-
The VOIDRUNNER'S CODEX is coming! Explore new worlds, fight oppressive empires, fend off fearsome aliens, and wield deadly psionics with this comprehensive boxed set expansion for 5E and A5E!
High Fantasy Modern Storyhour - The Long Road (updated December 7)
- Thread starter RangerWickett
- Start date
I''m Nathan's player, I just wanted to point out to Wickett that I mentioned to him
that I understood it to be "creative license."
I've been really enjoying the storyhour so far, and he has definitiely hit all of the
high points. I've no real complaints.
As for the minigun incident, I was rather put out, but it was months ago.
I let it go awhile back.
Keep up the good work RangerWickett
-nalesean
that I understood it to be "creative license."
I've been really enjoying the storyhour so far, and he has definitiely hit all of the
high points. I've no real complaints.
As for the minigun incident, I was rather put out, but it was months ago.
I let it go awhile back.
Keep up the good work RangerWickett
-nalesean
Funeris
First Post
Bravo on the updates RangerWickett.
I dunno what it is about modern games...they just seem to "move" faster than the fantasy write-ups here on the boards. Despite the reasoning, its enjoyable to pop between the two genres.
I wish I had played in that chase...it sounded awesome. High tension, high action and Scarpedin constantly missing. Absolutely magnificent.
Also, I just wanted to let you know I finally broke down today...and purchased all three of the Elements of Magic books you wrote up. Its a great alternate magic system I'll use to replace the standard d20. Thanks, Ryan.
Fune
I dunno what it is about modern games...they just seem to "move" faster than the fantasy write-ups here on the boards. Despite the reasoning, its enjoyable to pop between the two genres.
I wish I had played in that chase...it sounded awesome. High tension, high action and Scarpedin constantly missing. Absolutely magnificent.
Also, I just wanted to let you know I finally broke down today...and purchased all three of the Elements of Magic books you wrote up. Its a great alternate magic system I'll use to replace the standard d20. Thanks, Ryan.
Fune
Welcome!
Hey! Welcome to ENWorld! I've been enjoying your PC's part in the story! Looks like Nathan is the smartest one in the bunch, so far... or at least the planner! I still think the armor would have messed up the BMW far less than the Minigun, though, but hey... what do I know!
Keep up the good work!
nalesean said:
Hey! Welcome to ENWorld! I've been enjoying your PC's part in the story! Looks like Nathan is the smartest one in the bunch, so far... or at least the planner! I still think the armor would have messed up the BMW far less than the Minigun, though, but hey... what do I know!
Keep up the good work!
RangerWickett
Legend
Halloween
9:20 pm
The taxi stops outside the gate of the Boudreaux mansion, and the driver says something in French to Robert as he heads off. It's a fairly long walk up the driveway to the mansion door. When he gets there he spots a strange, white-haired black man in a leather jacket (who looks something like Reginald VelJohnson, the cop who helped out Bruce Willis in Die Hard). The man is involved in some sort of argument with the guards of the party, something involving a motorcycle. Robert puts on a face of appropriate amused disdain for such a plebian dilemma, and with a simple laugh and smile to one of the guards, he manages to walk into the party without even being questioned.
Robert spends some time at the coat check flirting with the woman in charge and trying to gather some information about the party, then catches a glimpse of costumed John, Scarpedin, and Nathan running out the front door toward Nathan’s car. Wondering what’s up, Robert heads onto the main dance floor and spots Mr. Lee and Belladonna standing on a double staircase at the far end of the room. Beyond them is a set of double doors, surrounded by four alert guards in white suits, as well as a few other men who look like they feel they’re important.
Robert heads in the direction, trying to keep his face hidden. Eventually Mr. Lee heads inside the room at the top of the stairs, and Belladonna comes down, apparently to dance more, though her expression is troubled. Robert is about to go up to her and call out when
gun shots snap from outside the tall windows
Then a moment later there is a small explosion, and people begin to shout and scream. Almost immediately, Robert spots through the window Nathan and company piling into the BMW.
“Belladonna!” Robert calls out. “What the hell’s going on?”
She spins at her name, then does a double-take. Before she can say anything, guards around the room start shouting orders, telling people to evacuate the dance hall with its dangerous windows, and to head deeper into the mansion where it’s safer. As Robert expected, though, men wave for Belladonna to come up the stairs to the heavily-guarded room. Robert follows.
“I didn’t invite you,” Belladonna whispers as they ascend the stairs.
“Your father was nicer than you,” Robert says, still keeping on his mask of fear. “I should’ve listened to you.”
He sees that Mr. Lee and most of his guards have already adjourned into the room at the top of the stairs, and the guards nod for the two of them to head in. Just before they go through the doors, Belladonna sighs.
“Well, we should be alright as long as Terry’s not here.”
They step inside the room, some sort of board room crossed with a den. A long table sits in front of a fireplace, and massive leather-cushioned chairs surround it. The room is full of white guards in white suits, so Mr. Lee’s dark pirate costume stands out sharply. A few other elderly gentlemen in lavish Halloween costumes cower in the chairs, but the focus of Mr. Lee’s attention is on a pair of men standing near him, their backs facing Robert as they hold some sort of quiet discussion.
Then they turn. The first man is an old, distinguished black man who is holding a chicken skull in one hand. The other, Robert realizes, is Terry.
“Oh, hey guys,” Terry says hesitantly. “Sorry I split, Robert.”
Mr. Lee finally notices Robert. He looks from his daughter to Terry and back to Belladonna. “What’s going on here? This man should not have been let into the room.”
“Dada,” Belladonna says, “what’s going on? Where’s Uncle?”
“We have it under control,” Mr. Lee says, his tone impatient. “Maurice and I just spoke a moment ago. His men had spotted a suspicious character, and he went to check it out. Maurice, at least, is safe. But why is Mr. Black here?”
“‘Assassin,’” Robert says, “was probably a little boastful, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Lee? Looks like somebody got the drop on you. I mean,” he laughs, “I was able to get in here. Your inbred Uncle has as good taste in security guards as you do in body guards.”
“Watch your tongue,” Mr. Lee snaps. “You’re in my brother-in-law’s house. Now Donna-Belle, step away from him.”
“Dada,” Belladonna says, moving to her father, “Do you think we should leave?”
“I do,” Terry says. He smiles with charming embarrassment. “Or, well, I want to at least. But your father brought me here, and I trust him. After he heard your story, Belladonna, he tracked me down and promised he’d look out for me tonight.”
Terry’s tone is not completely convincing, and the way he keeps shifting his eyes in Robert’s direction tells him something bad is up, more than he had expected.
“You are welcome to stay,” Mr. Lee says. “But Mr. Black. . . .”
A pair of guards start to reach for his arms.
“Whoa,” Robert says, raising his hands to calm them down.
Four guards point guns at him. Robert freezes.
