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    1. Techne 7 yrs ago

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Hello!

I know I joined the last iteration of this and kinda fell off the face of the planet. The laptop that I did the majority of my work on got fried and the prospect of going to the university library or using my smartphone was discouraging, so I immediately did the bad thing and give up. All that's fixed now though, and with the advent of the Coronavirus I'm kinda itching to have a distraction beyond working on my dissertation. So long story short, I'm contemplating if I want to resubmit an app. I probably wouldn't be applying for Laura again, because I honestly don't know how I would pick that story up, but if I think of something I'll try and hash an app up. I've been on something of a horror kick lately, so maybe something a little bit more on the occulty side of things this time? Who knows!

Anyway! Sorry for the ramble, just wanted to let you guys know my thought process so if a random app comes your way that you aren't suddenly taken aback by it! Hope all of you are feeling healthy and staying safe!


~
Techne
Lower County Bruma, 20th First Seed, Morning

Old Man Edwal waddled over to his goat paddock. The elder Breton was an old fixture of the local community. If you listened to the hearsay while downing the local swill at the inn, you would’ve heard around fifty contradicting life stories surrounding Edwal. One week, he was a spymaster for the Emperor himself, the next he was a famed legionnaire, and the week after that he was a cunning sorcerer that was even older than he appeared. In truth, Edwal was the son of a sailor from Northpoint who on an expedition down to Anvil, slept with a strumpet and left her with child. He grew up in a whorehouse and eventually found his way to the open seas. When the salt from the sea made his old bones ache, he decided it was time to settled down back in Cyrodill where a wife and child were waiting for him. Now, the closest thing Edwal did to the high tales of adventure ascribed to him was wrestle with his goats every morning.

“I should have never listened to that Khajiit in Stros M'Kai, he promised me that cheesemaking was easy money.” Edwal grumbled as his arthritis ridden hands fiddled for the key at his belt.

It was early in the morning, the sun barely cresting over the horizon leaving a damp chill to the air. The key was cold to the touch, and he brought it up slowly to the equally cold lock on the gate. He gripped a nearby wooden post with his freehand to keep himself stable as he inserted the key and with great exertion undid the lock leaving it swinging open freely. Leaving the cold key in the lock, he entered the paddock rubbing his hands together to warm them as he did.

The first thing Edwal did was check on the goats’ water. He used to let them drink individually from a bucket, but increasingly severe pains in his back had put an end to that. So, he put out a commission to the local blacksmith for a water trough. It had hardly been a year with the new equipment, and it was already covered in blunt damage and teeth marks, but it did the job and that was what mattered to Edwal. A cursory glance at the trough revealed it to be full enough. Satisfied, Edwal picked up the two iron buckets stacked together on the trough’s right side, and with his new tools in hand made his way over to the goat’s shelter.

Little more than a large rectangular awning propped up by four posts, the shack existed as a formality to keep Edwal’s goats out of the elements. The Breton had seven goats in total, all of them currently bundled together in a heap among the scattered hay that served as the shack’s “floor”.

“Oi,” bellowed Edwal as he approached. “Get up you bunch of lazy loafs! It’s time to earn your keep.”

The goats used to the routine slowly roused themselves awake. The bucks and the kids slowly began to file out towards the trough or to graze on the millet and other grasses. The does remained clustered together patiently waiting to be milked. Kneeling slowly amongst the hay, Edwal began the process of gathering the milk.

It was late in the morning by the time Edwal had nearly finished. His wife Aia having risen in the proceeding hours and having begun to prepare the first proper meal of the day, the smoke rising from the farmstead’s stubby stone chimney. Dumping his latest collection into a large stone pot that he had fetched from the house, Edwal made his way carefully over to the last of his does currently standing defiantly in the corner - Sorcha.

Sorcha was the youngest of the batch and certainly the most problematic. When she was just a doeling she nearly bit Edwal’s finger off. The elder Breaton took a deep breath preparing himself as he made his approach. Sorcha regarded him suspiciously with her large eyes watching every movement. Edwal could see the goat’s muscles flex ready to sprint at a moment’s notice. He reached out a hand pleading towards the doe as he took another small step towards her.

“Come on Sorcha,” whispered Edwal as he shuffled closer. “it doesn’t always have to be a – Gods!”

Sorcha had broken into a run slipping between the old Breton’s legs. By the time Edwal had managed to turn around, the young doe was charging towards the still unlocked gate. Edwal sprinted after Sorcha the muscles in his legs screaming in protest as he did, but the old man’s legs just couldn’t keep up with those of the young animal. Sundering ahead, cutting a path through the other goats who protested with bleating murmurs, the young doe dropped her head low and crashed into the gate. She staggered from the impact, but Sorcha caught herself and the momentum was enough to open the gate just enough for her to slip out and run towards the nearby underbrush.

Panting and out of breath, Edwal stumbled up to the Gate closing it again before the other goats had any other ideas. He had all but given up on ever seeing Sorcha again when he heard a goatish yelp of protest coming from not far off. Curiosity peaked, Edwal peered over the paddock watching the underbrush that Sorcha had just disappeared into.

Emerging from the bushes was a large Orsimer women dressed in furs and holding the kicking and yelling Sorcha in her arms like a squirming sack of potatoes.

“Is this yours?”

| ~ |


“And then she came - my savior! Walking out of the woods with Sorcha in her hands like the Hero of Kvatch!” Edwal exclaimed excitedly slapping the table for emphasis much to Toruka’s immense displeasure.

