was something he had to let his boss know about. Turnabout being fair play, he punched a message into his company sat phone and sent it off to Caesar. Maybe it was nothing. Coincidence. But it seemed in Justice, coincidences got you dead.

---

---

Caesar Gonzalez

---

Location: Queensguard Industries R&D, Receiving
Skills: N/A

---

---

In the Private Security business, especially for a man like Caesar, something as seemingly innocent as receiving a package was a serious and deadly affair. He had seen quite a bit of death in his time. Perpetrated a good bit of it in new and exciting ways. One of them even involved a man's innards and a helicopter. It was a younger man's game anymore; creative ways to do someone in. He was a master of the craft, however. More experience with it than most people had walking upright. So perhaps it was with the slightest twinge of survival instinct that he, upon hearing that a package was delivered for him, walked down to Receiving with a laptop case in hand.

It was a time honored tradition with a long and glorious history, really. Murder by Messenger. Often suspected, which is why messengers were received in full public view, for official business. The countermove therein was to drop off whatever the message was and haul ass, which is exactly what this one seemed to do. What was more pressing a fact though, was that this package came for him, hand delivered, very shortly after he arrived via a previously undocumented private plane trip. He had returned a little earlier than expected. This told him that he was being watched. Good to know.

Caesar stood inside the doors to Receiving, waiting for the security guard to hand off the package. Whether he take it back to his office or open it right there, he would have to decide when he held it in his own hands. His phone made a pressing buzz in his pocket. A communication was received, but it would have to wait for at least a minute longer.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

---

---

Ash Holloway

---

Location: Headland: E. Main Street, E8 (inside Hordebuster)
Skills: Leadership

---

---

The rain continued to pound down on the land around them, making movement perilous and reducing visibility to a sliver of what it once was. It seemed almost folly to launch an ambush in this kind of weather, but stranger things had happened on Ash's watch, not the least of which was a tornado that tore through a horde and sucked up enough of the dead bastards to make life very interesting for the people it ran into next. Which, of course, were his people.

The ferocity of the weather also served to drown out damn near every piece of hearing there was to be heard, from Ash's perspective. In truth, the only real service he was doing for anyone at that point was staying behind the wheel for a quick getaway. He was the most qualified guy to do it, but it still seemed like he was directing traffic from the most secure spot they had. When they hit the ground foraging, he resolved to throw himself into his tasks to compensate for his lack of effectiveness here. The women on the ground could handle themselves, Jack could get them back in okay, and he would ferry them away in safety.

Then he had questions for the drenched Nun. And speaking of drenched, the open window was getting the inside of his beloved truck rather soggy just then. The inconvenience alone was worth the silent supplication to whatever deity still looked down upon them to have the task over and done with. He could only hope that the rain's roar upon the earth was enough to mask their comings and going from the Dead at large.

---

---

Thalia Carmichael

---

Location: Quincy: E10 -> E13
Skills: Shield, Sharp Weapons

---

---

Maybe it was pride. Pride had caused Thalia to make stupid decisions in the past. It sure as hell almost got her killed following the Outbreak. She got damned lucky to get picked up by the people she did, so close to death, who set her straight and turned her around. As fate would have it, she now carried the shield of one of them who helped her and trained her, all by happenstance. Sadly, that shield did not prove to be of much assistance.

Thalia sized up the corpse shambling at her. It was a young man. Large man too, or was before circumstances led to its demise, which from the relative solidity of his flesh was fairly recently. Also, by telltale signs around its eyes, nose and mouth, it had passed on by way of disease or infection. Thalia had a gun she could have used, though she did not want the dead, vaporized blood of a disease carrying cadaver wafting around the building in which they were taking shelter.

The safe thing to do would have been to use her shield to keep it back and call for Beatrice to bring her bow to bear on it. It was her first impulse. It was the right thing to do. Disease was a serious thing to mess around with, now more than ever before. A sickness took out Fairburn, when all they would have needed before was a clinic or a decent nursing staff before. Illness could give away your position when you needed to be quiet, and the price for noise was death. The bow was the best weapon for it. Minimal splatter, no atomized blood, and from a distance. They were a team now, not a collection of individuals. But something stopped her. Some impulse. Maybe pride, as mentioned. Some underlying piece of the blatantly independent woman she used to be peeking out from behind the wiser lady she had become in the last couple of years. As if a higher force had suggested that she take care of this simple task on her own and she just agreed out of habit. Dama Muerte's price for the success she had at Eden a year ago, though she always figured that Death was the ultimate neutral arbiter, not a spiteful bitch.

"Zed Man Walking!" Thalia called out, her eyes staying on her target. She raised her shield and advanced on the dead man, certain that this would be a brief exercise in standard, Zed killing protocol. Nothing she hadn't done dozens, if not hundreds of times before. Breaking into a jog with the last two steps, she slammed into it with her shield, causing the body to hit the wall behind it even as she brought her knife up to embed in its temple. Than the unthinkable happened. The knife barely missed its mark, striking the side of the forehead instead. The recent death of the man meant that its skull had not softened as much as other, longer perished corpses. Her knife slid along the skull, opening a furrow underneath its hairline and putting her arm directly in the path of danger.

The bite landed on her forearm, just above the wrist. It wasn't much to look at, but a scratch was all it took. Fear jolted for an instant through Thalia in a way more visceral and mortal than it ever had before, threatening to turn to shock. This was it. She stumbled back, crying out, "Fucking bit! I'm fucking bit!" Anger mixed into Thalia's fear, snapping her back from the brink of total panic. She wasn't dead yet. Yet. But she needed help fast; even took a millisecond's worth of prayer that the Doc wouldn't take it off too close below the elbow. Damnit.

