Sigil

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Keystone & Caesar

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Location: Past the Rockies, Flight MSS-1
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A

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The voice mail was not remotely as polite as they had hoped, considering the source. Something of that abrupt and callous of nature surely could not have come from such an upright and benevolent organization as the Justice Police Department, not from the brothers and sisters in blue of such a pristine and morally sound group of paladinesque defenders of order. Beyond corruption, the first line of defense between the dark and treacherous lowlifes which prowled the streets of Justice and the noble, kind citizens who just wanted a normal life - 2.5 kids and a goldfish, average wage earning white picket fence types. No. Such hostilities were beneath them. Especially the parts about trampling their civil rights and threatening them with criminal charges to elicit sudden and immediate compliance. It must have been some other entity that left that message, masquerading as the Justice P.D.

Although, just in case they were wrong, it was probably best to address the issue. Keystone and Caesar had apparently gotten the same message, meaning it was likely recorded and then sent simultaneously to them both. Keystone imagined that their face would be red if they knew that they were in fact outside of the jurisdiction of the Justice Police Dept. right then, though that might bring up a boatload more suspicion to them. Caesar was taking a more scholarly approach to the issue, scratching his chin and pulling up the Email he received just earlier.

Yes, it was another touch of mystery; Caesar had gotten the same voice mail threatening his freedom if he didn't appear, which was strange as the initial Email from these people was informative, unlike Keystone's which requested his presence to ask about one of the people who had died. Interesting indeed. Now after a response that gave the intent of compliance but not immediate presence, the tone from the cops got a lot harsher. After a brief discussion on the matter between the two men on the plane, it was decided that this little issue ad to be nipped in the bud as soon as possible. Though there were concerns.

"Trap, y'think?" suggested Keystone.

"It could be. They sound desperate." It was a fair enough assumption.

"Ey, you're the one what used to be a cop, yeah? Mostly they just gave me the business, back in the day. What d'you think's goin' on?"

"Setup. These Justice cops... they're known for being bought. It's Mexico City all over again. They find somebody they like, hura assholes won't bother looking any more. We need to give them a body to hang this on. The right one. And proof."

"Yeah. Or skip the country. Ain't like either of us is from 'ere, yeah?"

Caesar growled at Keystone in a way that seemed to scream tired disbelief. No, that really wasn't an option yet. But a response would have to be made. So long as Caesar had his Email open, he might as well send the response from there. He attached his copy of the voicemail to the message, as to have a better vantage point for whomever initially read it, and began to compose.

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To whom it may concern,

No problem.

Caesar H. Gonzalez
Owner/C.E.O. Machete Security Solutions

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Caesar then made a copy of their communications so far, including the voice mail, and sent a copy off to Maria back in Justice along with a request for an update and a rundown of their legal options, according to Justice and/or California law. "We have a week. It's going to get real messy."

Keystone nodded soberly. They didn't get all dressed up for nothing.

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers, "The Hat"

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Location: Ville au Camp (Gate)
Skills: N/A

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This was definitely not what Gilbert expected. This was a loop in time, and all things being equal, everything that happened outside of these grounds repeated, just as they would otherwise, again and again. Unexpected visitors just didn't happen, not unless someone left the grounds and did something to cause it. No one had left. Except for Evelina. Might she have taken into consideration that they would need help with the Halloween festivities and sent for some kind of assistance, though that didn't take into consideration the oddly familiar pull coming from somewhere in their vicinity.

When the small-statured man began speaking to him in what was an ever so slightly self deprecating manner, obviously designed to socially disarm. Still quite suspicious, Gilbert allowed himself to appear disarmed. A broad smile played across his features and he tucked the lever action rifle behind his back with a flourish. His other hand removed the tall, black hat from upon his head, and he bowed to the man. Theatrically, even. When Gil straightened back up, he replaced his hat and responded to the man who introduced himself as Samson. "I must apologize, Mr. Samson." he spoke, smiling with his whole face. "I did not mean to be this tall, sir." He lowered the rifle from behind his back, pointing it toward the ground in an act of calculated nonaggression. "My name is Gilbert, sir. Gilbert Summers. And with me is my protege, Andromeda. It is a genuine surprise to see new faces out in these parts. I would also like to apologize for not being Miss Lucas. I'll try harder to be her next time. But on the subject of the lady, when did you speak with her last?"