Toruka hadn’t done anything. She was walking along the trail when a goat sprinted straight into her leg. Hearing Edwal’s cries in the distance, Toruka put the evidence together and decided that it was best that the runaway goat was returned home. The young doe undoubtedly had a fighting spirit to her, but she wouldn’t of made it more than a week in the wild. So, scoping up the protesting Sorcha in her arms, she brought her back to Edwal.

“I really didn’t…” protested Toruka.

“Let him have his fun dearie,” replied Aia as she plopped a hot bowl of porridge in front of Toruka. “we don’t get much excitement around here.”

The older Imperial woman reminded Toruka of the elderly matrons in her tribe. Her long gray hair kept in an elaborate braid that ran down the back of her heavyset and muscular frame, a boulder in comparison to the thin reed like stature of her husband. She was the one that insisted on Toruka sharing a meal with them after her “rescuing” of Sorcha.

Toruka prodded at the porridge with the wooden spoon that had been provided to her. The porridge was adorned with berries and wild honey, and Toruka could already feel her mouth watering as she brought the food to her lips. The homely flavor of the porridge tasted like a king’s feast after spending nearly a month consuming only travel rations and the occasional game she hunted when her feet weren’t useless from the day’s trek. She paid little heed to table edict and thankfully Edwal and Aia didn’t seem to mind. Aida laughing as she spooned another portion of porridge into Toruka’s bowl.

“Now only if Edwal enjoyed my cooking this much! Though I reckon, your folks being as big as they are must eat a lot.”

“I sailed with an Orsimer once. The dammed giant was as nearly as tall as two Nords stacked atop each other’s shoulders! Now that was a fella that could eat!” mused Edwal.

Toruka could feel the blush building on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she began as she pushed the empty second portion away. “travel is hard on the stomach.”

“And where might those travels be taking you?” Aia asked finally sitting down at the table with them.

“I’m Bruma-bound,” explained Toruka “looking for some paying work.”

“Bruma? Ain’t you heading that way tomorrow for the market Ed?”

“Indeed!”

“Then the two of you should head out that way together!” suggested Aia. “You could rest your feet for a while Toruka, and I myself would feel much safer if my Ed had a strapping young lass protecting him.”

“I really don’t want to be a burden, and I prefer traveling alone” replied Toruka reflexively looking around the dwelling for an exit. Edwal, Aia, and the table were unfortunately between her and the door. She supposed that she could squeeze her way up the chimney behind her if she wanted, but Toruka really didn’t enjoy the prospect of getting covered in soot.

“Nonsense!” proclaimed Ed with another slap of the table. “You can stay here for the night and we can leave in the morning!”


| ~ |


City of Bruma, 21st First Seed, Afternoon

“We’ve arrived” Edwal announced gently prodding Toruka awake with a jagged elbow.

The two were sandwiched together on the small bench of Edwal’s cart, the back loaded with supplies for the market. The noon sun had risen high in the sky by this point and despite it there was already a chill in the air as the wagon entered Bruma, the Jerall Mountains on the horizon framing their entrance as they did. Toruka had passed through the county capital once before on a trip northward to Skyrim. She had stay in the town only for one evening as she resupplied for the trip through the Jeralls. Not much had changed in the intervening time sense then. Toruka thought that to be appropriate as the Nords had much of the same mentality as her own people, a certain ethos of work that broke down to – “if it works then there is no need to go around changing everything.”

Edwal parked his wagon amongst a cluster of others that seemed to be making a small impromptu market near the Great Chapel. The other waggoneers seemed to know Edwal who came over and began to chat with them. Still groggy from her sleep and in no mood for social interaction, Toruka began to set about the work of offloading Edwal’s supplies. From what Toruka could gather, most of what Edwal brought to market was goat’s milk and cheese being sold in clay pots and old cheesecloth respectively. Soon, Edwal finished with his minor introduction and began to help Toruka. He took out the loose assemblage of wood that he put together to create a makeshift stall for himself in front of the wagon.

By the time they had hammered the last nail into the stall nearly an hour had passed. Edwal wiped the sweat off his brow with a sleeve as he looked at Toruka with a smile.

“Well,” he began. “I believe this is where we part ways.”

“Indeed,” Toruka replied. “I’m truly grateful for your kindness.”

“And I’m grateful that you saved my goat! She might be a handful, but… she’s still family. And for saving my family I present you with this.” explained Edwal handing Toruka a small sack of cheese.

“Safe travels.” Toruka responded nodding in appreciation.

“You as well! Don’t be a stranger you hear!”

Walking away with her newly collected lunch, Toruka found a seat on the ledge that split the middle tier of the city from the lowest, her feet dangling above the open air. The piece of cheese that she pulled was fresh and had a strong taste in her mouth. As she began to make slow work of the cheese, Toruka observed the city around her. Eyes trained for stalking immediately found interest in a burst of movement below. Two children, both with red hair, one taller than the other were chasing each other down the low street. As they made a sharp turn to avoid the path of an adult, the smaller child fell to the ground scrapping his knee. Tears began to well in his eyes and the child began to cry.

Suddenly and without warning, the crying took Toruka to another place.

It was the night after the slaughter of her people, Toruka sifted through the ruins of her tribe. She was covered in blood and looking for survivors. In her arms she clutched a wailing baby girl. The dwelling that the baby was sleeping in had collapsed atop of her during the chaos, a large piece of lumber having neatly shattered her spine. Despite this, somehow the baby was still alive, wailing and crying when Toruka unburied her. Toruka knew that the child wasn’t going to make it. Toruka knew what she had to do. It still didn’t make things any easier when she picked up the stone off the ground next to her…

Toruka was jolted back into reality. She was looking at the sky now and there was a sharp pain coming from the back of her head. It appeared that she had fallen off the ledge, luckily backwards instead of forwards towards the much lower street. She pulled herself up to her feet. She could taste blood, ash, and smoke on her tongue. Her panic ridden brain on some kind of self-driven autopilot drove her legs forward towards where old memories recalled the Inn was. She forced her hands to stop shaking long enough to produce the last of her septims to purchase a room and made her way inside almost dropping the key twice.