Belladonna gasps. Terry backs away slightly, but the strange elderly black man grabs onto his wrist to hold him in place.
“Okay,” Robert says.
He gulps. “‘Whoa’ again. Can we calm down here? Is does us no good to point guns at each other, does it?”
Mr. Lee scowls. “You have been hostile to me, offensive to my daughter, and capriciously uncaring for Mr. Abrams’ safety.”
It takes Robert a moment to realize he’s talking about Terry. He smiles casually to Terry, but Terry looks nervous.
“Look,” Robert says, “Terry, are you sure you feel comfortable here? We should go link up with that Balthazaar guy.”
Terry gulps. Robert can tell Mr. Lee has had a chance to talk to Terry, to deceive him. Terry looks worried and confused, which is how Robert usually tries to make his enemies feel. He realizes, though, that he doesn’t know how to actually fix the confusion. He’s never had to before, but he can’t help but feeling leaving the only man able to go to Gaia in the hands of Adrien Lee would be a mistake.
Part of him, though, doesn’t care. That part of him realizes this whole situation is risking his ability to keep his record clean, and that the smart thing to do is leave.
Belladonna steps into the middle of the group, shaking her head at the tense expressions on the men’s faces. “Now boys.”
Guns lower, but the tension is still high.
Belladonna continues. “Terry, you know you’re safer here. Robert, I’ll be polite to you, since you did help protect me a bit. My father told me about your conversation, so I’ll just say, you sound like you got a bit of the wrong idea.”
Robert has to bite his tongue. He can’t help but feel that Belladonna really doesn’t know what her father is up to, but he can’t risk saying anything here. He realizes a bit too late that he’s not good at keeping quiet, and he can already feel his control of the situation fading.
Terry says, “Sorry Robert. I mean, thanks for watching out for me earlier, but, well, you don’t have bodyguards. I think I’ll stay here. You can stay too, though, right? That’s half the reason we came to New Orleans, right? To get others to protect us from the crazy sh*t going on?” He grins.
Belladonna quietly ‘hmphs.’ “Actually, Terry, I think it’d be best if Robert were to leave.”
“No.” The interruption comes from the elderly black man standing next to Adrien Lee, the man who looks like Nelson Mandela. His voice is thick with an almost African Louisianan accent. “He has a role to play here. He is touch by voodoo.”
Mr. Lee glances at his personal voodoo bodyguard and nods cooly. “Yes, Mr. Black should stay. We wouldn’t want to deny the man . . . protection, at a time like this.”
A confusing mess of looks are exchanged around the room, from Mr. Lee to and among his bodyguards. In the back of his mind, Robert hear’s the deep, disembodied voice of a woman with a cajun accent whisper, “Run, child. You in grave danger.”
Suddenly the room feels like a mass of white pressing in around him. Robert can sense the tension, the energy of the guards, all poised to take him down if he makes a move. Across the room, separated by too many foes, Robert sees understanding dawn on Terry’s face. They are not meant to get out of this room alive. A hum seems to fill Robert’s ears, and he realizes he is holding his breath.
“Well,” he nearly shouts. He is smiling and completely relaxed, in a dramatic shift of moods. “It’s very generous of you, Mr. Lee, but I’m afraid I have to follow the, ah, ‘lady’s’ wishes. Belladonna, Terry, I think it’s time we part ways here. I probably won’t ever see you two again. And Mr. Lee, . . . well, y’know.”
Robert sees in Terry’s eyes betrayal. Robert doesn’t even flinch. He beams and turns confidently for the exit. He’s doing everything he can to project the complete certainty that he’s supposed to leave now, and though the guards look like they don’t completely buy it, he can tell they are confused, and even Mr. Lee looks uncertain how to handle it.
It only takes him a few seconds to pull open the double doors and step outside.
Robert hates turning his back on an enemy, especially twice in one night, but he knows when to run. Just before the door slams shut behind him, he hears Adrien Lee speak.
“Well, now that he’s gone,” Mr. Lee says, “Belladonna, I have a question to ask you.”
Robert descends the stairs to the dance floor. When he’s on the last step, a gunshot rings out behind him, muffled by the double doors of the meeting room. Robert hesitates for a moment, looking back up. The guards blocking the door are impassive. The building is eerily quiet, even though he can see chaos outside as guards scramble to lock down the mansion before the police arrive.
Robert looks away from the doors and shrugs. He justifies it to himself as he heads out of the mansion, convincing himself he doesn’t care what the gunshot meant, or who it was for.
Once he has managed to sneak off the mansion grounds, Robert pulls out his cel phone and calls Scarpedin. He gets the man’s voicemail, and waits for the beep.
“Scarpedin,” Robert says. “You guys meet me at the margarita place across from the cemetery. We have things to talk about. Terry’s dead.”
End of Sixth and Seventh Session
I wish you a Merry Christmas, and a Happy Halloween.
9:20 pm
The taxi stops outside the gate of the Boudreaux mansion, and the driver says something in French to Robert as he heads off. It's a fairly long walk up the driveway to the mansion door. When he gets there he spots a strange, white-haired black man in a leather jacket (who looks something like Reginald VelJohnson, the cop who helped out Bruce Willis in Die Hard). The man is involved in some sort of argument with the guards of the party, something involving a motorcycle. Robert puts on a face of appropriate amused disdain for such a plebian dilemma, and with a simple laugh and smile to one of the guards, he manages to walk into the party without even being questioned.
Robert spends some time at the coat check flirting with the woman in charge and trying to gather some information about the party, then catches a glimpse of costumed John, Scarpedin, and Nathan running out the front door toward Nathan’s car. Wondering what’s up, Robert heads onto the main dance floor and spots Mr. Lee and Belladonna standing on a double staircase at the far end of the room. Beyond them is a set of double doors, surrounded by four alert guards in white suits, as well as a few other men who look like they feel they’re important.
Robert heads in the direction, trying to keep his face hidden. Eventually Mr. Lee heads inside the room at the top of the stairs, and Belladonna comes down, apparently to dance more, though her expression is troubled. Robert is about to go up to her and call out when
gun shots snap from outside the tall windows
Then a moment later there is a small explosion, and people begin to shout and scream. Almost immediately, Robert spots through the window Nathan and company piling into the BMW.
“Belladonna!” Robert calls out. “What the hell’s going on?”
She spins at her name, then does a double-take. Before she can say anything, guards around the room start shouting orders, telling people to evacuate the dance hall with its dangerous windows, and to head deeper into the mansion where it’s safer. As Robert expected, though, men wave for Belladonna to come up the stairs to the heavily-guarded room. Robert follows.
“I didn’t invite you,” Belladonna whispers as they ascend the stairs.
“Your father was nicer than you,” Robert says, still keeping on his mask of fear. “I should’ve listened to you.”
He sees that Mr. Lee and most of his guards have already adjourned into the room at the top of the stairs, and the guards nod for the two of them to head in. Just before they go through the doors, Belladonna sighs.