There was method to his line of questioning. There was usually method to the things that he did, even if it didn't look like it to others. Unless he was making a meal, which was self evident. The last time he prepared food for himself the objective was plain: He intended to gorge himself. But this was slightly more subtle. Even if he could use a sandwich right then.

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James Grady

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Location: Ville au Camp (In Front of Main House -> The Mill)
Skills: N/A

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Standing upon the grass in front of the main house, James was not privy to the sounds of the trucks pulling up, nor was he able to feel the pull that the Emendators could. He had really nowhere to go. The Dice Lady was gone, apparently so was The Cards. The Watch was... ok, he didn't know where the guy was, but he was probably having someone write a dissertation on Atlantic Triangle Trade for the purpose of bettering themselves and he surely didn't want to interrupt that. But maybe The Hat had something he could do. Okay, The Hat. Find the guy. If he wasn't in the Main House, perhaps he could be found in his workshop. When the possibility hit him, James straightened up, held his index finger to the sky, and yelled to whomever might be listening at the moment, "To The Hatcave!" The next second found James hauling ass in the direction of the Mill.

The training over the past year and change had done wonders for his physique. He had always been strong, but likewise had always had a singular distaste for running. He still did, but now it wasn't nearly as taxing as it once was. The thought passed through his brain for a second or two as he continued laying one foot in front of the other as rapidly as he could until he found himself at the slightly ajar doors to The Mill. "Mr. Hat, sir? Mr. Hat! Some shit done gone down at the house, Mr. Hat! You even in there?" Cautiously, James opened the door and stepped inside. There were general guidelines about poking around in Gilbert's workshop, but this, he hoped, could be forgiven with circumstances in consideration.

Weapons. Lots of those. Armor, tools, chests of clothing. Leather goods, too. All of the tools that various metalsmiths and tanners would require. Though an impossibility, the place looked like it was bigger inside than outside. It was an amazing use of space, really. James had been here before, but it seemed like he had never really gotten a good look at the location. Though his brain burned with the desire to look around and inspect some of Gilbert's handiwork, more important matters dashed away the idea. "Mr. Hat, sir? If'n you're about, I got me a big problem. Mr. Hat?"

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Headland: E. Main Street, E8 (outside of the Hordebuster)
Skills: EMT Training

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Were the world still mostly alive and functional, with concepts like "medical insurance" still a thing, it could be said that Ashton J. Holloway had lost faith in his primary care provider. Of course, this being an Apocalypse, you took what you could get. With the exception of the sudden, incredible idea to jam a finger into a fresh bullet wound, he could tell that Amelia was trying. But damn, did that hurt. Instead, he dipped into his own knowledge of emergency medical procedure. It was a lesser known fact that Ash had taken training with Newnan's very own medical professional, Dr. Victor Bonheur, following the older man's onset of heart trouble. There were others, but he was the only one left alive after... everything. Ash was not anywhere near the level of the man's professional bearing, but he knew how to handle himself and others with greater skill than basic first aid procedure.

Being as the concept of "Physician, heal thyself" didn't really mean what most people thought it meant, it was good sense to have someone else see to his injuries. Or it should have been. At the moment, the searing discomfort of a chunk of foreign metal lodged in his anatomy limited his ability to think. But he did understand a couple of concepts. One of which being that crawling back into the Hordebuster, while awfully tempting, might not be the best idea considering the approaching weather. Were it running, he might very well park it beneath an overpass and be done with it, but out in the open it was susceptible to whatever the storm wanted to throw at them. Like trees. Or cars. Or dead people. Though built to withstand the attention of the Dead, an errant tree was something else entirely.

