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Ceramic DM - Spring 2005 (Late Bloomer) - We have a winner.
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<blockquote data-quote="arwink" data-source="post: 2357063" data-attributes="member: 2292"><p>Not quite the story I wanted to tell, but a friday night game that ran late and sleeping through my alarm meant I've already blown the deadline so I thought I'd put up what I had.</p><p></p><p><span style="color: White">Round 1, Match 4</span></p><p><span style="color: White">MarauderX vs. reveal vs. Arwink</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">Cold Comfort</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White"><strong>Arrival</strong></span></p><p><span style="color: White">The Prague field office barely deserved the name, consisting of little more than a back-alley flat only a little larger than your average bed-sit. Dane had been warned not to expect much, but even his low expectations couldn’t match the reality of the room – cables snaking across ancient furniture, printouts hung over the doors, wet socks dangling from thin lines of string that ran over the heater. The entire place smelled of wet wool and cigarettes, his local contact asleep in a leather couch behind the desk. O’Banion’s pudding-dough face was half-covered by a little girl’s hat, a half-empty bottle of scotch still sitting by his side. The briefing said he liked to drink, but it said nothing about pink hats and scarves with bows on the tassels. Dane wasn’t sure which of the two traits was less appropriate in a field contact. Every instinct told him to walk out, just accept that the hassle wasn’t worth it. </span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">He coughed, loudly, and watched one of O’Banion’s beady eyes snap open. Dane placed his SIG on the desk, eliminating any doubt that he was armed. It saved time in the long run, especially with the backwater offices. He was almost impressed when O’Banion didn’t glance at the gray steel, keeping his eye trained on Dane’s own.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Who are you?”</span></p><p><span style="color: White">Dane resisted the urge to sigh.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Dane Kruger,” he said. “LA branch, arrived two hours ago. You requested an investigator.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White">O’Banion looked him over again, raising an eyebrow.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Where you from originally, before LA? Jamaica? El Salvador?”</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Los Angles. My mother was Brazilian.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Right. Figures.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White">O’Banion tapped a keyboard, waiting for the slow whine of the computer to signal it was ready to work. Dane waited quietly while the older man ignored him, focusing in the computer. After a few minutes, O’Banion swore.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Well, you weren’t joking. You’re supposed to be here,” he said. He eased his bulk beneath the table, rummaging through a box of manila folders.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“The seers know what they’re doing, normally,” Dane said.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">O’Banion laughed, a barking sound like a dog being strangled.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Sure they do,” he said. “Listen, how much do you know about snow.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White">Dane picked up the SIG and slid it back into its holster.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“I come from Los Angeles,” he said. “I know enough.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White"><strong>Snow</strong></span></p><p><span style="color: White">In Los Angeles the agency used Chryslers. Big cars that had the grunt and power to glide through traffic like sleek sharks. O’Banion used a compact mini, and European invention that seemed to wrap around his bulk like a sardine can. The engine roared like a lawnmower as the Englishman shifted gears, cutting down a back alley at high speed.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“First reports came in a few weeks ago,” O’Banion roared over the sound of the engine. “People being barricaded in their house by snowmen. Nothing to it really – local newspapers started referring to them as pranks. Open your door one morning, find a small horde of mutated snow sculptures built on their front lawn.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White">Dane took notes, his cold fingers scribbling in a notebook with a stubby pencil.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Always the same neighborhood?” He asked.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Always. Usually the same two streets.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“So what changed?” </span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Bodies,” O’Banion said. “Six of them, originally. They started appearing in the middle of the snowman swarms, dead from frostbite. Most of them were blue by the time they were found, limbs so stiff you could snap them off if you wanted too.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">Dane nodded a few times, chewing on the pencil. Tires screamed as O’Banion took another corner.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Locals think it’s a serial killer, don’t they?” he said. </span></p><p><span style="color: White">O’Banion nodded</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“They’re calling him the White Death,” he said. “More prosaic than they would have been back home, I’ll give them that. People are locking their children up at night, trying to keep them safe.