“Well, we should be alright as long as Terry’s not here.”
They step inside the room, some sort of board room crossed with a den. A long table sits in front of a fireplace, and massive leather-cushioned chairs surround it. The room is full of white guards in white suits, so Mr. Lee’s dark pirate costume stands out sharply. A few other elderly gentlemen in lavish Halloween costumes cower in the chairs, but the focus of Mr. Lee’s attention is on a pair of men standing near him, their backs facing Robert as they hold some sort of quiet discussion.
Then they turn. The first man is an old, distinguished black man who is holding a chicken skull in one hand. The other, Robert realizes, is Terry.
“Oh, hey guys,” Terry says hesitantly. “Sorry I split, Robert.”
Mr. Lee finally notices Robert. He looks from his daughter to Terry and back to Belladonna. “What’s going on here? This man should not have been let into the room.”
“Dada,” Belladonna says, “what’s going on? Where’s Uncle?”
“We have it under control,” Mr. Lee says, his tone impatient. “Maurice and I just spoke a moment ago. His men had spotted a suspicious character, and he went to check it out. Maurice, at least, is safe. But why is Mr. Black here?”
“‘Assassin,’” Robert says, “was probably a little boastful, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Lee? Looks like somebody got the drop on you. I mean,” he laughs, “I was able to get in here. Your inbred Uncle has as good taste in security guards as you do in body guards.”
“Watch your tongue,” Mr. Lee snaps. “You’re in my brother-in-law’s house. Now Donna-Belle, step away from him.”
“Dada,” Belladonna says, moving to her father, “Do you think we should leave?”
“I do,” Terry says. He smiles with charming embarrassment. “Or, well, I want to at least. But your father brought me here, and I trust him. After he heard your story, Belladonna, he tracked me down and promised he’d look out for me tonight.”
Terry’s tone is not completely convincing, and the way he keeps shifting his eyes in Robert’s direction tells him something bad is up, more than he had expected.
“You are welcome to stay,” Mr. Lee says. “But Mr. Black. . . .”
A pair of guards start to reach for his arms.
“Whoa,” Robert says, raising his hands to calm them down.
Four guards point guns at him. Robert freezes.
Belladonna gasps. Terry backs away slightly, but the strange elderly black man grabs onto his wrist to hold him in place.
“Okay,” Robert says.
He gulps. “‘Whoa’ again. Can we calm down here? Is does us no good to point guns at each other, does it?”
Mr. Lee scowls. “You have been hostile to me, offensive to my daughter, and capriciously uncaring for Mr. Abrams’ safety.”
It takes Robert a moment to realize he’s talking about Terry. He smiles casually to Terry, but Terry looks nervous.
“Look,” Robert says, “Terry, are you sure you feel comfortable here? We should go link up with that Balthazaar guy.”
Terry gulps. Robert can tell Mr. Lee has had a chance to talk to Terry, to deceive him. Terry looks worried and confused, which is how Robert usually tries to make his enemies feel. He realizes, though, that he doesn’t know how to actually fix the confusion. He’s never had to before, but he can’t help but feeling leaving the only man able to go to Gaia in the hands of Adrien Lee would be a mistake.
Part of him, though, doesn’t care. That part of him realizes this whole situation is risking his ability to keep his record clean, and that the smart thing to do is leave.
Belladonna steps into the middle of the group, shaking her head at the tense expressions on the men’s faces. “Now boys.”
Guns lower, but the tension is still high.
Belladonna continues. “Terry, you know you’re safer here. Robert, I’ll be polite to you, since you did help protect me a bit. My father told me about your conversation, so I’ll just say, you sound like you got a bit of the wrong idea.”
Robert has to bite his tongue. He can’t help but feel that Belladonna really doesn’t know what her father is up to, but he can’t risk saying anything here. He realizes a bit too late that he’s not good at keeping quiet, and he can already feel his control of the situation fading.
Terry says, “Sorry Robert. I mean, thanks for watching out for me earlier, but, well, you don’t have bodyguards. I think I’ll stay here. You can stay too, though, right? That’s half the reason we came to New Orleans, right? To get others to protect us from the crazy sh*t going on?” He grins.
Belladonna quietly ‘hmphs.’ “Actually, Terry, I think it’d be best if Robert were to leave.”
“No.” The interruption comes from the elderly black man standing next to Adrien Lee, the man who looks like Nelson Mandela. His voice is thick with an almost African Louisianan accent. “He has a role to play here. He is touch by voodoo.”
Mr. Lee glances at his personal voodoo bodyguard and nods cooly. “Yes, Mr. Black should stay. We wouldn’t want to deny the man . . . protection, at a time like this.”
A confusing mess of looks are exchanged around the room, from Mr. Lee to and among his bodyguards. In the back of his mind, Robert hear’s the deep, disembodied voice of a woman with a cajun accent whisper, “Run, child. You in grave danger.”
Suddenly the room feels like a mass of white pressing in around him. Robert can sense the tension, the energy of the guards, all poised to take him down if he makes a move. Across the room, separated by too many foes, Robert sees understanding dawn on Terry’s face. They are not meant to get out of this room alive. A hum seems to fill Robert’s ears, and he realizes he is holding his breath.
“Well,” he nearly shouts. He is smiling and completely relaxed, in a dramatic shift of moods. “It’s very generous of you, Mr. Lee, but I’m afraid I have to follow the, ah, ‘lady’s’ wishes. Belladonna, Terry, I think it’s time we part ways here. I probably won’t ever see you two again. And Mr. Lee, . . . well, y’know.”
Robert sees in Terry’s eyes betrayal. Robert doesn’t even flinch. He beams and turns confidently for the exit. He’s doing everything he can to project the complete certainty that he’s supposed to leave now, and though the guards look like they don’t completely buy it, he can tell they are confused, and even Mr. Lee looks uncertain how to handle it.
It only takes him a few seconds to pull open the double doors and step outside.
Robert hates turning his back on an enemy, especially twice in one night, but he knows when to run. Just before the door slams shut behind him, he hears Adrien Lee speak.
“Well, now that he’s gone,” Mr. Lee says, “Belladonna, I have a question to ask you.”
Robert descends the stairs to the dance floor. When he’s on the last step, a gunshot rings out behind him, muffled by the double doors of the meeting room. Robert hesitates for a moment, looking back up. The guards blocking the door are impassive. The building is eerily quiet, even though he can see chaos outside as guards scramble to lock down the mansion before the police arrive.
Robert looks away from the doors and shrugs. He justifies it to himself as he heads out of the mansion, convincing himself he doesn’t care what the gunshot meant, or who it was for.
Once he has managed to sneak off the mansion grounds, Robert pulls out his cel phone and calls Scarpedin. He gets the man’s voicemail, and waits for the beep.