Ash did note the change of treatment from Amelia. He nodded his approval. "Good. Thanks. You're right, we need to get to shelter. I'm not dying right this second." He was unable to clearly hear anything going on over by the cars with Tatiana, Jack, and the Nun, and so made his observations about potential shelter without their input. "Middle school... school is a solid building. We used to use my old school as a storm shelter back home." His voice was obviously strained. That tended to happen after one got shot. "Lot of space to clear, especially with an injured man and... and a baby." The thought gave him some joy. Nodding back in the other direction, he continued, "Fire station. Smaller building, solid walls. It might have medical supplies. Hell, it might have a lounge and bunk area."

"Amelia, thanks. I can hold pressure. Give a hand up, actually. Then would you please grab my bag and stuff from inside the 'Buster? I'd really like to say hi to Tatiana and get the hell out of here." Gruff in delivery, but aside from the unwanted finger insertion he was grateful for Amelia's assistance.

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Quincy (in house, C9)
Skills: N/A

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She wasn't one hundred percent certain who had said it, but the topic of medication for the pain was brought up and she was, at the moment, all for it. Briefly, she considered the concept of phantom pain, only to dismiss it outright (at least for the moment) because the actual pain was significantly more pressing. Something about having a forearm taken in half with a circular saw would do that to someone. Thalia was not really someone who took to drugs readily, except for maybe a decent drink every now and again. Something about it this time was particularly enticing. "Hell yeah, I would like something for the pain. Fucking mallet would be nice. Pills'll do."

Then she heard the voice of Beatrice nearby, and tried to give a quick smile. She had mentioned something. Oh yes, something close at hand to many topics over the past year. But the half-second of mirth passed. She glanced down at her fresh stump, and shook her head. "Bea, this bullshit isn't stopping because of..." she moved her shortened arm a bit for emphasis, "...this. I could eat. What else do we have? I'm not taking any damn Sympathy O-s." Thalia rolled over to her side and pushed herself to a sitting position with her good arm. If she was going to eat, she might as well be more or less upright for it.

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Hank Wright

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Location: Okefenokee: C10 -> C9
Skills: Survival, People Reading

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Wayne's callous desire to apparently throw his life away was a draining influence on Hank that day. Unlike other days, there were now other people around that might get themselves killed because of this bravado. Granted, he understood on some base level why he did what he did, and in the manner that he did it. It made little difference if people died as a result, even if his intent was to put himself between the danger and everyone else. And even less if Hank himself went down with him. But he was a loyal friend. Had been for years now. Perhaps it was best if they were alone. Then discretion might be a concept that he could discuss with Wayne during one of his more lucid moments.

Coming up on the young woman, Hank regarded her with observant eyes. She seemed okay. Well, okay-ish. Truthfully, all he could say was that she probably didn't intend to do anything awful to tham immediately. "You really should have slapped him. Really. I would have slapped him. Hey, there's still time to, ya know. Slap him, I mean." He was repeating himself. He did that sometimes.

Sadly, nothing in his immediate environment seemed to be of use to him or his cause of making sure that Wayne didn't die just then, so it was sally forth, shovel at the ready, and try to help his friend out of trouble that they really could have avoided by stepping into the treeline and waiting. But that just wasn't how things worked. And what the hell, he didn't have a whole lot left to live for, anyway. Shaking his head in the manner of a guy who simply accepted what lay before him, if not fully agreeing with it, he resolved to follow Wayne toward the cluster of rotting Assholes before them.

🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S.

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Vladimir Alexandrov

"The Great Bazhooli"

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Location: Bristol Ship
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English

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Entering the cabin on board the ship felt familiar. He had done so several times, and while not the door to his vardo, back with the Circus, Vladimir found that methods of long-term transportation had certain things in common. One was a predisposition for smallish areas to lay down for sleep. This cabin was no exception. Vlad was accustomed to having the use of his own, private quarters while traveling, but life was not always thus. Long before he was The Great Bazhooli (for no one is truly born into Bazhoolidom, more than it was a lain upon them like a mantle), he was merely part of the Sem'ya, with brothers and sisters, cousins, and the like, all of whom began their careers living as a group. Even the eldest son of the Baron was not considered special in this regard. Family, Circus, Bazhooli; they were but words unless experienced by body and spirit both. Though now, his shared residence was with a fellow Circus performer and a guy from Germany who was a few beets short of a borscht. New experiences!