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White">The mini slides around another corner, skids to a stop. </span></p><p><span style="color: White">“We’re here.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">Even after reading the report, knowing what to expect, there is something unsettling about the laneway. The endless expanse of snow men, locked in a frozen mockery of a street scene. Coal eyes glared at him from a hundred faces, a hint of malevolence in their beady expression. The pounding headache he always got when faced with psychic residue started almost immediately.</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Yeah,” Dane thought. “Of course you’d think this is a prank.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White"><strong>Seeds</strong></span></p><p><span style="color: White">Dane left O’Banion to talk to the locals, focused his attention on scouring the area. His head throbbed as he walked down the street, as though something inside was battering at the sides of his skull, trying to get out. He ignored it as best he could, let the training take over. His attention focused on the narrow beam of the flashlight, the blue-tinged corpse left in the heart of the street.</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">It was male, approximately fifty years old, a man whose teeth and withered features still bore the legacy of the occupation that would have dominated his childhood. Bad Russian dental work, the kinds of scars that suggested early beatings, a nose that had been broken and reset. Probably a revolutionary in his teens. Dane made a note of the details, photographed the frozen face. It might not be important, but it paid to be prepared.</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">The police would search the body for signs of trauma, if they bothered searching at all. Dane just looked at the eyes and swore.</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">He found the first egg-sac hidden in the ear cavity, a tiny ball wedged behind the lobe. The swirling green membrane bulged as the light hit it, stretching and flexing as something tried to reach out for the source of the change in warmth. Something small and dangerous wanted out.</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">Dane switched off the flashlight and lit a cigarette. With shaking hands, he buried the burning tip in the corpses ear and waited for the smell of sizzling ichor.</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White"><strong>Interlude</strong></span></p><p><span style="color: White">Dane held his hands as close as he could to the mini’s small heater, waiting patiently for the athsmatic gasps of warm air to thaw out his fingers. His head still buzzed with energy, the lingering after-taste of psychic phenomena, but the pills were chipping away at the pain. Now all they could do was wait, be ready for the moment when all hell broke loose. O’Banion opened a small hip-flask and took a long hit of the contents, offered it to Dane when he was done. Dane just shook his head.</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">“You sure they were seeds?” O’Banion asked. Dane nodded. </span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Damn.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">Silence. The snow falling on the street. The evil glare of the snowman a dozen yards from the windscreen. O’Banion kept drinking. Dane kept his eyes on the street.</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">“I lost my daughter to those bastards,” O’Banion said. His voice seemed out of place, empty and hollow against the silence of the car. The maudlin tinge of alcohol beneath the words. “Years ago, before I was recruited.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">Dane didn’t say anything.</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">“She was seven,” O’Banion said. He shook the hip-flask, listened to the sloshing sound. Sighing, he pushed the cap in place and buried it in the folds of his jacket. One broad hand pulled the scarf in place, ran a finger along the pink bow.</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Get some sleep,” O’Banion said. “I’ll keep watch.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White"><strong>Dreaming</strong></span></p><p><span style="color: White">The hammer of the drum filled the air, driving the pulse faster and faster. Dane was ducking and weaving, lost in the dance, letting the music push him further. The sun pounded down on the courtyard. Rio heat, his body covered in sweat, moving in tandem with his partner. Dane kicked out, the other man leapt to avoid it. The other man punched and Dane was already gone. </span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Fighting or dancing?”</span></p><p><span style="color: White">The voice echoed in his head, thundering through him like a bolt from god. Dane almost faltered, let his partners fist get a fraction to close to his face before he ducked. He cursed himself for making a rookie mistake.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Both,” he said. Another kick, another leap, a dodge that become a forward flip.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Why?” </span></p><p><span style="color: White">The voice wasn’t curious, it knew the answer. Dane just had to say it.</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“They were slaves,” ge said. “Weaponless, watched, never free of their masters vigil. They pretended to dance in order to escape detection, to prevent the guards from knowing they were learning to fight.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“They killed for their freedom?”</span></p><p><span style="color: White">“Yes.