Once she was alone and secure, Toruka ripped the rucksack off her back and began pulling supplies out of it. From the bottom of the bag, she pulled out a bundle of blankets that contained three bottles and a pipe. She took a deep breath careful not to drop one of the selected bottles which she uncorked. She gave herself double the dosage that she usually did. She lit the pipe using a candle already lit in the room and inhaled smoke.

| ~ |


Toruka awoke on the floor of her rented room with the used pipe on her chest. She picked up the pipe and looked at it. Toruka had heard stories about skooma users that ended up burning themselves to death because of an errant pipe, it appeared this time that she had gotten lucky. Her head was still pulsating from the comedown, but she had enough wherewithal to shove the contents of her bag that she had scattered about in desperation back into their place. As she pulled her rucksack back over her shoulders, she felt cold. The floor had been cold as ice and passing out on it had done no wonders for her body temperature. With no choice, Toruka took a breath and headed outside to the common area where the hearth was still raging.

Toruka deduced that it must have been evening. The common area of the Inn was packed with residents chatting and drinking amongst themselves. Avoiding all of them, she found a small space to herself on a squat stump of a chair next to the fire. As she warmed herself back up, she closed her eyes and pleaded a silent prayer to Mauloch, hoping for once that her people’s deity would have mercy on her.
“Mauloch, spurned of Boethiah and King of Curses, heed my call. I’m a broken compass not knowing which way to point. I seek only to purge my dishonor. What must I do?”

“….and then he said he was going to go join that new Adventure’s guild.” A man said sitting at a table nearby loud enough for Toruka to overhear.

“To bring them a boar?” asked his drinking companion.

“Looking for work apparently. Bastard.” The man replied taking a swig from his tankard.

The words Adventure’s Guild hung in Toruka’s ears. Something in her knew that this was as close as sign as she was going to get from her deity. So Toruka rose to her feet and made her way to the door.

She was greeted by the cold evening mountain air as she left the Inn. She found a nearby beggar who she persuaded with a chunk of Edwal’s cheese to tell her where this new Adventure’s Guild was. As she approached, she found that she could see lights spilling from the windows and smoke exiting a chimney. It appeared that whoever these adventurers were - they were currently home. Normally Toruka wasn’t that much of a people person, but the Orsimer supposed that if this was Mauloch’s will who was she to object? If joining this guild let her fulfil her oath, then so be it.

Having decided her apparent fate, Toruka walked up to the door and slammed a heavy fist against it once and then twice.

Knockknock


Toruka

31 ~ Orsimer ~ Forward Scout



Sum your life so far into a single paragraph:
My life began with my clan in Valenwood. My father was the chief and my mother his Forge-Wife, or what you would call his second wife. I spent more time in the air than I ever did on the ground, always looking to climb something else. I was the largest child of my brood and being the chief’s daughter, I had a lot to prove. These were happy times, but Mauloch decreed that they were not meant to last. A member of our clan killed a rival from another after a hunting dispute. The other chief demanded that my father hand our hunter over for punishment, but my father refused as he had a blood oath with the hunter's late father. We lost the resulting conflict, and my clan was slaughtered by our rivals. I should have died with the others, but my cowardice saved me. I hid under the corpses of my clansmen and waited until the screaming stopped. It has been fifteen of your years since then, but I still remember it when I close my eyes. My dishonor stains me and I cannot bring myself to return to my own people. I have wandered ever since using my skills to bring violence to others for a price. My hope is to find a good death to prove myself in the eyes of Mauloch. Your guild seems like a good place for this.


What was the most difficult decision you've ever had to make?:
After my clan's end... I wanted to end my own life. I felt a sorrow unlike any other. My sorrow drove me up the highest tree I could find, and once up there I stood on the edge of its highest branch. In a life such as mine you see many die from falling and I felt the urge to follow them. It would be as easy as throwing myself into the wind's uncaring embrace. Yet, I could not find the courage within myself to jump. I screamed at Mauloch to strike me down where I stood, but my feet refused to leave their anchoring point. I don't remember how or why I eventually climbed down, but I do remember the choice I made next. If Mauloch was not to kill me, then I had to earn his favor once more. I split open my hand with a nearby sharp stone and swore a blood oath upon the souls of all my clansman, I swore that I would fight until I fell in battle.

I choose to live that day. So now, when the old memories get bad, and they always do from time to time, I make another gash on my right arm as a reminder of my oath. The pain reminds me that I'm alive, and as long as I live...I have not yet earned the right to die.


Tell me how other people would describe you?:
What is the word that you ground-walkers use? Ah yes, open. The more I travel, the more I find that your people have a habit of not saying what they mean or what they want. You all seem to run or hide from your emotions, like you should feel shame for feeling? I do not understand this. Emotion is what fuels the warrior more than any meal. Rage, lust, pride these things have allowed lesser men to accomplish great things. To run from them is to only hurt yourself.


What are your outside interests?:
In her spare time my mother used to carve us little trinkets from the bone fragments left over from the hunt. After I left Valenwood, I soon began to make similar carvings. They are rough and uneven and far removed from the beauty of my mother's, but they give my fidgeting hands something to do.