Vladimir went to his personal belongings. He was traveling light, or at least light-ish, considering the circumstances. One thing he made sure to bring with him (as always) was a healthy amount of sharp, pointy implements. But one thing among his belongings drew his attention more than most on this occasion: It was a large black shawl with bright floral pattern, wrapped around a set of weapons that were outside of his familiarity. So much as he could likely use the sword as a standard slashing implement of its type, he could not bring out the true art of the blade as much as a seasoned practitioner. Weapons of China; soldiers' tools. He gave himself a moment to study over the single-edged dao, admire the handwork, and then tuck it back away. The pistol he wanted little to do with, and the knives, well... he had better on his person. But he was already a surgeon with a thrown blade. Carefully, Vlad rewrapped the items intended for another's use and set the bundle back with the rest of his things.

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Sister Mary Ignatia Hale

_{“Blessed be the Lord, my strength, who teaches my hands to war and my fingers to fight.” -Psalm 144:1}

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Location: Carlisle (F7 -> F8)
Skills: Audist, Athletics

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It was building into a lovely and amusing game between Virginia and Mary, calling kills by number. The notion even brought a measure of joy to Mary's work, breaking up what was ordinarily an event of regretful violence in the name of her Lord into something of a bonding experience between people of different Training and different faiths as they worked toward the same goal of preserving humanity by eliminating the threat of Soulless. Virginia had called for the third one down. It was time for Mary to get number four. The barest of smiles matched the brightness of her eyes as she closed to intercept the next nearest one.

The problem was that apparently, the lesson that needed to be taught in that moment was humility in the face of doing the Lord's work. At least, that could have been one interpretation of the events that followed. Mary nodded to her friend and made a dash to intercept the next Ryne, her halberd of sharpened, blessed metal leading the way. It was a solid thrust, intended to dispatch the creature quickly; unfortunately it went wide of its mark. The benefit of a polearm being, of course, the pole was circumvented by the damned and torturous thing, slipping past Mary's defenses and raking its iron nails across her forearm. Being that she was not wearing the more protective garb she ordinarily wore as a Venator, her exposed skin bore the brunt of the attack and opened in four furrows which quickly filled with crimson which spilled into the cobblestones below.

Mary bit back a scream. It was all she could do as she prepared to answer this injury.

🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1

Dr. Swamp

≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎
Location: Shadowell Manor: Breakfast Room -> Music Room
Skills: N/A
Hit Points: 4
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Dr. Swamp had not expected pleasant conversation. Such as it was a conversation, at any rate, and not the occasional bit of commentary between moments wondering if something horrible was about to happen to them. This house seemed to loom over them, in Swamp's estimation; a very opulent, well appointed deathtrap from which one or many of them would not be exiting upright. The lady who had introduced herself to him as Chanteuse Amaranthine seemed to share his concern, if her apparent demeanor was to be believed, and she was also the very person who had provided the pleasant conversation despite the uncomfortable situation. Naturally, he joined her in the music room.

He was not the only one. Nor was the man that joined Amaranthine in the Music Room the emotionally stable type, from Swamp's experience with the man just earlier. The Doctor leaned upon his cane and gave the gentleman in the bronze devil mask a long, observant look before turning to the Chanteuse, saying, "I accept, of course." continuing the conversation from the other room despite Cobalt's self-introduction. "I would not have you feel unnecessary obligation to me. If it please you, I would greatly enjoy hearing a song." He stepped closer, and in hushed voice suggested, "Perhaps not an original? If just for anonymity's sake." The doctor nodded in a manner that was supportive, even knowing. There were likely unscrupulous folk about that might use such knowledge, or at least hold it in reserve until it was advantageous.

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

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Reginald Keystone

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Location: The Ferry (Main Deck)
Skills: N/A

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It came as a bit of a surprise that others heard the noise, too. Even if it meant that Vera hurled a spoon across the table and pinged her bodyguard in the face with it. Glancing around the boat, he was surprised to note that others heard it as well - just in case the spoon incident was a coincidence. In a way, this was good; Reginald was starting to think that he had finally started down the path to senility. On the other hand, if he was not imagining this (as the evidence seemed to support), it meant something far stickier was afoot. In short, it meant that The Corporal was on the boat with them.