---

---

Hank Wright

---

Location: Okefenokee: E14
Skills: Club/Blunt Objects

---

---

This was one of the wordier examples of mortal combat that Hank had the privilege of getting dragged into. The Roman was full of disdain for his elders, which was the cause of mild annoyance by Hank. If he was being honest with himself (and to his credit, he usually was; not being the type to suffer bullshit even from him), he hadn't exactly put his best beer forward. Hence the expression. Most people might put their best foot forward, but that irked the hell out of Hank. Made no damn sense. Who wanted a big plate of callous, ingrown toenail (he should probably do something about that), and footmeat? If you wanted to leave a good impression with someone, you offer them a beer. A decent one. Your best beer, and forward. In the event that they didn't like beer, you booted their worthless ass out of your home, because that kind of negativity wasn't appreciated.

...plus, more beer for you.

But back to business: Downing that one Asshole was fun and all, but it was still alive and kicking. Or just kicking. Yeah, he really had to rework some of his phrasing now that "above ground" didn't mean "alive" anymore. Anyway, the Roman Reenactor's sword - flew through the air with the greatest of ease, killing the Asshole he cut off at the knees - (I swear this stuff writes itself). Again, annoying. As was the advice about talking down to strangers. He would get to that later.

"It's been Five. Goddamned. Years, Wayne. We're not holding hands and, oh, braiding each other's pube curlies, but I'm pretty sure we're partners." It was true; they knew each other before the Outbreak, being in similar fields of business. Him a Big City Detective, Hank a duly elected County Sheriff. The fact that their minds had both slipped a gear somewhere along the line was purely coincidence. Batshit crazy, but he could trust Wayne. That compensated for a boatload of crazy.

"Everyone's a stranger, Maximus." he said, striding purposefully toward the dead guy behind his partner. "Who else am I going to talk down to, huh?" He gave a sharp whistle and growled, "C'mon, Sunnymuffins. Let's do this." prompting the walking corpse to begin to turn in his direction. As soon as he liked the angle, he dug the point of his shovel upward, into the thing's head from the jawline and moving north, effectively taking off its face and three inches of matter behind it. The front half of its head flipped end over end, splatting upon a nearby rock like some sort of putrefied jack-o-lantern. Hank then brought the flat of his mighty yard tool to bear, smooshing what was left back into its torso as it went down like a sack of disco.

Hank started walking back to the downed truck. As he walked, he addressed his new acquaintances starting with the man who was rapt with prayer. "I don't see the big, awful hurry, them being dead and all. But hey, good job there, Sport." and turning to the Roman, "And Sportacus." He wiped some of the gore off of his shovel on a bank of spongy moss as he strode along, continuing, "Yeah, I'm getting my guns and shit. You boys do ...whatever you do." The dismissive wave seemed to mirror the nonchalant lack of care as he made his way to the road sculpture that used to be a motor vehicle.

🦄 Deeper Than The Sands - Merged With T.S.

---

---

Reginald Keystone

---

Location: Qasr El Nil Barracks (Courtyard -> Officers' Club)
Skills: N/A

---

---

One of the benefits of being the commanding officer of a military base in a foreign country with which they were not engaged in hostilities was that, unless a specific incident occurred, paperwork was minimal. Point of fact, his own dailies were handled in a matter of minutes. Everything else was a matter of being on standby for whatever of the Crown's interests required their attention. As one might expect, this gave most personnel a remarkable amount of free time, officers especially. It also meant that the possibility for a little action, and almost any kind would do, was taken as a celebratory occasion for which volunteers stood in the many.

Such it was with Vera's new assistant and his horrifying facial wounds. It got to the point that, relaxed by the recent influx of guests and indigenous personnel, certain security procedures had cut corners. Nothing that could not be fixed (at least on the temporary) by a judicious amount of well placed bellowing. Between yelling at his subordinates and the morning's paperwork, this concluded all of his standard Commanding Officer-ing for the day. What luck, it wasn't even time for tea.

Unfortunately, fate seemed to put off the beginnings of the initial trip yet again; more death and injury, the adding of a new fellow to the Fellowship, and all that. He really should catch Vera up on these happenings. People pointed Reginald back to the Officers' Club. Curious, he had just come from there. Well, if these fates directed him back to the place where they kept some of his favorite whisky, then who was he to argue? With a shrug, the Lord Major toddled himself to the doors of his Second Office here in the Qasr El Nil Barracks.

"Ah, I see we have a fair to middling amount of our Fellowship back. Lady Munn, it is a pleasure to receive you as always. Though you do look a bit frazzled, my dear girl. From the incident with your assistant, I'm sure. I've got an enlisted fellow who will keep us appraised of the situation with Mr. Zalil and the others' medical adventures." Reginald strode back to his favorite booth toward the back of the club. He had left a bottle and pair of tumblers there, not to mention a box of personal effects that he was very foolish to have left unattended. "Apologies for my manners, of course. It has been a trying day all about, I'm sure. Now then, welcome back Lady Kingston, Miss Ridgeway, Miss Clark. By all means help yourself; we are at your service. But to business: Peter's final arrangements have been handled. Mr. Benaszewski has volunteered his services as protector in the interim. And to older matters - We are fully provisioned as of last evening. Luxury items and lists of personal comforts arrived this morning, and all that is left is to select an appropriate mode of transportation. We are, from the end of my responsibilities, wrapped up with string (as they say)."

Despite the hour, Reginald poured himself one more dram of whisky, and stood holding it for a moment. Uncertain as to the wisdom of the question, he was nonetheless obligated by propriety to ask anyway: "So, what are the particulars of your morning, ladies?"