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">The other man’s leg flashed forward, too fast to dodge. It caught Dane in the stomach, sent him tumbling backwards. He could feel the ruptured rib, the wheeze that came with a punctured lung. He landed badly, struggled to rise, but the other man was already on top of him with teeth and claws driving for his throat.</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">“So will I.”</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White"><strong>Storm</strong></span></p><p><span style="color: White">The red-button eyes of a snowman were glaring at Dane through the window, it’s cold face pressed close enough to the glass that he could see the handprints of it creator. Dane started back, one hand diving for the SIG, got tangled in the seatbelt. Cold air hit the back of his neck. O’Banion was gone when he checked over his shoulder, nothing left but a shredded seat-belt and the broken glass of the window.</span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">Snowmen were swarming the car, frozen bodies clustering around it. Both the doors were blocked, covered by a wall of snowy bodies and faces. Dane pulled himself free of the seatbelt and kicked at the windshield. When it refused to give way he fired at it, shattering the glass. He pulled himself onto the roof of the mini, gun still gripped in his hand. No use firing, but it made him feel a little better. He could see footprints in the new snow, O’Banion’s by the size. </span></p><p><span style="color: White"></span></p><p><span style="color: White">Dane looked at the clustered snowmen, four men deep around the car. His head was just about splitting open, pounding like a hundred drums. He let the beat carry him and ran, bouncing off the bonnet and into the air. He could feel a surge of hate reaching for him, almost wrapping around him as he soared through the air, then he hit the ground running.</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="arwink, post: 2357063, member: 2292"] Not quite the story I wanted to tell, but a friday night game that ran late and sleeping through my alarm meant I've already blown the deadline so I thought I'd put up what I had. [COLOR=White]Round 1, Match 4 MarauderX vs. reveal vs. Arwink Cold Comfort [b]Arrival[/b] The Prague field office barely deserved the name, consisting of little more than a back-alley flat only a little larger than your average bed-sit. Dane had been warned not to expect much, but even his low expectations couldn’t match the reality of the room – cables snaking across ancient furniture, printouts hung over the doors, wet socks dangling from thin lines of string that ran over the heater. The entire place smelled of wet wool and cigarettes, his local contact asleep in a leather couch behind the desk. O’Banion’s pudding-dough face was half-covered by a little girl’s hat, a half-empty bottle of scotch still sitting by his side. The briefing said he liked to drink, but it said nothing about pink hats and scarves with bows on the tassels. Dane wasn’t sure which of the two traits was less appropriate in a field contact. Every instinct told him to walk out, just accept that the hassle wasn’t worth it. He coughed, loudly, and watched one of O’Banion’s beady eyes snap open. Dane placed his SIG on the desk, eliminating any doubt that he was armed. It saved time in the long run, especially with the backwater offices. He was almost impressed when O’Banion didn’t glance at the gray steel, keeping his eye trained on Dane’s own. “Who are you?” Dane resisted the urge to sigh. “Dane Kruger,” he said. “LA branch, arrived two hours ago. You requested an investigator.” O’Banion looked him over again, raising an eyebrow. “Where you from originally, before LA? Jamaica? El Salvador?” “Los Angles. My mother was Brazilian.” “Right. Figures.” O’Banion tapped a keyboard, waiting for the slow whine of the computer to signal it was ready to work. Dane waited quietly while the older man ignored him, focusing in the computer. After a few minutes, O’Banion swore. “Well, you weren’t joking. You’re supposed to be here,” he said. He eased his bulk beneath the table, rummaging through a box of manila folders. “The seers know what they’re doing, normally,” Dane said. O’Banion laughed, a barking sound like a dog being strangled. “Sure they do,” he said. “Listen, how much do you know about snow.” Dane picked up the SIG and slid it back into its holster. “I come from Los Angeles,” he said. “I know enough.” [b]Snow[/b] In Los Angeles the agency used Chryslers. Big cars that had the grunt and power to glide through traffic like sleek sharks. O’Banion used a compact mini, and European invention that seemed to wrap around his bulk like a sardine can. The engine roared like a lawnmower as the Englishman shifted gears, cutting down a back alley at high speed. “First reports came in a few weeks ago,” O’Banion roared over the sound of the engine. “People being barricaded in their house by snowmen. Nothing to it really – local newspapers started referring to them as pranks. Open your door one morning, find a small horde of mutated snow sculptures built on their front lawn.” Dane took notes, his cold fingers scribbling in a notebook with a stubby pencil. “Always the same neighborhood?” He asked. “Always. Usually the same two streets.” “So what changed?” “Bodies,” O’Banion said. “Six of them, originally. They started appearing in the middle of the snowman swarms, dead from frostbite. Most of them were blue by the time they were found, limbs so stiff you could snap them off if you wanted too.” Dane nodded a few times, chewing on the pencil. Tires screamed as O’Banion took another corner. “Locals think it’s a serial killer, don’t they?” he said. O’Banion nodded “They’re calling him the White Death,” he said. “More prosaic than they would have been back home, I’ll give them that. People are locking their children up at night, trying to keep them safe.” The mini slides