Reginald quickly focused his attention back on the table, possibly hoping for a moment of respite and polite conversation before the man found their table, possibly out of pure and unfettered denial. "Absolutely, yes." he piped up, one hand pulling out the recently vacated chair while the other unhooked his saber from his belt. He settled into the seat, exhaling as his posterior found its perch. Though the slightest breach of protocol, the Lord Major rested the scabbarded weapon against his leg, the hilt within reach should something untoward crawl up the side of the boat and lay siege to the Bridge. "Ladies, sir; thank you ever so much." He noticed the place settings for tea with some measurable delight, remarking, "Ah, lovely! Etiquette would suggest that it is a touch late in the evening for full Tea. However, I shan't turn down a cup of something warm and invigorating. If no one objects?" He reached carefully to fill the cup in front of him, "Now, don't mind an old man's interruption, and please forgive what shall likely be my ignorance to the discussion at hand; I am but an old soldier, you see. The intellectuals," he concluded, nodding to Vera and Nora, "hold more importance here."

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Haring Reddish

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Location: The Ferry (Main Deck)
Skills: N/A

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Oh, there was still so much to do, so much to have done, and one more huge piece of task left before he could relax. As it turned out, it was one last pivotal item to check off of his "To Do List" before his continued presence was assured, or if he would be swimming the first part of his trip back to the Barracks. But first, he had to locate the old man before that possibility could come to pass. Sharp eyes scanned the throng of movement and press of bodies, hoping to catch a glimpse of grey, khaki, or the distinctive outline of an officers' cap that would denote the Reginald's presence.

It took long enough but eventually he located the proper table from afar, not by finding the Lord Major directly, but by directing his search for the company he had been keeping as of late. Whereas the majority of the travelers were of mixed walks of life, a table consisting primarily of women in a Muslim state was going to be notable. Plus, he was able to catch glimpse of two familiar faces moving toward the staterooms. It was a quick figure to look in the direction they had come from, narrowing down his area of search considerably. With a reassured smile, the Corporal straightened to his full height, smoothed the non-existent wrinkles in his uniform and adjusted his holster and primary bayonet on his belt to lay perfectly across his seams.

The Corporal was in no direct hurry to get to the table. He was not procrastinating more than showing a piece of tactic, giving himself a little time to widen the gap between the boat and its launching point, just in case the Lord Major did have it in his mind to have him swim back. A few meters of shallow water would be nothing, but he doubted that Reginald might be as inclined to order such a thing if they were further into a shipping channel. After a moment or two had passed, he produced a set of papers from one of his cargo pockets and began to make his way toward the table, the tiniest of smiles forming at the corner of his mouth.

🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S.

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Keystone & Caesar

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Location: Exiting Colorado, Flight MSS-1
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A

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Caesar tended to be a quieter man when on assignment or doing pretty much anything that didn't involve direct and acrimonious application of sharp pointy implements and/or trading ammunition with others at high velocities. As such, his phone made the bare minimum noise necessary to vibrate in his pocket when he got a message in from the Justice PD. And what he learned from that message made him want to hit something. Not just hurt, but utterly obliterate something with a method so nonstandard as to land him in some special casefile that kept getting referenced decades and possibly centuries into the future. "Beaten to Death by Whole Frozen Yellowfin Tuna", for example, or "Rectal Insertion of a Colony of Fireants". Any number of means afterwards to dispose of the body could be employed, but for the sake of propriety it should be set up for a matter of public display, in one form or another.

Caesar was unhappy. True, according to the hardworking men and women in blue in Justice, both of the parties were dead. But the message that showed up on Keystone's monitor earlier mentioned otherwise. One might still be alive. So this was someone who knew about the police's findings before it was made public. That was interesting. Also, if the message was to be believed, the one who was still alive was male. Cups and Swords, etc. "Keystone..." he rasped to the junior man, "You've met Marc Tinder, right?"

