Dr Midnight
Explorer
Hiya- I haven't been around in a while, but I was once a regular. I wrote up THE KNIGHTS OF THE SILVER QUILL and THE KNIGHTS OF SPELLFORGE KEEP campaigns here and they did very well. This was back in... 2001-ish. In the end, I wrote over 250,000 words for those stories. Now I'm writing a book and wanted to reconnect with that feeling of reader feedback. It always kept me motivated to keep going. I dunno if posting a story that isn't based on a campaign is even allowed, but I didn't see any rules against it. Here goes.
On Murray Hamlish's eighty-second birthday, he was busy fighting the Nazis when his family came to visit.
He'd been chasing down a bookseller in possession of the golden scarab that would enable him to find the hidden treasure room in the Pyramid of Khufu. Naturally the Nazis were seeking the book as well, and had surrounded the bookseller in the corner of a café in Paris. The diners had left as soon as the SS had entered. Things were about to get ugly and Murray knew the man didn't have long, but he also knew he couldn't just stride in and take out two SS officers and six uniformed soldiers without a little something to even the odds. He looked around.
"I don't know where the scarab is," the elderly bookseller said, backing against the wall and tumbling a chair over. "and even if I did, I'd never tell the likes of you."
Sturmbannführer Vogel smiled, for he knew the flavors of fear. This man's fear tasted of lie. "Herr Allard... you are lying to me. That is fine. That is understandable. Just know that I know you are lying, and that we both know you cannot escape this place. The conclusion becomes inevitable."
Allard's frightened eyes skittered over to the owner of the café, who looked at Vogel in turn and backed away through the kitchen door. A lock snicked quietly into place.
Vogel smiled again. "You see?" He took out a dark clump of fabric from his hip pocket. "This is a bag. We can put it over your head, bind your hands, take you to a room we know of and... ask you again. Or you can answer us now. Where is the scarab?"
A growl from the street outside rose to a high buzz and Murray crashed through the café window riding a motorcycle. He jumped free and the bike slammed into three of the soldiers, sprawling them against the south wall.
Murray rose to his feet clutching his pistol. "Let him go, Vogel."
The soldiers that had been struck by the bike struggled to stand. Those standing took out their sidearms and leveled them at the adventurer. Vogel sneered. "I don't know how you planned to win this one, Strongheart. It's one against eight."
"Five," Murray corrected, and shot the motorcycle's gas tank. It went up in a great orange bloom, enveloping the three Nazis standing over it in flame.
Everyone opened fire at once. Murray tipped over a wrought-iron table and used it as cover. He took out two more soldiers before one dove over the table and tackled him. The gun spun away and the two rolled to their feet. Murray positioned himself shrewdly, using the Nazi as a shield against the incoming bullets while dealing a thumping right cross to the officer's jaw. Fire crawled up the wallpaper, and everything was smoke and flickering red.
"Hi Dad!" A family was suddenly standing by the east wall. A middle aged man and a pinch-faced woman smiled with their hands on the shoulders of a young girl. The man was waving.
Surprised, Murray didn't react in time to avoid a punch. He was toppled over backward and came up rubbing his jaw. "Ahh! What? Dammit!"
Murray's daughter-in-law, Debra, cleared her throat and said "Dad, Lily's here too. We've come to say happy birthday! So let's maybe watch it with the language and violence, yes?"
A sullen-eyed, dark-haired eight year-old girl flashed a quick wave and said "Happy birthday Grandpa."
Murray grunted and smashed his fist into the Nazi infantryman's nose before jumping over the bar. Gunfire lit up the room as a pair of machine gunners barged in the door with mauzers. Murray hurled a bottle of spirits at the gunners. The bullets shattered the glass and the spray of alcohol was set ablaze by the muzzle flare. The gunners screamed as they lurched about on fire.
Murray's son yelled "Dad. ...Dad! This is highly inappropriate, could you maybe stop the fighting somehow?"
Murray rolled his eyes. "Oh, for Pete's sake. Pause!" The action in the room froze. Bullets, exploding glasswork, Nazis and fire all locked still in place. Murray stood from behind the bar, brushing himself off and grumbling. "What's all this now?"
"We're here to visit you, Dad," Debra said. "It's your birthday! Didn't you know?"
Murray thought for a second and shrugged. He looked maybe thirty-five, wearing brown khakis and a gray cotton shirt that was ripped open to the waist under a leather bomber jacket. His hair hung in loose curls on his forehead. "I guess I didn't."
His son Paul looked about with distaste. Lily was staring wide-eyed at the paused imagery of the flaming Nazis. "Mind if we go somewhere else to talk, Dad?" He was in his early forties, but didn't look as youthful as his father. His cheeks were full and though you couldn't call him paunchy, there was a fatherly doughiness filling out his sensible earth-toned sweater.