“Scarpedin,” Robert says. “You guys meet me at the margarita place across from the cemetery. We have things to talk about. Terry’s dead.”
End of Sixth and Seventh Session
I wish you a Merry Christmas, and a Happy Halloween.
RangerWickett
Legend
I thankfully backed up my storyhour on my computer before the crash. Also, I have some new material written, but I don't quite have the stomach to go through and repost a dozen posts right now, since the reformatting will be a pain. I'll do a bit at a time.
Also, if you look at my sig, you'll see that I'm running two games at Gen Con this August. If you're interested, sign up in the Gen Con scheduling thread.
Also, if you look at my sig, you'll see that I'm running two games at Gen Con this August. If you're interested, sign up in the Gen Con scheduling thread.
RangerWickett
Legend
Halloween
10:15 pm
The wreck and waste that is New Orleans is all the more apparent behind the rampant street party of Halloween night. Robert looks out the taxi window at countless celebrations, at gaudy costumes and rowdy kids in dark clothes, at mold and rot and sundered trees lying at the sides of the road.
He thinks of Adrien Lee, the murdering bastard who killed an innocent man. Robert can guess, but he tells himself he can’t understand why Mr. Lee would have murdered Terry.
As he looks out the window, darkened streets sliding past slowly in the night, street lights catch his face and cast his reflection on the inside of the window. But Robert is too busy looking outward at the waste and wreckage. He cannot see himself.
I am just a lonesome traveler,
Through this big wide world of sin;
Want to join that grand procession,
When the saints go marchin’ in.
Oh when the saints go marchin’ in,
Oh when the saints go marchin’ in,
Lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marchin’ in.
Robert pays the taxi driver and watches him drive off, then turns to the tiny drive-through daiquiri stand outside the St. Louis Cemetery. John and Scarpedin sit at a table, both wearing heavy trenchcoats. Under the coat, Scarpedin is in a suit of plate armor, and John is an angel. Robert laughs for the first time in nearly an hour.
“Where’s Nathan?” he asks.
John exhales cigarette smoke as he answers. “His car was damaged. He didn’t want to draw attention, so he’s taking the night off to do some body work on it.”
Robert frowns and sits down. “He’s going to find a garage open at this time of night, that’ll just let him repair his car?”
John shrugs. “He’s psychic.”
Scarpedin’s tone is dark. “What happened to Terry?”
Robert says, “Mr. Lee – Belladonna’s father – shot him. He’s dead.”
“Sh*t, you serious?” Scarpedin shakes his head. “How the hell’d that happen?”
“Wait,” John says. “Somebody shot Terry in front of you, then let you leave?”
“No,” Robert says, amused fright in his voice. “I knew they were going to do something bad, so I got out of there in a hurry. I just heard the gunshot as I was leaving. Look, if you’d been there, you’d know. Mr. Lee had a whole bunch of his cronies gathered around, plus his daughter, some African guy who – and I swear you’re getting to me, Scarpedin – but he looked like Nelson Mandlea. They were all hiding in some sort of fortified room right after you guys ran off and started having a gun fight.”
“And car chase,” Scarpedin says. “Oh, and me and John? We can do magic now.”
“Well ain’t that good for you.” Robert rolls his eyes. “Look, for the past three days, this whole thing with magic, and vampires, and people trying to kill Terry – and me by proxy – I’ve had it. I’m not really a,” he chuckles, “a religious person, but after all this, I’m not just going to step away. I need your help.”
John stops mid-drag, blinking. “You’re going to kill Mr. Lee?”
Robert flashes an indecipherable smile. He might be mocking John for being silly, or boasting. It’s impossible to tell.
“I’m in,” Scarpedin says. “F*cker can’t get away with just cappin’ Terry like that. C’mon John.”
“No,” John says. “I’m out. You don’t even know Terry’s dead. Don’t do anything crazy.”
Scarpedin growls. “What did I say about crazy, John? Oh yeah, Robot: here.”
Scarpedin pulls up a coat that is covering a large lumpy object propped up next to him. Beneath the coat is a mini-gun. Robert is about to freak out, but he realizes he doesn’t have the energy to fake it. Instead he ignores Scarpedin.
“John,” Robert says, “just call Belladonna. She was with Terry. If she can let you talk to Terry, then fine. I’m crazy, Terry’s alive, and we only have to worry about terrorists trying to kill us, and weird man-witches who turn into ravens trying to kidnap us. But if she can’t. . . .”
He stares into John’s eyes for a long moment. Robert can tell John believes him, but he appreciates that John still wants proof. John asks for Scarpedin’s phone and starts to dial.
“Don’t tell her where we are,” Robert says casually.
After a few rings, Belladonna answers. Robert can make out her voice over the speaker.
“Scarpedin?”
“No, it’s John. Look, is Terry there?”
Belladonna hesitates, then says, “My father took him away. I didn’t know he was at the party, but my father went to get him and keep him safe.”
“Can I talk to him?” John asks. “Look, it’s very important that I talk to Terry now.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Belladonna says, “but John, if you don’t remember, my uncle’s house was just attacked. We’re in a bit of a state here. I don’t even know if Terry’s anywhere around right now. He left with my dad.”
“Then give me your father’s number.”
“I’m sorry John, but I gonna have to go now.”
“Belladonna, wait.” John draws in a breath. There’s silence on the other end of the line, like Belladonna is waiting. “Belladonna, Robert says your father killed Terry. Tell me that’s not-”
Before he finishes the sentence, Belladonna hangs up.
Robert simply stares at John, confidently waiting for him to make a decision.
John angrily tosses the phone back to Scarpedin. “I’m still out. That proves nothing. You two go get yourselves arrested or killed. I’m going to go back to the Bureau, and tomorrow I’m going to Savannah to help them with their problem there.”
Robert smiles. “You go do that. I’m sure you’ll accomplish a lot once you get over to Gaia. Oh. Wait. Terry’s dead. How’d I forget? That’s right, I didn’t forget, because I was thirty feet away when I heard him get shot.”
“You don’t do that,” Scarpedin says. “Didn’t even let him roll initiative. That’s not right.”
John and Robert both glance at Scarpedin in confusion, then look back at each other.
John says, “You still don’t know he’s dead. I’m going back to the Bureau. When you two finally calm down, meet me there, and we can let them look into this.”
John puts out his cigarette on the table, then tosses the butt away as he leaves.
“Just you and me?” Robert asks Scarpedin.
Scarpedin grins viciously, patting the bundle next to him. “And Mister One-Thousand-Rounds-a-Minute vulcan cannon here.”
Robert nods, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Give me a minute to make a plan. Alright. First, we need transportation. We can’t be taking taxis all around the city with a mini-gun.”
“It’s Halloween,” Scarpedin says.
Robert grimaces, half nodding. “Still, I don’t want to attract too much attention. And it doesn’t fit your costume.”