I also spend much of my time performing physical labor. My clan did not believe in extraneous activity - all work had to be work towards a purpose. Luckily people always seem to need help. A bundle of wood needs to move, crops need harvesting, and messages need delivering. People seem to appreciate this work, and I would be lying if I said their happy faces did not make me feel proud of my actions.

I permit myself one indulgence and that is music. Back at home, we had war drummers and thunderous singers, but not the vast number of instruments you have. I remember my first night staying in tavern and a local musician was playing. The music reminded me of happier times, of dances and celebrations, of the family I have lost. So, when I have the time, I'll make way to the local tavern and sit in for a song.... or three. If Mauloch chooses to damn me for this indulgence, then I do not regret a thing.


What are your greatest strengths:
We Orsimer of Valenwood are of a different stock than our mountain-born brethren, and I'm proud of that fact. I'm fast, I'm strong, and I've near met an obstacle that I couldn't scale. Looking at you land-walkers gawk as I bound up a tree is always a fun sight. Besides that, I'm self-reliant more than anything else. Life isn't easy growing up in an Orsimer clan and nobody holds your hand even if you share the chief's blood. I've also recently begun the process of learning how to make simple salves to heal or give energy. Though admittedly, this is slow going because I cannot read the strange words that you put inside your books. Finally, I'm dependable, because putting your faith in Mauloch means keeping your promises.


What are your weaknesses?:
My mind is not my own. The dishonor that stains me is with me wherever I go. There are times when I fall into a waking nightmare, where I relive my clan's final battle repeatedly. I hear and see things that are not always there, these spirits and whispers of ill-intent lurk on the edges of my sight. Even simple things have the possibility of ruining me, the scream of a playing child is enough to bring my mind to a different place. It is my great shame to admit that this failing can even overtake me in the heat of battle.

Luckily or unluckily, I have found a solution of sorts.

I was introduced to skooma through a Khajiit merchant whose life I saved from a highway man. Skooma is the only thing that can calm my mind for a while. It shames me that I must stoop to such means, but I will do what I must to survive. I try to be smart with my usage. I only use it before jobs when I know that I must. And I now have experience dealing with dosages, so that the heaviest waves of the drug are not hitting me in the middle of a battle.

As a result of all this, I try to avoid ambushes as much as I can for obvious reasons.


What are your aspirations for the future?:
I wish to prove myself to Mauloch and to earn my death. I wish to be free from my dishonor at least. That is all I wish from this life.


Why do you want to join this guild?:
The challenges I have faced alone are not worthy of a good death. The larger challenges that a guild such as this could provide will hopefully be better.


What are your expectations of the guild?:
I'm not foolish enough to expect it to be like another clan if that is what you mean. I expect the other members fight well and keep to their oaths and nothing more.






Skill LevelSkill
Highly ProficientAthletics
Moderately ProficientArchery, One Handed Axe, Sneak
Somewhat ProficientAcrobatics, Light Armor
NoviceAlchemy







Equipment TypeItem
WeaponTwin Orcish war axes
ArmourWolven fur armor
Food/ProvisionsA large water skin
Satchel containing strips of tough jerky and tougher hardtack
Alchemical IngredientsA bundle of crushed honeycomb
A handful of loose purple mountain flower
Miscellaneous
A small rucksack containing:
A pestle that has lost its mortar
A number of crudely carved bone charms
3 bottles of skooma + pipe wrapped in an old blanket


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W E L L I N G T O N, N E V A D A
Sheriff's Office


Captain Donovan Blake peered at the girl through the one-way glass of the interrogation room. Averting his gaze, he glanced upwards towards an old ceiling fan struggling to keep up with the heat. He grumbled as he pulled at the collar of his shirt the fabric sticking to his sweat drenched neck. The former collegiate football player still carried the build of a defensive lineman albeit having softened somewhat with age. His dropping jowls and morose disposition had earned him the make-sure-he-wasn’t-looking-first nickname of Mastiff around the department. Standing next to him Trujillo thought it was an apt comparison.

For the past hour the Mastiff had grilled him and Reid over everything that they had seen. After their discovery in the desert, the department was abuzz with activity. Anyone that was in town on call or not was dragged into the office or sent out into the Desert to start collecting evidence. The boys at the county morgue had to enlist some biology students from the community college to help them deal with all the bodies. It all felt wrong to Trujillo as if he and Reid had disturbed some long unbroken code after all massacres don’t happen in small desert towns. Blake was insistent on getting everything under control again before the journalists started trying to bash the door in. He needed answers and without the girl he was going to get jack shit out of those.

Trujillo rubbed the gauze on his arm as he looked at her through the glass. She had woken in the truck on the road back and attacked the first thing she saw. Trujillo had dealt with unruly drunks before but none with actual claws. One of the sharp bastards had managed to slice through his forearm like roast beef before Reid was able to hit her with the taser they kept in the glovebox. She had handcuffs on now, but Trujillo wasn’t sure she wasn’t just tolerating them to keep up appearances.

“This is a shitshow Trujillo.” Blake stated as he paced the length of the window. “I got a dozen bodies in the morgue and a mutant killer in my interrogation room.”

“To be fair sir,” Trujillo argued “they were the ones shooting at her.”

“And how do we know they weren’t doing so in self-defense? You saw the footage from New York and Star City, you know what those freaks can do.” Blake countered

“With all due respect sir, I also saw a bunch of those “freaks” helping save everyone.”

“Your bleating fucking heart is going to be the end of you Trujillo,” Blake sighed before continuing “well if you are such the mutant lover, then you go in there and talk to her. I need a report on my desk before the spooks from Metahuman Affairs come knocking, or they will have all our heads.”