Keystone was about to respond when his own phone went off, this one not quite as silent as his employer's. He would say that he regularly turned it off as a matter of policy when on site or engaging in behavior which called for its silence, but at the moment his ringtone was sounding as if it were waiting on a full-figured lady in horned helmet to sing to its conclusion. He held up a finger to indicate that he would be with Caesar in just a second. The older man took the moment to listen to Keystone's choice of music for his device, and decided to intrude upon his second anyway. "You listen to some weird shit." he stated plainly. "I expect a man like you to go for Industrial. Punk, maybe. You... listen to weird shit."

"Sod off then, yeah? Big guy can't 'have culture?"

"Adele is culture?"

"Don't you say one unkind word 'bout A... ..wait." He took a closer look at his phone. "Your California Bitch-Bobbies want a word with Yours Truly, bout that watery bint what got 'erself killed at Queensguard's surprise party. Gimmie a sec, then." Keystone put in a quick reply, stating that he has no knowledge about the lady as he was aware, and that the official statements of all of the parties managing the situation on site, including his own, would be made available for the police at their request. Pretty standard stuff from the point of view of protocol.

Giving it a thought, Keystone waved away the beginning of what might have been a very interesting argument. An idea suddenly hit him: "Oi there, Boss?" he began slowly, "Why is it, ya think, that the reporter lady on the tele made accusation that the killings at Queensguard was done on account of us takin' revenge, when the police report 'bout who the murderers were wasn't released public yet?" He nodded, "An' yeah, met that guy Marc. At the nuthouse."

Caesar leaned forward in his seat. His eyes were dark and foreboding. The Tinder acquaintance aside, he made a hell of a point about that reporter. "That is a very interesting question." Though he didn't say it, Caesar was rather impressed. He did repeat, "Very interesting question."

🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S.

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Gilbert Summers, "The Hat"

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Location: Ville au Camp (The Mill -> Gate)
Skills: N/A

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The Hat was aware of the sound of truck engines, same as Andromeda. But more than this, he felt something from this new source of noise. He paused for just a moment, attempting to ascertain what this could mean. This was an event that was outside of the general schedule of the Loop. New things happened because of a chain of cause and events - while that could be said to be true everywhere, within the Loop every day started exactly the same, differences occurring because of new choices of those within it each day. Gilbert seriously doubted that one of the Emendators or Paradoxes did something to draw down a convoy this early in the day. Maybe even Evie had something to do with it. The strange but familiar drawing feeling might be indicative of just that, but it felt different somehow. Like a close but imperfect copy of the essence of himself. A cousin of questionable parentage. It was unsettling. Suffice it to say, he was concerned.

His voice remained cool. "No, Andromeda. We are not." He eyed the pale Paradox for a second or two. This was not an expected thing. It could be nothing. On the other hand, it could definitely be something bad. Andromeda was trained well by the elder Emendator, and this was home ground. It was supposed to be safe. If for whatever reason it was not, they would have to stand ready to defend it. "Fortune favors the prepared", as the saying went, though he wasn't sure whether he invented the saying a few hundred years ago or if he just heard it someplace. Either way, it was accurate. "The field trip is postponed. Please come with me."

Gilbert closed the back door, covering the portal set up to take them to New York in the 1980s. It could wait, or be reestablished later. Turning on his heels, he strode quickly down the rows of weaponry on his way to the front door. There wasn't time to be picky in selections; he didn't mean to take time to find just the right piece to suit his fancy that morning. Passing by the pistols of the era, he snatched up a Colt M1911 pistol and, operating purely out of muscle memory, inserted a magazine and passed it plus an extra mag, back to Andromeda. "Borrow whatever you are comfortable with, from this year and back. If this is not an emergency, we can always say we were hunting." Yes, Emendators lied. Sometimes Gilbert lied just to get by in the world.

Without breaking stride, he snatched up two lever-action Winchester rifles. He checked both to make sure they were fully loaded, then slid one into a leather rifle scabbard that he acquired from the endcap display. "I always had mixed emotions about the American West." he mused, finally reaching the front doors. Gilbert half expected to see some kind of armed group making their way toward their little Armory, but was pleased to see nothing particularly out of order. Looking back to (hopefully) make sure that Andromeda was still with him, Gilbert chambered a round in one rifle and slid the occupied scabbard over his shoulder. He then got low, making his way toward the Gate. As he neared, he straightened up and held his weapon in a safe resting position, sauntering up behind Giosue while he was in the middle of being polite.