Murray waved a hand and muttered. "Setting: home." The café flickered and vanished, revealing a comfortable room furnished in walnut browns and burgundy furniture. He stood there, staring at his family.
Debra took a seat on the couch. "Not to be demanding, Dad, but you still look like a... an adventurer. Could we see you? We came to see you, we haven't seen you at all in four years!"
Murray grimaced. "Appearance: self." The barrel-chested fighter pilot with the roguish smirk fuzzed away, changing to a small man in his eighties with a bent back and a sour expression. He sat down into a chair. "Well what're we doing."
"Happy birthday Dad," Paul said. "It's so good to see you!"
Murray rubbed his arms. "It's good to see you too."
Lily wandered to a wall and began studying a vase atop a pedestal. "Is this virgil reality?"
"Virtual. Yes honey." Debra looked at her daughter and her mouth tightened. "Don't touch."
"Full Immersion Virtual Reality," Murray corrected. "Do you like it?" The child shrugged.
A silence, and Paul spoke. "So how are things?"
"Okay. I just beat Fire-Pirates Of The Outer Rim the other day. That was a good'un. Now I'm doing Riches Untold II: The Golden Scarab again. I've done it twice before, but I like it."
Debra and Paul exchanged a quiet look. A ceramic crash from behind the couch, and Lily stood there guiltily, clenching her fists at her chest. The vase lay shattered at her feet. Debra hissed "Lilian Ann!"
"I just wanted to touch it," Lily mumbled.
Murray rolled his eyes. "It's fine. Undo." The vase appeared whole upon the podium again. Lily stared at it in amazement.
"Well that's something," Debra said, glaring at her daughter. "Now... I mean it. Don't touch this one."
Murray shook his head. "'It's the same vase. And it's fine, really."
Debra nodded. "Well then. Lily, do you have something for Grandpa?" Lily took out a flat parcel wrapped in garish yellow and pink paper. She held it out and approached her grandfather. He took it and she sat down beside her mother, looking like someone who's just performed a duty at a wake. Murray eyed the package suspiciously. "We had it scanned before we came in," Debra said, smiling.
Murray opened his present. "Ugh, my hands are all old-looking," he muttered. He held up a slim slab of plastic. "A gift card to The Pasta Palace."
"That's right!" Debra said. "Any time you want to go, we'll take you there, all four of us."
"Out in the world."
"The real world, that's right," she said. "Fresh air and sunlight! What could be better than that?" Her hands and knees were pressed together very tightly as she grinned.
"I'm sorry," Murray sniffed as he handed the card back to his son. "I've got all the fresh air and sunlight I need."
Paul deflated. "Come on, dad. You know that's not real."
"It's real enough. You're sitting right here with me, does this not feel real?"
Debra, who had thought of the gift card as well as the line about fresh air and sunlight, was beginning to see her plan come apart. "Dad. This is important to us. Lily's eight now, and she barely knows you! You've been in here for so long. You're losing your connection with the real world."
"I don't need the real world anymore," Murray said with a dismissive wave. He brightened. "Tell you what though, we don't need Pasta Palace. Come with me, we'll find a great italian place. Best food of your life. Anything you want."
Lily's eyes widened. "Anything?"
"Anything. What's your favorite?"
The girl scrunched her eyes and thought. She decided with a nod. "Lobster."
"Lobster it is, then! We'll go to Cape Cod. Best lobster ever. Do you like clam chowder?"
"Yeah, I love it. With oyster crackers."
"Well you can have as much as you want!"
Lily turned to her mother. "Can we, Mommy?"
Debra sighed. "You know that's not food, Lily. Your body isn't being fed when you eat here."
Murray threw an arm up. "Sure it is! Mine is!"
"Your actual body is in some technological coffin, somewhere below ground, being fed protein gruel through a tube. Our own are on cots in a darkened visiting room."
"It doesn't matter!"
"Doesn't matter, do you hear this, Paul?"
Paul held up his hands. "All right, all right. Come on. Dad, I'm sure the food's great, but this would be a real dinner, out with real family. Doesn't that sound good after all this time?"
"I want to eat lobster," Lily protested meekly.
"No honey," Debra said. "It's like the vase. It's not real."
"'Real,'" Murray snorted.
With that, Debra stood. "It's clear Grandpa doesn't want to go to dinner with us. Happy birthday, dad."
"You're afraid she'll like it!" Murray snapped.
Paul and Lily stood uncomfortably. "I'm sorry dad," Paul muttered. "Let us know if you change your mind. Anytime."
"Yeah, yeah."