“Whatever you say boss” Trujillo replied trying his best not to roll his eyes.

With the exchange over, Trujillo exited the room and turned left away from the interrogation room. Trujillo didn’t have kids, his libido was all but non-existent, but he did have a feisty old bastard of a cat and if living with cats had taught him anything was that food was the great equalizer. It didn’t matter how uncooperative you wanted to be everyone needed to eat.

Calling the room that Trujillo entered a kitchen was an exercise in kindness. The rickety gas stove looked like it had stopped working a decade before he had signed up, and the sink pumped out rust more than it did water these days. Somehow though the kitchen still had a working refrigerator and microwave though and at the moment that was enough for Trujillo. He pulled a bottle of water and a half-empty carton of milk from the fridge stacking them alongside a pack of instant oatmeal he grabbed from a nearby cabinet. He tore open the oatmeal and dumped it into a bowl before splashing in the milk. Two and half minutes in the microwave later and the smell of cinnamon and maple syrup wafted its way into Trujillo’s nostrils. He took a scrap of paper towel to create a barrier between his hand and the hot contents and took the water bottle in the other.

Sergeant Reid’s familiar dower face guarded the interrogation room door. She took measured sips from a thermos its pale-yellow matching her hay colored hair. She had been standing watch since their return, despite offers of reprieve from some of their colleagues so that she could catch a few minutes of shut eye on the break room couch. Ever since the girl had attacked Trujillo in the truck, Reid had been more on edge than usual. Even now as he turned the corner to head down the hallway, Reid head perked up like some grazing animal listening from predators. The tension in her shoulders loosened and her expression softened as she realized it was just Trujillo.

“Didn’t you stuff your face when we got back?” She asked cocking her brow as she regarded the small meal that her partner had prepared.

“It’s not for me,” Trujillo explained as he closed the distance “its for our guest of honor.”

“She rips your arm open and you go and make her something to eat?” Reid responded as her eyes lingered for a moment too long on the gauze on his arm.

Trujillo shrugged.

“What can I say? I’m a masochist.”

“Just be careful in there Wash.”

“Is that an order sergeant?”

“It’s whatever you fucking want it to be if it stops you from getting mauled.”

Reid slammed the door securely shut behind Trujillo as he entered the room with a loud thud. He stood at one end of a long and narrow space, like someone had thrown up a wall and door in a disused hallway and called it a new room. One wall was dominated by the smoky one-way glass that concealed the room that he and the Mastiff had been talking in minutes earlier. Across the way and pressed up against the opposite wall was a metal table with two chairs on either end. The girl occupied the chair at the far end her gaze fixated on the floor below her. Trujillo took the seat closer to the door laying out the food equidistant between the two of them.

Sitting there he couldn’t help but think about how normal she looked. In his time working for the Sheriff’s department, he had dealt with a lot of runaways. Nestled right along the long I-95 between Reno and Las Vegas, there was a lot of folks that eaten alive by the casinos or the drugs or both. The neon-soaked allure washing away everything else including pesky things like putting food on the table for your kids. The smell was the same, the pungent odor of desert caked sweat that built up on the body after a week or more of not properly bathing. The same ragged and torn clothes and sunken features of somebody that didn’t know where their next meal was coming for. And at a quick glance, you could mistake the dried-up blood for dirt.

It was hard to imagine how the girl standing in front of him caused all that death he and Reid had stumbled upon. The sting of protest in his wrapped-up arm as he rested his elbow on the table reminded him. She wasn’t’ just a normal runaway after all, she was a metahuman. He knew some people from school that ended up in Star City, folks with kids, jobs, and dreams, and some were in the ground now, others were still in the hospital, and those lucky enough to come out physically fine were still going to therapy to deal with the post-traumatic stress. But he didn’t see or hear about any girl with claws in those stories and it wasn’t in his belief to punish someone for something somebody else had done.

“So,” Trujillo started leaning forward in his sat “are you going to talk now?”

Her gaze turned upward from the floor meeting his own. Her eyes were a dark green speckled with dark spots that echoed the ink-black of her hair. Trujillo’s abuelita had always said the quickest way to judge somebody was from their eyes, as they were the only parts of the body that couldn’t lie. And the eyes he was looking at now were empty, dark endless circles. He’d seen killers, thieves, and rapists with more life in them, a deeper sense of humanity. He had to fight against the shiver that was building up at the base of his spine. Pushing his discomfort away he gestured towards the food on the table.

“That’s for you,” he explained.

The girl looked at him and down at bowl of oatmeal and the bottle of water and back up at him again. In the span of a single blink the girl had pulled the two items over towards her. Her movements were spastic because of the handcuffs, but she still managed to move quicker than Trujillo ever could. On her first attempt she tried to use the spoon that Trujillo had provided, but her hands were bound in such a way that she couldn’t bring the spoon up to her face without spilling half of its contents. Quickly she grew frustrated and tossed the spoon to the side sending it clattering against the one-way glass.

For her second attempt, Trujillo watched in astonishment as she leaned over and dipped her hands directly into the still hot oatmeal using them to shovel the food into her mouth. If the girl felt the pain, she didn’t show it to him as she quickly devoured the meal with a ravenous hunger. As the oatmeal in the bowl diminished, she turned her attention to the water bottle. In a flash, the girl extended the sharp metal claws on one of her hands and used one of the sharp spears to puncture the plastic like it wasn’t even there, catching the water as it spilled out of the freshly made hole. She continued to chug the water bottle until it was empty. Trujillo watched wondering how long a girl had to go without eating to consume food at such a pace.