Scarpedin shrugs. “Nathan’s out. I think he was pretty pissed that we got his car all shot up.”
“You’re going to have to tell me about that some time,” Robert says. “Anyway, he’s too straight-laced to go along with this.”
Robert sits pondering for a moment.
“Dammit,” Scarpedin says. “Whitey should be here by now. He was bringing my motorcycle.”
“I think I saw him getting arrested at the mansion,” Robert says. “He must’ve driven up just after you guys left. They probably impounded your bike.”
“God dammit. Okay, so first thing, we get my bike.”
Robert shakes his head. “No. John had a good point. I mean, I’m pretty damned sure they shot Terry, but just because I don’t expect to live through the night doesn’t mean we should get sloppy. We need to find out for sure, both if they killed him, and who killed him, so we know who we need to kill. Which means we have to go back to that mansion.”
“Screw that,” Scarpedin says. “C’mon Robot, it’s Halloween.”
Robert frowns, not understanding.
“Let’s get a cab,” Scarpedin says. “We’re going to the French Quarter.”
“You gonna tell me why?” Robert asks.
Scarpedin grins. “We’re gonna to find us a voodoo shaman. We’re gonna talk to Terry.”
10:15 pm
The wreck and waste that is New Orleans is all the more apparent behind the rampant street party of Halloween night. Robert looks out the taxi window at countless celebrations, at gaudy costumes and rowdy kids in dark clothes, at mold and rot and sundered trees lying at the sides of the road.
He thinks of Adrien Lee, the murdering bastard who killed an innocent man. Robert can guess, but he tells himself he can’t understand why Mr. Lee would have murdered Terry.
As he looks out the window, darkened streets sliding past slowly in the night, street lights catch his face and cast his reflection on the inside of the window. But Robert is too busy looking outward at the waste and wreckage. He cannot see himself.
I am just a lonesome traveler,
Through this big wide world of sin;
Want to join that grand procession,
When the saints go marchin’ in.
Oh when the saints go marchin’ in,
Oh when the saints go marchin’ in,
Lord I want to be in that number
When the saints go marchin’ in.
– “When the Saints Go Marching In,” traditional spiritual
Robert pays the taxi driver and watches him drive off, then turns to the tiny drive-through daiquiri stand outside the St. Louis Cemetery. John and Scarpedin sit at a table, both wearing heavy trenchcoats. Under the coat, Scarpedin is in a suit of plate armor, and John is an angel. Robert laughs for the first time in nearly an hour.
“Where’s Nathan?” he asks.
John exhales cigarette smoke as he answers. “His car was damaged. He didn’t want to draw attention, so he’s taking the night off to do some body work on it.”
Robert frowns and sits down. “He’s going to find a garage open at this time of night, that’ll just let him repair his car?”
John shrugs. “He’s psychic.”
Scarpedin’s tone is dark. “What happened to Terry?”
Robert says, “Mr. Lee – Belladonna’s father – shot him. He’s dead.”
“Sh*t, you serious?” Scarpedin shakes his head. “How the hell’d that happen?”
“Wait,” John says. “Somebody shot Terry in front of you, then let you leave?”
“No,” Robert says, amused fright in his voice. “I knew they were going to do something bad, so I got out of there in a hurry. I just heard the gunshot as I was leaving. Look, if you’d been there, you’d know. Mr. Lee had a whole bunch of his cronies gathered around, plus his daughter, some African guy who – and I swear you’re getting to me, Scarpedin – but he looked like Nelson Mandlea. They were all hiding in some sort of fortified room right after you guys ran off and started having a gun fight.”
“And car chase,” Scarpedin says. “Oh, and me and John? We can do magic now.”
“Well ain’t that good for you.” Robert rolls his eyes. “Look, for the past three days, this whole thing with magic, and vampires, and people trying to kill Terry – and me by proxy – I’ve had it. I’m not really a,” he chuckles, “a religious person, but after all this, I’m not just going to step away. I need your help.”
John stops mid-drag, blinking. “You’re going to kill Mr. Lee?”
Robert flashes an indecipherable smile. He might be mocking John for being silly, or boasting. It’s impossible to tell.
“I’m in,” Scarpedin says. “F*cker can’t get away with just cappin’ Terry like that. C’mon John.”
“No,” John says. “I’m out. You don’t even know Terry’s dead. Don’t do anything crazy.”
Scarpedin growls. “What did I say about crazy, John? Oh yeah, Robot: here.”
Scarpedin pulls up a coat that is covering a large lumpy object propped up next to him. Beneath the coat is a mini-gun. Robert is about to freak out, but he realizes he doesn’t have the energy to fake it. Instead he ignores Scarpedin.
“John,” Robert says, “just call Belladonna. She was with Terry. If she can let you talk to Terry, then fine. I’m crazy, Terry’s alive, and we only have to worry about terrorists trying to kill us, and weird man-witches who turn into ravens trying to kidnap us. But if she can’t. . . .”
He stares into John’s eyes for a long moment. Robert can tell John believes him, but he appreciates that John still wants proof. John asks for Scarpedin’s phone and starts to dial.
“Don’t tell her where we are,” Robert says casually.
After a few rings, Belladonna answers. Robert can make out her voice over the speaker.
“Scarpedin?”
“No, it’s John. Look, is Terry there?”
Belladonna hesitates, then says, “My father took him away. I didn’t know he was at the party, but my father went to get him and keep him safe.”
“Can I talk to him?” John asks. “Look, it’s very important that I talk to Terry now.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Belladonna says, “but John, if you don’t remember, my uncle’s house was just attacked. We’re in a bit of a state here. I don’t even know if Terry’s anywhere around right now. He left with my dad.”
“Then give me your father’s number.”
“I’m sorry John, but I gonna have to go now.”
“Belladonna, wait.” John draws in a breath. There’s silence on the other end of the line, like Belladonna is waiting. “Belladonna, Robert says your father killed Terry. Tell me that’s not-”
Before he finishes the sentence, Belladonna hangs up.
Robert simply stares at John, confidently waiting for him to make a decision.
John angrily tosses the phone back to Scarpedin. “I’m still out. That proves nothing. You two go get yourselves arrested or killed. I’m going to go back to the Bureau, and tomorrow I’m going to Savannah to help them with their problem there.”
Robert smiles. “You go do that. I’m sure you’ll accomplish a lot once you get over to Gaia. Oh. Wait. Terry’s dead. How’d I forget? That’s right, I didn’t forget, because I was thirty feet away when I heard him get shot.”
“You don’t do that,” Scarpedin says. “Didn’t even let him roll initiative. That’s not right.”
John and Robert both glance at Scarpedin in confusion, then look back at each other.
John says, “You still don’t know he’s dead. I’m going back to the Bureau. When you two finally calm down, meet me there, and we can let them look into this.”
John puts out his cigarette on the table, then tosses the butt away as he leaves.