After Murray's family left, he scowled for a full twenty seconds at the wall. With a shake of his head he stood again. "Nonsense. Appearance: Remington Strongheart. Setting: last played." He melted back into the form of the adventurous pulp hero and the walls flashed to the Parisian café. He cracked his knuckles as he glared at the still-paused forms of the Nazis. "All right you kraut bastards," he growled. "Let's see what you've got. Play!"
Chapter 1
Eighty-Two
Eighty-Two
On Murray Hamlish's eighty-second birthday, he was busy fighting the Nazis when his family came to visit.
He'd been chasing down a bookseller in possession of the golden scarab that would enable him to find the hidden treasure room in the Pyramid of Khufu. Naturally the Nazis were seeking the book as well, and had surrounded the bookseller in the corner of a café in Paris. The diners had left as soon as the SS had entered. Things were about to get ugly and Murray knew the man didn't have long, but he also knew he couldn't just stride in and take out two SS officers and six uniformed soldiers without a little something to even the odds. He looked around.
"I don't know where the scarab is," the elderly bookseller said, backing against the wall and tumbling a chair over. "and even if I did, I'd never tell the likes of you."
Sturmbannführer Vogel smiled, for he knew the flavors of fear. This man's fear tasted of lie. "Herr Allard... you are lying to me. That is fine. That is understandable. Just know that I know you are lying, and that we both know you cannot escape this place. The conclusion becomes inevitable."
Allard's frightened eyes skittered over to the owner of the café, who looked at Vogel in turn and backed away through the kitchen door. A lock snicked quietly into place.
Vogel smiled again. "You see?" He took out a dark clump of fabric from his hip pocket. "This is a bag. We can put it over your head, bind your hands, take you to a room we know of and... ask you again. Or you can answer us now. Where is the scarab?"
A growl from the street outside rose to a high buzz and Murray crashed through the café window riding a motorcycle. He jumped free and the bike slammed into three of the soldiers, sprawling them against the south wall.
Murray rose to his feet clutching his pistol. "Let him go, Vogel."
The soldiers that had been struck by the bike struggled to stand. Those standing took out their sidearms and leveled them at the adventurer. Vogel sneered. "I don't know how you planned to win this one, Strongheart. It's one against eight."
"Five," Murray corrected, and shot the motorcycle's gas tank. It went up in a great orange bloom, enveloping the three Nazis standing over it in flame.
Everyone opened fire at once. Murray tipped over a wrought-iron table and used it as cover. He took out two more soldiers before one dove over the table and tackled him. The gun spun away and the two rolled to their feet. Murray positioned himself shrewdly, using the Nazi as a shield against the incoming bullets while dealing a thumping right cross to the officer's jaw. Fire crawled up the wallpaper, and everything was smoke and flickering red.
"Hi Dad!" A family was suddenly standing by the east wall. A middle aged man and a pinch-faced woman smiled with their hands on the shoulders of a young girl. The man was waving.
Surprised, Murray didn't react in time to avoid a punch. He was toppled over backward and came up rubbing his jaw. "Ahh! What? Dammit!"
Murray's daughter-in-law, Debra, cleared her throat and said "Dad, Lily's here too. We've come to say happy birthday! So let's maybe watch it with the language and violence, yes?"
A sullen-eyed, dark-haired eight year-old girl flashed a quick wave and said "Happy birthday Grandpa."
Murray grunted and smashed his fist into the Nazi infantryman's nose before jumping over the bar. Gunfire lit up the room as a pair of machine gunners barged in the door with mauzers. Murray hurled a bottle of spirits at the gunners. The bullets shattered the glass and the spray of alcohol was set ablaze by the muzzle flare. The gunners screamed as they lurched about on fire.
Murray's son yelled "Dad. ...Dad! This is highly inappropriate, could you maybe stop the fighting somehow?"
Murray rolled his eyes. "Oh, for Pete's sake. Pause!" The action in the room froze. Bullets, exploding glasswork, Nazis and fire all locked still in place. Murray stood from behind the bar, brushing himself off and grumbling. "What's all this now?"
"We're here to visit you, Dad," Debra said. "It's your birthday! Didn't you know?"
Murray thought for a second and shrugged. He looked maybe thirty-five, wearing brown khakis and a gray cotton shirt that was ripped open to the waist under a leather bomber jacket. His hair hung in loose curls on his forehead. "I guess I didn't."
His son Paul looked about with distaste. Lily was staring wide-eyed at the paused imagery of the flaming Nazis. "Mind if we go somewhere else to talk, Dad?" He was in his early forties, but didn't look as youthful as his father. His cheeks were full and though you couldn't call him paunchy, there was a fatherly doughiness filling out his sensible earth-toned sweater.
Murray waved a hand and muttered. "Setting: home." The café flickered and vanished, revealing a comfortable room furnished in walnut browns and burgundy furniture. He stood there, staring at his family.