“Around here they call me Corporal Trujillo,” he explained “what should I call you?”

The girl licked stray pieces of oatmeal from her fingers as she looked back up at him, almost like the food had made her forgot that he was there. The bright patches of pinkish skin where the hot food had scalded her already beginning to fade away back to their original healthy color. She looked at him for a long time, a question on her face, before she finally answered. She sounded young but there was a definite confidence about her.

“My name is Laura.”

“Are you alone out here Laura?”

“I had a mother… but she isn’t here anymore.”

From the way she hesitated Trujillo could tell that wound was still fresh. He felt something in his heart break for her. In a small act of mercy, he got straight to the point.

“What happened Laura? Out in the desert?”

The girl froze again looking down at hands caked with blood. Trujillo could see the muscles in her throat move as she swallowed a handful of air. Finally, she looked up at him and shrugged.

“I killed some people.”

“Why?” Trujillo asked glancing towards the one-way glass

“I had to.”

“You had to?” Trujillo asked leaning forward.

“That’s right.”

“Can you explain why?”

The girl paused again as she observed Trujillo. He felt those dark endless eyes pick him apart, searching for something. A knot of anxiety began to form in his stomach he breathed out deeply trying to expel the childish fear that she was seeing something that he didn’t want to see. As he exhaled, he could of swore that there was a flash of disappointment across her face. She shook her head as she spoke.
“I don’t think I can Corporal Trujillo.”

The questioning continued like that for the rest of the hour. Trujillo would come forward with a feint and the girl would deflect with a well-timed riposte. With what little information the girl ended up providing Trujillo was able to gather very little. She had come from somewhere to the north, but she had been pursued along the way. She didn’t know how old she was and if he had to guess didn’t spend much time around people. He wrote all of this down in the notebook that he kept in his back pocket, and going over it once more, it looked more like the plot of a second-rate thriller that you would buy an airport than anything resembling reality.

Trujillo would have wanted to ask more, but the Mastiff having listened to the whole interrogation from the adjoining room was eager to wash his hands of the whole affair. As far as the captain was concerned the girl had produced an admission of guilt about the killings, and that was enough for him. She was a dangerous mutant and a threat to public safety who had attempted to maul one of his officers. Following recently established guidelines he was to inform the Department of Metahuman Affairs and let them deal with her as they saw fit. All they had to do was wait a day for the transport vehicle to come and pick her up. After that it would be back to a much more palatable life of domestic abusers and serial rapists.

The captain wanted to toss her in the holding cell until tomorrow, but Trujillo was able to convince him otherwise on that at least. He just didn’t think it was right to punish a girl for acting in self-defense no matter how excessive the force she may have used. Instead they took the air mattress and extra sheets that they kept holed up in the supply closet and they blew it up in his and Reid’s office. The door locked from the outside and there would be a guard there stationed for the rest of the night and the window was alarmed and made out of reinforced glass, so if she tried to get out they would know, but it at least give her some semblance of privacy.

The last the corporal saw of her for the evening was when he gave her a change of clothes. The DMA guidelines for subject transfers were very strict and they were to gather up all evidence clothing included. As the girl used the shower to scrub away the blood, he went about trying to find new clothes for her. With Reid’s help he managed to scrounge up an extra-small dark blue sweatshirt embossed with the department seal and a matching pair of gym shorts. The type of stuff that the higher ups wanted them to pawn off to their family members in exchange for “charitable” donations and fundraisers. The girl looked surprised but thanked him none the less.

After that he went up to the front to type up his report since he could not use the computer in his office. He had to stifle a yawn as he went through the long process of checking every box and filling out every prompt. When he used to work at the port he had to fill out and go over shipping manifests for all the cargo haulers that came in, but even that didn’t compare to the level of bureaucratic nonsense that had to deal with in the department. If he filled out even one section of the form wrong, the Mastiff made it sound like half of the government would be coming to chase him down.

Somewhere around the sixth or seventh page the front door opened. Trujillo sighed before speaking rubbing at tired eyes as he did.
“How can I help you today…” His voice dying out quietly as he felt his heart leap into his throat.

A man with dark sunglasses, brown duster, and matching cowboy hat stood in the door. Flanking him on either side were two heavily armed men dressed in the same black combat armor as the ones that they had found in the desert. The man with the duster sauntered forward to the desk taking broad, long steps as he did. He propped his arm up on the desk as he got close and it was at that moment that Trujillo noticed that it was made from metal, he could hear gears and pistons turning beneath the metal plating as he flexed his fingers. Smiling the man with the duster pushed his sunglasses atop his dirty-blond hair; his eyes the color of lapis.

“Well partner,” the man started with an easy Texas drawl “my name is Pierce and I’m looking for somebody.”

Never breaking eye contact, Trujillo began to reach for the revolver at his hip.

@Gcold
After some futzing about I think I have a workable outline of a lovable if troubled scamp of a slicer. I'm currently in the midst of packing for my last year of undergrad, but I'll try and get something up for you soon!

[ Prev ] Prologue: Mojave Nights, Part I” [ Next ]

W E L L I N G T O N, N E V A D A


Corporal Jeramiah “Wash” Trujillo rode shotgun as the truck belonging to the Sheriff's Department sped on through the desert night. Sergeant Bridget Reid sat in the driver’s seat next to him watching the open stretch of highway ahead of them with a stony silence. It had been close to four years since Trujillo had moved south from Tacoma, but even still the sheer emptiness of the Mojave, especially at night, still managed to surprise him. Sometimes you would go hours before headlights would appear on the horizon, only for the vehicle to pass on by just as quickly as it appeared. When he pointed this out to other members on the force, they predictably teased him about it. They gave him warnings that the quiet was only there to lull you into a false sense of security until the ghosts or aliens snatched you up. Trujillo was the resident city boy after all, despite his insistence that Tacoma was small compared to the likes of Seattle and Spokane and even more to Gotham or Metropolis. The corporal’s protests fell on deaf ears though, it didn’t matter if you were an overworked port officer, you were still a member of the coastal elite.