around another corner, skids to a stop. “We’re here.” Even after reading the report, knowing what to expect, there is something unsettling about the laneway. The endless expanse of snow men, locked in a frozen mockery of a street scene. Coal eyes glared at him from a hundred faces, a hint of malevolence in their beady expression. The pounding headache he always got when faced with psychic residue started almost immediately. “Yeah,” Dane thought. “Of course you’d think this is a prank.” [b]Seeds[/b] Dane left O’Banion to talk to the locals, focused his attention on scouring the area. His head throbbed as he walked down the street, as though something inside was battering at the sides of his skull, trying to get out. He ignored it as best he could, let the training take over. His attention focused on the narrow beam of the flashlight, the blue-tinged corpse left in the heart of the street. It was male, approximately fifty years old, a man whose teeth and withered features still bore the legacy of the occupation that would have dominated his childhood. Bad Russian dental work, the kinds of scars that suggested early beatings, a nose that had been broken and reset. Probably a revolutionary in his teens. Dane made a note of the details, photographed the frozen face. It might not be important, but it paid to be prepared. The police would search the body for signs of trauma, if they bothered searching at all. Dane just looked at the eyes and swore. He found the first egg-sac hidden in the ear cavity, a tiny ball wedged behind the lobe. The swirling green membrane bulged as the light hit it, stretching and flexing as something tried to reach out for the source of the change in warmth. Something small and dangerous wanted out. Dane switched off the flashlight and lit a cigarette. With shaking hands, he buried the burning tip in the corpses ear and waited for the smell of sizzling ichor. [b]Interlude[/b] Dane held his hands as close as he could to the mini’s small heater, waiting patiently for the athsmatic gasps of warm air to thaw out his fingers. His head still buzzed with energy, the lingering after-taste of psychic phenomena, but the pills were chipping away at the pain. Now all they could do was wait, be ready for the moment when all hell broke loose. O’Banion opened a small hip-flask and took a long hit of the contents, offered it to Dane when he was done. Dane just shook his head. “You sure they were seeds?” O’Banion asked. Dane nodded. “Damn.” Silence. The snow falling on the street. The evil glare of the snowman a dozen yards from the windscreen. O’Banion kept drinking. Dane kept his eyes on the street. “I lost my daughter to those bastards,” O’Banion said. His voice seemed out of place, empty and hollow against the silence of the car. The maudlin tinge of alcohol beneath the words. “Years ago, before I was recruited.” Dane didn’t say anything. “She was seven,” O’Banion said. He shook the hip-flask, listened to the sloshing sound. Sighing, he pushed the cap in place and buried it in the folds of his jacket. One broad hand pulled the scarf in place, ran a finger along the pink bow. “Get some sleep,” O’Banion said. “I’ll keep watch.” [b]Dreaming[/b] The hammer of the drum filled the air, driving the pulse faster and faster. Dane was ducking and weaving, lost in the dance, letting the music push him further. The sun pounded down on the courtyard. Rio heat, his body covered in sweat, moving in tandem with his partner. Dane kicked out, the other man leapt to avoid it. The other man punched and Dane was already gone. “Fighting or dancing?” The voice echoed in his head, thundering through him like a bolt from god. Dane almost faltered, let his partners fist get a fraction to close to his face before he ducked. He cursed himself for making a rookie mistake. “Both,” he said. Another kick, another leap, a dodge that become a forward flip. “Why?” The voice wasn’t curious, it knew the answer. Dane just had to say it. “They were slaves,” ge said. “Weaponless, watched, never free of their masters vigil. They pretended to dance in order to escape detection, to prevent the guards from knowing they were learning to fight.” “They killed for their freedom?” “Yes.” The other man’s leg flashed forward, too fast to dodge. It caught Dane in the stomach, sent him tumbling backwards. He could feel the ruptured rib, the wheeze that came with a punctured lung. He landed badly, struggled to rise, but the other man was already on top of him with teeth and claws driving for his throat. “So will I.” [b]Storm[/b] The red-button eyes of a snowman were glaring at Dane through the window, it’s cold face pressed close enough to the glass that he could see the handprints of it creator. Dane started back, one hand diving for the SIG, got tangled in the seatbelt. Cold air hit the back of his neck. O’Banion was gone when he checked over his shoulder, nothing left but a shredded seat-belt and the broken glass of the window. Snowmen were swarming the car, frozen bodies clustering around it. Both the doors were blocked, covered by a wall of snowy bodies and faces. Dane pulled himself free of the seatbelt and kicked at the windshield. When it refused to give way he fired at it, shattering the glass. He pulled himself onto the roof of the mini, gun still gripped in his hand. No use firing, but it made him feel a little better. He could see footprints in the new snow, O’Banion’s by the size. Dane looked at the clustered snowmen, four men deep around the car. His head was just about splitting open, pounding like a hundred drums. He let the beat carry him and ran, bouncing off the bonnet and into the air. He could feel a surge of hate reaching for him, almost wrapping around him as he soared through the air, then he hit the ground running.[/COLOR] [/QUOTE]
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