Debra took a seat on the couch. "Not to be demanding, Dad, but you still look like a... an adventurer. Could we see you? We came to see you, we haven't seen you at all in four years!"
Murray grimaced. "Appearance: self." The barrel-chested fighter pilot with the roguish smirk fuzzed away, changing to a small man in his eighties with a bent back and a sour expression. He sat down into a chair. "Well what're we doing."
"Happy birthday Dad," Paul said. "It's so good to see you!"
Murray rubbed his arms. "It's good to see you too."
Lily wandered to a wall and began studying a vase atop a pedestal. "Is this virgil reality?"
"Virtual. Yes honey." Debra looked at her daughter and her mouth tightened. "Don't touch."
"Full Immersion Virtual Reality," Murray corrected. "Do you like it?" The child shrugged.
A silence, and Paul spoke. "So how are things?"
"Okay. I just beat Fire-Pirates Of The Outer Rim the other day. That was a good'un. Now I'm doing Riches Untold II: The Golden Scarab again. I've done it twice before, but I like it."
Debra and Paul exchanged a quiet look. A ceramic crash from behind the couch, and Lily stood there guiltily, clenching her fists at her chest. The vase lay shattered at her feet. Debra hissed "Lilian Ann!"
"I just wanted to touch it," Lily mumbled.
Murray rolled his eyes. "It's fine. Undo." The vase appeared whole upon the podium again. Lily stared at it in amazement.
"Well that's something," Debra said, glaring at her daughter. "Now... I mean it. Don't touch this one."
Murray shook his head. "'It's the same vase. And it's fine, really."
Debra nodded. "Well then. Lily, do you have something for Grandpa?" Lily took out a flat parcel wrapped in garish yellow and pink paper. She held it out and approached her grandfather. He took it and she sat down beside her mother, looking like someone who's just performed a duty at a wake. Murray eyed the package suspiciously. "We had it scanned before we came in," Debra said, smiling.
Murray opened his present. "Ugh, my hands are all old-looking," he muttered. He held up a slim slab of plastic. "A gift card to The Pasta Palace."
"That's right!" Debra said. "Any time you want to go, we'll take you there, all four of us."
"Out in the world."
"The real world, that's right," she said. "Fresh air and sunlight! What could be better than that?" Her hands and knees were pressed together very tightly as she grinned.
"I'm sorry," Murray sniffed as he handed the card back to his son. "I've got all the fresh air and sunlight I need."
Paul deflated. "Come on, dad. You know that's not real."
"It's real enough. You're sitting right here with me, does this not feel real?"
Debra, who had thought of the gift card as well as the line about fresh air and sunlight, was beginning to see her plan come apart. "Dad. This is important to us. Lily's eight now, and she barely knows you! You've been in here for so long. You're losing your connection with the real world."
"I don't need the real world anymore," Murray said with a dismissive wave. He brightened. "Tell you what though, we don't need Pasta Palace. Come with me, we'll find a great italian place. Best food of your life. Anything you want."
Lily's eyes widened. "Anything?"
"Anything. What's your favorite?"
The girl scrunched her eyes and thought. She decided with a nod. "Lobster."
"Lobster it is, then! We'll go to Cape Cod. Best lobster ever. Do you like clam chowder?"
"Yeah, I love it. With oyster crackers."
"Well you can have as much as you want!"
Lily turned to her mother. "Can we, Mommy?"
Debra sighed. "You know that's not food, Lily. Your body isn't being fed when you eat here."
Murray threw an arm up. "Sure it is! Mine is!"
"Your actual body is in some technological coffin, somewhere below ground, being fed protein gruel through a tube. Our own are on cots in a darkened visiting room."
"It doesn't matter!"
"Doesn't matter, do you hear this, Paul?"
Paul held up his hands. "All right, all right. Come on. Dad, I'm sure the food's great, but this would be a real dinner, out with real family. Doesn't that sound good after all this time?"
"I want to eat lobster," Lily protested meekly.
"No honey," Debra said. "It's like the vase. It's not real."
"'Real,'" Murray snorted.
With that, Debra stood. "It's clear Grandpa doesn't want to go to dinner with us. Happy birthday, dad."
"You're afraid she'll like it!" Murray snapped.
Paul and Lily stood uncomfortably. "I'm sorry dad," Paul muttered. "Let us know if you change your mind. Anytime."
"Yeah, yeah."
After Murray's family left, he scowled for a full twenty seconds at the wall. With a shake of his head he stood again. "Nonsense. Appearance: Remington Strongheart. Setting: last played." He melted back into the form of the adventurous pulp hero and the walls flashed to the Parisian café. He cracked his knuckles as he glared at the still-paused forms of the Nazis. "All right you kraut bastards," he growled. "Let's see what you've got. Play!"