Maybe that is why Trujillo enjoyed running with Reid so much, she didn’t say shit. Trujillo’s own journey through the department’s well-greased rumor mill delivered the same old story – Reid was the lead on a case revolving around some sicko who hitchhiked on the railroad to get around and had a penchant to chopping up schoolgirls and fucking their corpses. After that it was a lot of staring off into the distance and morbid conversations from Reid. Whatever jovial seed that had once nestled itself within the sergeant’s bosom had long since shriveled up and died. A psychiatric evaluation after the fact suggested that Reid talked to somebody, but she apparently walked out of her first appointment with the shrink. The higher ups in the Department let her stay on though, driven by their throbbing hard-ons for picturesque efficiency, they only cared in as much as it kept the proverbial trains running on time and luckily for them Reid only got more efficient after the incident not less.

Reid spit a chewed and saliva ridden ball of gum into her thermos before she wiped at her mouth with a sleeve and spoke, “Why’d you come out to the desert Wash?”

“Guess I just wanted a change of pace.” Trujillo lied, caught off guard by his partner’s sudden interest.

Trujillo knew if he had the chance, he’d be back in Tacoma quicker than a shit after a bad case of food poisoning. The emphasis though was on the word chance and the problem was he never would have one, not as long as the Russians were still running amok in the port. Everyone knew that the russkaya mafiya used the port to smuggle drugs, people, and weapons from the Russian East to the American West and vice-versa. Trujillo just had the shit luck of being on shift the night when Ivan and friends were dealing with a business partner of theirs. They were considerate enough to not shoot him right then and there when he stumbled upon the scene. Instead they provided him with an ultimatum, which was made all the more persuasive by the Glock barrel that they lovingly placed into his mouth. They were never to see Trujillo again or next time they wouldn’t be so kind with their offering.

“This your idea of a fun time then? Riding out into the desert to catch some kids getting their rocks off by setting fires?” Reid mused referring to their current assignment.

It was a “granny call” – some old senior having seen something scary in the night and now the department had to go look at it. Mister Willoughby who lived on the edge of town saw smoke in the distance and frantically dialed in. The pair after an unlucky drawing of straws was sent out to investigate to see if the fire department needed to be called up. As it was easier to send two grunts from the Sheriff’s department out there than potentially sending out a fully supplied fire truck that couldn’t get back to town as quickly if a fire broke out.

“What makes you say they are kids?” Trujillo questioned.

Reid shrugged. “It’s 3:00 AM on a Tuesday Wash, everyone else has lives to attend to.”

They turned off the highway; the truck’s frame rumbling as tires rode across unpaved dirt. As the road vanished behind them, so too did the last signs of civilization. Ahead of them was only rocks, scrubland, and the occasional prickly bushel of a low-lying cactus that merged the border between the two. On the horizon ahead of them, Trujillo could see a dark plume of smoke faintly illuminated by the tendrils of a creeping orange glow that hung on the horizon, the smoke growing fainter as it drifted away from the glow and into a tar tinted night sky. Trujillo whistled at the sight before he spoke.

“Fuck, maybe old man Willoughby isn’t going senile after all.”

Reid didn’t offer any comment.

As the truck rounded a final hill, Trujillo’s eyes widened. Below them in the remnants of a dried-up riverbed was a scene of carnage.

The hulking shells of two black SUVs sat in the riverbed, one of them sprawled out on its side and the other flipped completely on its back, flames licking upwards from the wreckage. Pieces of the two vehicles lay scattered across the scene reminding Trujillo of old pictures of bomb craters from school textbooks. Intermingled with the scattered shrapnel were dark shapes that were vaguely humanoid in appearance all inert. As the truck crept closer, Trujillo reached a hand down towards the pistol at his waist.

Reid pulled the key out of the ignition. The headlights blinked out of existence leaving only the fire from the crashed truck to illuminate the scene. Trujillo looked towards his partner and they shared a glance of silent acknowledgment before they opened the doors. Trujillo drew his flashlight from his belt and his pistol from its holster as he surveyed the scene. As he stood watched out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Reid pull out the shotgun from the mount on the truck’s rearview mirror. The two stood in silence as they swept the area for any signs of movement, but there was only the flicker of the flames. Nodding to one another, the sergeant and the corporal moved down the slight incline into the riverbed their safeties turned off.

As they got close to the nearest body Trujillo knelt to get a better look. The poor sap was dressed in heavy black body armor from head to toe. His helmet’s visor had been punctured through in two places with great force, slowly congealing blood dripped from the jagged holes left behind. Trujillo deduced that he was a PMC of some kind judging from his gear alone. A set of heavy bandoliers were attached to his armor containing several clips of extra ammo. The firearm though wasn’t anywhere near the body. Looking down at the body, Trujillo realized that he was crawling towards something, one arm reaching out towards a bush a few feet away.

He traced the reaching trajectory of the dead man’s arm and found a gun. It was a TSB17-9 submachine gun. The barrel had been sliced clean off from the gun landing a few feet away. Kicking the gun over with his foot, he noticed a pair of black padded fingers that still gripped the trigger, severed from the hand that was holding it. The corporal recoiled in shock as he fought against the bile that was forcing its way up his throat. Taking a slow breath, he slowly stepped away from the mangled weapon and appendages.