“Just you and me?” Robert asks Scarpedin.
Scarpedin grins viciously, patting the bundle next to him. “And Mister One-Thousand-Rounds-a-Minute vulcan cannon here.”
Robert nods, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Give me a minute to make a plan. Alright. First, we need transportation. We can’t be taking taxis all around the city with a mini-gun.”
“It’s Halloween,” Scarpedin says.
Robert grimaces, half nodding. “Still, I don’t want to attract too much attention. And it doesn’t fit your costume.”
Scarpedin shrugs. “Nathan’s out. I think he was pretty pissed that we got his car all shot up.”
“You’re going to have to tell me about that some time,” Robert says. “Anyway, he’s too straight-laced to go along with this.”
Robert sits pondering for a moment.
“Dammit,” Scarpedin says. “Whitey should be here by now. He was bringing my motorcycle.”
“I think I saw him getting arrested at the mansion,” Robert says. “He must’ve driven up just after you guys left. They probably impounded your bike.”
“God dammit. Okay, so first thing, we get my bike.”
Robert shakes his head. “No. John had a good point. I mean, I’m pretty damned sure they shot Terry, but just because I don’t expect to live through the night doesn’t mean we should get sloppy. We need to find out for sure, both if they killed him, and who killed him, so we know who we need to kill. Which means we have to go back to that mansion.”
“Screw that,” Scarpedin says. “C’mon Robot, it’s Halloween.”
Robert frowns, not understanding.
“Let’s get a cab,” Scarpedin says. “We’re going to the French Quarter.”
“You gonna tell me why?” Robert asks.
Scarpedin grins. “We’re gonna to find us a voodoo shaman. We’re gonna talk to Terry.”
RangerWickett
Legend
Halloween
10:31 pm
(This entry will be a little briefer than usual, to help speed things along. This session only involved two players, because after Terry was assassinated, those two players had insisted on having a chance to get their revenge. Nathan and John’s players thought their initial plan -- get ammo for the mini-gun and storm the mansion -- would get them killed, and Belladonna’s player was actually on the hit list, so they bowed out. I think you’ll be surprised where this session ends up going.)
Nearly getting killed brings men together. It was true when Scarpedin fought beside Arthur, Galahad, and that bastard Lancelot fifteen hundred years ago, it was true when he and Whitey took on the Moondog gang in Tuscon back in May, and it’s true tonight. Scarpedin had always taken Robert to be a bit of a p*ssy and a whiner, but any man willing to stick his neck on the line for a fallen friend is a man worth fighting beside.
Also, he can’t quite tell how, but Scarpedin has a sense that Robert has been hiding his inner bad-ass all along.
On the way to the French Quarter, Scarpedin gets a phone call from Whitey. His old biker buddy explains that he was able to run into the woods and shake the cops, but that the bluesuits were paranoid after all the gunfire at the mansion, so he had to ditch the bike. Scarpedin promises to link up with Whitey soon, and he has an idea about getting his bike back.
They brave the giant party in the French Quarter, Scarpedin reluctantly having ditched his armor so he wouldn’t stand out as much. Not that the costume would be unique, but few knights would have shotgun pellet dents, and Scarpedin’s conspicuous enough carrying a heavy metal object bundled under a coat. Robert is careful not to get his pocket picked, because he knows they’re going to need a lot of cash. After the first few voodoo priests they visit, they realize the majority of these people are hacks. A quick call to Raine at the Bureau gets them a lead, and they find the man they’re looking for at the edge of St. Louis Square.
Papa Zuma is dressed in a tattered black trenchcoat that looks like he stole it off a years-rotted corpse. His small section of the square is as close to empty as anywhere in the French Quarter could be on this night, in large part because he actually has dripped chicken entrails in a wide circle around his folding wooden chair, and on a small table next to him he has a lantern, a pack of cards, and a plate with the chicken’s heart, a trio of black feathers sticking out of it like it’s an inkwell.
He charges twenty bucks, and lets them speak with the dead.
They pay Papa Zuma, and he calls forth the spirit of Terry (Scarpedin keeps chanting, “Arise chicken! Arise!”). The priest is surprised, because Terry’s spirit is far more lucid than most of the ghosts he talks to.
“Well,” Scarpedin says, “this one’s fresh.”
Terry speaks through the shaman, verifying that it really is him early on by starting off with cursing, calling Belladonna a betraying little b*tch and then calling Robert and Scarpedin by name. He tells them everything that happened after Robert left the room.
Even Papa Zuma is shocked at this. The bustle of New Orleans’s Halloween sways past them for a moment, before Robert breaks the silence.
“So, Terry,” he says, “I suppose this is the key question. Do you want us to kill Adrien Lee for you?”
The voodoo shaman hesitates, then slips into his own voice for a moment. “Spirit is nervous. Spirit knows answer, but is ashamed to speak.”
Robert rubs his eyes. “Terry, it’s getting late, man. We went through a lot together these past few days, so I’m willing to get myself killed tonight for your sake, but it’s . . . nearly eleven o’clock. The night is running out.”
“Hey,” Scarpedin says, “it ain’t tomorrow ‘til the sun comes up. Dude just died. Cut him some slack.”
Robert sighs. “Whatever. Anyway, I’m not going to do this if you don’t really want it. So what’s it gonna be?”
The priest straightens again as Terry’s spirit takes over. “No, Robert. I mean, yes, I want him to pay for, well, killing me, but that’s not what I want. I don’t want revenge against him. I want revenge on the people behind this, the people who wanted me and Lin dead. Belladonna’s dad shot me, but he was working for someone else.”
Scarpedin says, “But, it’s not bad if we kill this guy, right?”
“Well no,” Terry says, “not really.”
The conversation goes on for a few more minutes. Robert remembers Adrien Lee losing his temper and calling himself an assassin, which suddenly adds much more depth to the whole situation. For Robert, it means that as much as he wants to punish one *sshole, he needs to take his time. He doesn’t want to lose his temper again, not like the other night with Walter.
For Scarpedin, it means something a bit stranger.
“Hey, Papa Zuma,” he asks, “you’re a voodoo priest. It’s Halloween. There’s magic. Can you bring Terry back as a zombie or something?”
At this point, the discussion gets a bit more heated. Robert thinks it’s a silly idea, and Terry really doesn’t want to be a zombie, but he would rather prefer not to pass on just yet, at least not until he’s resolved the issue with Lin being assassinated. He starts to go through a list of different sorts of ways he knows for people to come back from the dead, or linger as undead. Most of them are unpleasant, involving either the person’s soul being destroyed, or requiring the sacrifice of another living person. While Robert and Scarpedin have relatively little qualms about offing a bad guy to get Terry back, Terry warns them that meddling with life and death always turns out badly. Always.