This wasn't quite what he was expecting. "So, what did I miss?"

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James Grady

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Location: Ville au Camp (Study -> In Front of Main House)
Skills: N/A

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To begin, the seeming apathy to a boisterous man running about the main house screaming about needing help wasn't lost on him. In fact, it was beginning to lead to actual, honest emotions verging on varieties of incredulity and outright anger. Where the hell had everyone gotten off to? And why was something which could conceivably be an attack upon one of their own being largely ignored? Oh, there was plenty for James to be upset about, not the least of which was one simple observation:

If Alicia was gone, truly gone from whatever life this was, it would be the second time that she expired right in front of him, while he was helpless to do anything about it.

Or was he truly helpless? Could he have done something, this new him that turned into a boar and spoke to squirrels? Even if he could, he didn't know how. It was maddening. Alicia was a very good friend of his, once upon a time. Very good friend. This new Alicia was different, but he could tell that there was a chance of getting some of that back with her. It was something he would have been willing to put actual time into. They were the troublemakers. They had fun. They did their jobs, but it was somehow less like work when they were allowed to be themselves doing it. And yet, she was gone again. It wasn't fair. This had better be some new Paradox power manifesting, or a call from an Emendator, or something. James didn't want to lose her again.

Perhaps this was why the questions put to him when he reached the Study, courtesy of Alexandra and Bart, set him a bit on edge. "Ain't you listenin'? I said I needs me an adult, damnit! An' what ain't clear 'bout me sayin' that Taco Belle done pulled a David Lo Pan an' now she gone? Bitch ain't here no more, gone. As in, girly girl was here, and BLAM - gone! Ain't here. Opposite of here! Let's do some math onnit: You got one Alicia, right? Then y'all take one away, see? That's how many Alicias y'all got left!"

James shook his head, trying to remember which Emendators were left in Ville au Camp and where they said they might be. "Need an adult. Imma go hunt for The Watch or The Hat or The One Fuckin' Ring if'n it can gimmie a hand with this now..." A firmer grasp on his emotions, James walked from the Study and out onto the grass in front of the main house. At least bitching in the general direction of his fellow Paradoxes allowed him to get his head on straighter. Something was going on. He needed to know what.

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

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Ash Holloway

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Location: Headland: E. Main Street, E8 (outside of the Hordebuster)
Skills: N/A

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Ash was happy for Jack. Delirious, even. Against all odds, in the middle of a full-blown apocalypse and over the course of a year, Jack found his family. It made all the difference in the world. The tired and beaten-down Captain had been giving the concept of noncommittal Agnosticism a serious look, but this? Be it with an eye dropper, tiny miracles like this kept him hanging onto the concept of a deity who hadn't completely turned his back on humanity.

Then Amelia jammed her finger into his bullet wound. "GAAH! Jesus FUCKING CHRIST, Amelia!" screamed Ash, embracing his Inner Bridgette. At least invoking the name of his Savior could be construed as a tenuous hold upon his beliefs, be it in the most ass way possible. His breath seethed through clenched teeth and he jammed his thumb back toward the cab. "Whiskey. Sterilize. First, Jack and Tati." He halfway leaned forward, pitching his voice toward the previous field of fire, "Jack! Are we good? Tati and the baby safe?"

Today wasn't his day. Shot, his Hordebuster dead in the middle of Alabama, and issues with a Nun he was pretty sure he would have to put a bullet through. Oh, if his mother could see him now. But Jack's day was phenomenal, and that was going to have to do. More of his people were safe. Safe enough for now, anyway, though not for long if the sky was any indicator. They had to find shelter. The Hordebuster might suffice, but that fire station looked a fair sight better, if it was clear. They had to find supplies. Those asshats who shot him obviously had guns. Maybe they had more in their car - it shouldn't take very long to look. "Search the car. Find shelter. Today isn't done kicking us yet." It was to anyone who was still nearby. Life for him could be better, but damn if Jack and Tati's good fortune didn't bring a smile to his face, bullet stuck in him or no.