Trujillo made his way towards Reid who was currently examining the SUV turned on its side. As he crossed the riverbed, he watched the horizon and listened. There was still nothing, but the crackle of the fire from the other vehicle. The flames were spreading out now. The fire licked at the edge of the surrounding shrubs and a few of the corpses.

Trujillo turned his attention back to Reid and the unconsumed SUV. The vehicle’s tinted windshield had a hole in the center like something vaguely humanoid had burst through it. There was a woman in the driver seat dressed in a similar get up to the other corpse he had examined. He noted that the only difference was that this one didn’t have a helmet on, instead a black beret. His eyes though were fixated slightly below the head at the woman’s neck which had been shredded open. He stood there and thought about that for a minute, thought about what could do something like that.

Reid came back around towards the front having examined the vehicle’s cabin. Her face was pale, but her voice remained steady.

“Three more bodies in the back. All the upholstery is torn to shit as well.”

“What the hell is all this Reid?” Trujillo asked shaking his head.

“I have no idea Wash… This isn’t normal, not one bit.”

“Do we at least know who they are?”

“People with a lot of money that’s who. Not even the cartels pack this much heat.”

“There are more bodies beyond the burning wreck. Maybe they might give us a clue.”

Trujillo turned away from the SUV and trudged further up the riverbed. As he marched along, he shined his flashlight across the ground. There was a lot of blood, discharged bullet shells, and footprints. Judging from the amount of clutter, he began to get a picture of the events that transpired. Whatever survivors there where from the two wrecks moved in pursuit of something and whatever the something was it was fighting back. And judging from the corpses that lined the trail he was following that something was winning.

He passed four more bodies and stopped at the fifth that was furthest out. Still dressed in the same body armor, the man had managed to brace himself up against a rock. Resting in his lap was a shotgun pointed away from the wreckage. The shotgun had a short barrel and it was fitted with a pistol stock and a twenty round drum magazine. A blood-stained tactical knife lay not far from him having been tossed to the ground. There was a singular large puncture wound in his left leg just above the Popliteal artery and there was about a dozen more similar wounds each in pairs of two across the armor. It seemed that this man had managed to hold out longer than his other compatriots, trying to prop up his shotgun with his dying breaths. Trujillo didn’t know if such dedication was admirable or tragic.

He squatted down next to the dead man and followed the direction of his gaze. Leading out of the riverbed was more footprints and more blood. The footprints were different from the heavy imprints left by the soldiers’ combat boots. They were lighter, smaller, and belonged to somebody that was wearing no shoes at all. They must have belonged to the last man standing whomever they were. The footprints were erratic and staggered in a limping gait and there was a lot of blood. They couldn’t have made it all that far.

Trujillo scrambled up the short incline that lead out of the riverbed. He paused at the apex and looked back. Reid was checking over the other bodies as the smoke continued to belch into the sky. He paused and listened again as he watched the country. There was nothing: no sound, no movement. Not even the buzz of flies coming to nest on the corpses. He wasn’t sure if the place was cursed or sacred. Either way, he felt like an intruder.

The ground ahead of him was disturbed having fallen downward in a miniature rockslide. The footprints stopped at the edge, but the blood continued. He could see a pair of handprints where somebody caught themselves after a tumble. The trail continued like that. The heavy imprint of a body dragging itself across the ground like some large snake. The movement had aggregated whatever wounds they had received as there was more blood now. Dark heavy streaks tinted brown as it mixed with the desert dust.

Can’t be far now. Nobody can survive losing that much blood. Trujillo thought to himself.

The trail brought him to the foot of another small hill. There at its base was a small dark shape. The beam of his flashlight uncovered another body. He watched the body for a long time. His gun was trained on the corpse watching for any movement. Satisfied he crept on forward to get a better look.

The girl was curled up in such a way that she reminded Trujillo of a sleeping dog. A trail of blood smeared with dust went halfway up the hill before stopping. She had pale skin and long black hair, and both were matted with blood. Her black t-shirt was riddled with stab wounds and bullet holes and her black jeans were in a similar state. Yet Trujillo couldn’t make out any visible injuries.

He took another breath and holstered his weapon. He could feel his hands shake as he reached out to place a pair of fingers on the girl’s neck.

badumpbadumpbadumpbadump

The pulse was slow and strong. The girl was still alive.

Trujillo gripped the trigger on the radio receiver clipped to his shoulder and spoke.

“Reid, you are gonna want to come and see this.”
Howdy y'all, just popping in to say first X-23 post should be popping in this weekend as long as everything goes according to schedule!
@Lord Wraith

Thank you very much for the kind words and the acceptance!

I'm probably going take a page from my fanfic roots and build something of a small backlog built up before I start posting anything. So like soon but not too soon? August just happens to be kinda a hectic month for me: first week is the annual family vacation, and the last week I start my last year of undergrad. So having some posts saved up for that initial rush will hopefully help me keep to a manageable once a week posting schedule. Or at least that is the current plan, who knows what will happen!
@Retired
Ooof then my posts might make you mad. Many a English teacher has grilled me on my grammar over the years.

The reading aloud is a good tip though! I actually usually will use the "Read Aloud" button in the review tab of Word when I'm proofreading. (I'm mildly dyslexic so reading for long periods kinda messes me up. So I make the robot read to me lmao.) Though I traditionally do it in like four paragraph chunks and then once at the end. Doing it after every paragraph like you suggested is probably a good idea though!
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