So the only option is to keep Terry around as a ghost. Ghosts only stay until whatever is keeping them around is resolved, and they tend to be of limited power unless they bond with someone. If he bonded with one of them, he’d be able to still use his plane shift ability, which apparently is highly important – it’s probably why people wanted to kill Terry, they’ll need it if they’re going to help the Bureau, and Robert plans to use it in his revenge plan.
However, neither Robert nor Scarpedin is eager to bond with Terry, to have him hanging around in their heads, possibly for all eternity.
Another option is to bind Terry’s soul to an item of emotional significance, which would probably let him keep the plane shift power if he could convince himself plane shifting was key to finding out who killed Lin. Scarpedin suggests bonding Terry to his motorcycle – it’d be like Knightrider – but Terry says he’d need something a bit more personally significant. And the only item of value to him in New Orleans is a bracelet Lin gave him. It happens to be on his body, which happens to be in the possession of Adrien Lee and company, or else carted off to a morgue some place. Regardless, getting it back won’t be easy.
Then Papa Zuma puts a damper on their plans. First he asks for more money, since things are running long – easily done – and then he tells them that, even as a priest, he is not nearly powerful enough to perform the kind of ritual they’re talking about. The only voodoo shaman ever strong enough is long dead.
Ominously, the shaman says, “The Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau.”
“Oh, her,” Robert says. “Marie, you still hanging around? That was you earlier, wasn’t it? Warning me to get out of there.”
They hear a voice of a woman, deep and resonant.
“Yes child, that was me.”
The priest crosses himself and closes his eyes in fear.
“Thanks for that,” Robert says, smacking his lips as he ponders. “So, Marie, you did me a favor earlier. I’m kinda curious why.”
“You are important child, as is your dead friend. I see you boys have a long road ahead of you.”
“Hey, excuse me,” Scarpedin interrupts. “Third person here. Care to work me in too, Mama Zuma?”
Robert waves a hand for Scarpedin to calm down. “It’s okay. She’s a ghost, she saved my life. Let’s not sass the woman.
“So, Marie . . . can I call you Marie?”
The disembodied voice says, “Yes child.”
“Okay Marie. Can you bring Terry back from the dead?”
“I heard what you discussed, boys. I could do that, place his spirit in a bracelet. More than that would imperil you all.”
Scarpedin frowns. “So?”
“Because,” Robert says, “I’m starting to reconsider this whole ‘suicide mission’ thing. Okay Marie, Terry, let’s do this thing.”
Terry takes over the shaman’s body for just a moment. “Sure thing. I’m mellow with this. So you guys know where my body is?”
Robert looks around. “Marie?”
“No child,” she says. “But I know one who will. Your friend’s murderer has a daughter, and that daughter’s nana will listen to me. I will go with you, and help you, so that you may complete your journey.”
Scarpedin shrugs. “Cool. She’s a hell of a lot more useful than the Bureau.”
Robert seems unconvinced. “Seriously though, what the hell’s in this for you?”
“This town has secrets, child. I’d like it to stay that way. You do not know what I mean now, but you will, child.”
Not content, but willing to go along with it, Robert starts to plan with Scarpedin. Scarpedin will link up with Whitey and get his bike back, while Robert tries to track down some ammo and weapons, in case they still need to go the ‘suicide mission’ route. Then they’ll go find Belladonna’s nana and hopefully get information from her. Robert is going to be discreetly calling hospitals to ask if any bodies with head wounds have been brought in, but he suspects Mr. Lee wouldn’t want a body being found by the police in his mansion.
Terry wishes them luck, and says he’ll wait for them. They tip the priest, and are about to leave, when Marie speaks.
“Two last warnings, children. First, you may not be the only ones interested in your friend’s soul. And second, I can only help you until the sun rises. After that, the day of spirits will be over, and the day of saints will begin. Act swift, boys.”
Robert says, “Talk to you soon, Marie.”
As they head off to get out of the French Quarter and find a cab, Scarpedin says, “I like that bitch. She’s my kind of crazy.”
10:31 pm
(This entry will be a little briefer than usual, to help speed things along. This session only involved two players, because after Terry was assassinated, those two players had insisted on having a chance to get their revenge. Nathan and John’s players thought their initial plan -- get ammo for the mini-gun and storm the mansion -- would get them killed, and Belladonna’s player was actually on the hit list, so they bowed out. I think you’ll be surprised where this session ends up going.)
Nearly getting killed brings men together. It was true when Scarpedin fought beside Arthur, Galahad, and that bastard Lancelot fifteen hundred years ago, it was true when he and Whitey took on the Moondog gang in Tuscon back in May, and it’s true tonight. Scarpedin had always taken Robert to be a bit of a p*ssy and a whiner, but any man willing to stick his neck on the line for a fallen friend is a man worth fighting beside.
Also, he can’t quite tell how, but Scarpedin has a sense that Robert has been hiding his inner bad-ass all along.
On the way to the French Quarter, Scarpedin gets a phone call from Whitey. His old biker buddy explains that he was able to run into the woods and shake the cops, but that the bluesuits were paranoid after all the gunfire at the mansion, so he had to ditch the bike. Scarpedin promises to link up with Whitey soon, and he has an idea about getting his bike back.
They brave the giant party in the French Quarter, Scarpedin reluctantly having ditched his armor so he wouldn’t stand out as much. Not that the costume would be unique, but few knights would have shotgun pellet dents, and Scarpedin’s conspicuous enough carrying a heavy metal object bundled under a coat. Robert is careful not to get his pocket picked, because he knows they’re going to need a lot of cash. After the first few voodoo priests they visit, they realize the majority of these people are hacks. A quick call to Raine at the Bureau gets them a lead, and they find the man they’re looking for at the edge of St. Louis Square.
Papa Zuma is dressed in a tattered black trenchcoat that looks like he stole it off a years-rotted corpse. His small section of the square is as close to empty as anywhere in the French Quarter could be on this night, in large part because he actually has dripped chicken entrails in a wide circle around his folding wooden chair, and on a small table next to him he has a lantern, a pack of cards, and a plate with the chicken’s heart, a trio of black feathers sticking out of it like it’s an inkwell.
He charges twenty bucks, and lets them speak with the dead.
They pay Papa Zuma, and he calls forth the spirit of Terry (Scarpedin keeps chanting, “Arise chicken! Arise!”). The priest is surprised, because Terry’s spirit is far more lucid than most of the ghosts he talks to.
“Well,” Scarpedin says, “this one’s fresh.”
Terry speaks through the shaman, verifying that it really is him early on by starting off with cursing, calling Belladonna a betraying little b*tch and then calling Robert and Scarpedin by name. He tells them everything that happened after Robert left the room.
Even Papa Zuma is shocked at this. The bustle of New Orleans’s Halloween sways past them for a moment, before Robert breaks the silence.
“So, Terry,” he says, “I suppose this is the key question. Do you want us to kill Adrien Lee for you?”