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Thalia Carmichael

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Location: Quincy (in house, C9)
Skills: N/A

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The images in Thalia's head faded into inky blackness. It was either a sign that her soul was departing her body or that she was coming back to the waking world. How long had passed? Minutes? Days? Would it matter? Maybe it would be better if she didn't wake at all. Thalia was going to be a liability, when before she was a strength. She was fast, agile, quiet. She could take out a group of gun-carrying men with a short blade if she had to, so long as the circumstances could be set properly. About a year ago, it's exactly what she did. If she lived, she would not have that kind of dexterity anymore, not like she used to. It would be a while before her full balance returned, as well. Maybe letting go was best for everyone.

Thalia felt the presence of something familiar in her mind. Terrifying, yet oddly comforting. A quiet, disappointed growl surrounded her with sourceless vocal static. In the haze of her thoughts, Thalia fought to search around, see from where this unbidden noise originated, only to be met with darkness and more confusion. Then just for a moment, the young mestiza thought she saw her uncle Caesar standing before her in a flat, desolate plain. Jut the two of them, staring down one another. Not a word was spoken; the disapproving stare of the man needed no explanation and she had no excuse for herself. People might still need her. Broken did not mean dead. The old man reached out and slapped her across her face. Hard.

Back in Quincy, Thalia sat bolt upright on the table, gasping in her first conscious breath in hours. Immediately, she wished that she hadn't. The pain of her condition slammed into her like she was flung bodily into a wall. Shock set in as she held her left hand before her eyes, next to the stump where her right hand used to be. Not just the hand, but a hair less than half of her forearm was missing as well. It looked clean, not that she was in the mood to critique Manny's work right then. Her remaining hand was shaking with stress and adrenaline, which she brought up to shield her eyes as tears began anew. This is who she was now. She needed to get used to it. As soon as she healed enough, she had to get back to surviving with her friends.

If she couldn't count on the full measure of her trained dexterity anymore, she would have to make up for it with familial brutality.

Nodding her head as an affirmation only to herself, Thalia fell back onto the table and stared at the ceiling. She barely registered anyone else in the room, though she could hear the random bits of material tapping against the house. She felt weak. Pain spread through her like streaks of poison. Probably would for a while. Slowly, she raised her right arm as much as she dared to look at what was left of it. Thalia cleared her throat, and in a clear but quiet voice, said,

"Well, there goes my social life."

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Hank Wright

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Location: Okefenokee: D11 -> C10
Skills: N/A

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Keeping up with Wayne was about as fruitful as trying to nail jello to a tree, or trying to convince a toddler that candy was awful. But he kept things interesting. The two guys that they had just met decided to hang back for a while, it looked like. Hank guessed that it made sense; they now had some crazy guy to run blocker and take the first bullet and/or attract all of the dead Assholes in his direction. At least the Roman guy was handy with that pig-sticker he carried. Give Hank a camp axe or a good, reliable shovel any day, but he wasn't going to knock the man for carrying a weapon he with which he was proficient. The outfit was by no means off limits, however. Principle of the thing.

He had kept to a brisk walk, hoping to catch up to Wayne in a roundabout, eventual manner. It was a decent enough plan that accounted for the fact that they had been sitting in a truck for a while and Hank was past his best years for endurance running. And the fact that he'd just rather not in the first place. That plan had to alter somewhat when he saw that the his "survival buddy" for the past five years had stopped in the middle of the road and was, while swatting at the same imaginary whatsits that always seemed to vex him, was knee-deep in making first contact with another survivor. A young woman. He couldn't quite make out what they were saying, but felt it prudent to put some effort into covering distance without spooking the lady.

Feeling like quite the dumbass, Hank shifted his mighty shovel fully to his left hand and gave the two of them a big wave. If the woman took any notice at all, she might see the sarcastically welcoming smile leave his face as he said aloud (though not at a volume anyone might readily hear), "No one for weeks on end and suddenly they're falling from the goddamn sky." Plastering the false happy back onto his face, he continued, "Oh, he's going to get slapped, I can tell. Hell with all this, I could use a beer." He shifted to a jog, more eager now to join the conversation a ways in front of him.