The voodoo shaman hesitates, then slips into his own voice for a moment. “Spirit is nervous. Spirit knows answer, but is ashamed to speak.”
Robert rubs his eyes. “Terry, it’s getting late, man. We went through a lot together these past few days, so I’m willing to get myself killed tonight for your sake, but it’s . . . nearly eleven o’clock. The night is running out.”
“Hey,” Scarpedin says, “it ain’t tomorrow ‘til the sun comes up. Dude just died. Cut him some slack.”
Robert sighs. “Whatever. Anyway, I’m not going to do this if you don’t really want it. So what’s it gonna be?”
The priest straightens again as Terry’s spirit takes over. “No, Robert. I mean, yes, I want him to pay for, well, killing me, but that’s not what I want. I don’t want revenge against him. I want revenge on the people behind this, the people who wanted me and Lin dead. Belladonna’s dad shot me, but he was working for someone else.”
Scarpedin says, “But, it’s not bad if we kill this guy, right?”
“Well no,” Terry says, “not really.”
The conversation goes on for a few more minutes. Robert remembers Adrien Lee losing his temper and calling himself an assassin, which suddenly adds much more depth to the whole situation. For Robert, it means that as much as he wants to punish one *sshole, he needs to take his time. He doesn’t want to lose his temper again, not like the other night with Walter.
For Scarpedin, it means something a bit stranger.
“Hey, Papa Zuma,” he asks, “you’re a voodoo priest. It’s Halloween. There’s magic. Can you bring Terry back as a zombie or something?”
At this point, the discussion gets a bit more heated. Robert thinks it’s a silly idea, and Terry really doesn’t want to be a zombie, but he would rather prefer not to pass on just yet, at least not until he’s resolved the issue with Lin being assassinated. He starts to go through a list of different sorts of ways he knows for people to come back from the dead, or linger as undead. Most of them are unpleasant, involving either the person’s soul being destroyed, or requiring the sacrifice of another living person. While Robert and Scarpedin have relatively little qualms about offing a bad guy to get Terry back, Terry warns them that meddling with life and death always turns out badly. Always.
So the only option is to keep Terry around as a ghost. Ghosts only stay until whatever is keeping them around is resolved, and they tend to be of limited power unless they bond with someone. If he bonded with one of them, he’d be able to still use his plane shift ability, which apparently is highly important – it’s probably why people wanted to kill Terry, they’ll need it if they’re going to help the Bureau, and Robert plans to use it in his revenge plan.
However, neither Robert nor Scarpedin is eager to bond with Terry, to have him hanging around in their heads, possibly for all eternity.
Another option is to bind Terry’s soul to an item of emotional significance, which would probably let him keep the plane shift power if he could convince himself plane shifting was key to finding out who killed Lin. Scarpedin suggests bonding Terry to his motorcycle – it’d be like Knightrider – but Terry says he’d need something a bit more personally significant. And the only item of value to him in New Orleans is a bracelet Lin gave him. It happens to be on his body, which happens to be in the possession of Adrien Lee and company, or else carted off to a morgue some place. Regardless, getting it back won’t be easy.
Then Papa Zuma puts a damper on their plans. First he asks for more money, since things are running long – easily done – and then he tells them that, even as a priest, he is not nearly powerful enough to perform the kind of ritual they’re talking about. The only voodoo shaman ever strong enough is long dead.
Ominously, the shaman says, “The Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau.”
“Oh, her,” Robert says. “Marie, you still hanging around? That was you earlier, wasn’t it? Warning me to get out of there.”
They hear a voice of a woman, deep and resonant.
“Yes child, that was me.”
The priest crosses himself and closes his eyes in fear.
“Thanks for that,” Robert says, smacking his lips as he ponders. “So, Marie, you did me a favor earlier. I’m kinda curious why.”
“You are important child, as is your dead friend. I see you boys have a long road ahead of you.”
“Hey, excuse me,” Scarpedin interrupts. “Third person here. Care to work me in too, Mama Zuma?”
Robert waves a hand for Scarpedin to calm down. “It’s okay. She’s a ghost, she saved my life. Let’s not sass the woman.
“So, Marie . . . can I call you Marie?”
The disembodied voice says, “Yes child.”
“Okay Marie. Can you bring Terry back from the dead?”
“I heard what you discussed, boys. I could do that, place his spirit in a bracelet. More than that would imperil you all.”
Scarpedin frowns. “So?”
“Because,” Robert says, “I’m starting to reconsider this whole ‘suicide mission’ thing. Okay Marie, Terry, let’s do this thing.”
Terry takes over the shaman’s body for just a moment. “Sure thing. I’m mellow with this. So you guys know where my body is?”
Robert looks around. “Marie?”
“No child,” she says. “But I know one who will. Your friend’s murderer has a daughter, and that daughter’s nana will listen to me. I will go with you, and help you, so that you may complete your journey.”
Scarpedin shrugs. “Cool. She’s a hell of a lot more useful than the Bureau.”
Robert seems unconvinced. “Seriously though, what the hell’s in this for you?”
“This town has secrets, child. I’d like it to stay that way. You do not know what I mean now, but you will, child.”
Not content, but willing to go along with it, Robert starts to plan with Scarpedin. Scarpedin will link up with Whitey and get his bike back, while Robert tries to track down some ammo and weapons, in case they still need to go the ‘suicide mission’ route. Then they’ll go find Belladonna’s nana and hopefully get information from her. Robert is going to be discreetly calling hospitals to ask if any bodies with head wounds have been brought in, but he suspects Mr. Lee wouldn’t want a body being found by the police in his mansion.
Terry wishes them luck, and says he’ll wait for them. They tip the priest, and are about to leave, when Marie speaks.
“Two last warnings, children. First, you may not be the only ones interested in your friend’s soul. And second, I can only help you until the sun rises. After that, the day of spirits will be over, and the day of saints will begin. Act swift, boys.”
Robert says, “Talk to you soon, Marie.”
As they head off to get out of the French Quarter and find a cab, Scarpedin says, “I like that bitch. She’s my kind of crazy.”
RangerWickett
Legend
Halloween
Robert hits the bars and clubs, seedy dives and dock pubs where he hears veterans hang out. It's a bit of a miracle, but he manages to catch wind of a rumor of a retired Army colonel who lives east of the French Quarter. The man is renowned for a collection of military hardware that for most people would be illegal. Best of all, word is that the colonel is willing to sell.
Robert goes to an ATM and withdraws most of his bank account in cash. On his way to catch a cab, he hears screams in the distance, coming from the only dark and abandoned part of the docks, but he doesn't lose focus. He gets a ride, and heads to the local military hardware supermarket.
Scarpedin and Whitey link up and manage to find out what impound his bike is in. It's an outdoor one, close to downtown, surrounded by a high chain fence with razor wire, and watched over by a small booth with a single cop and a single camera. The entrance to the impound is one of those wheeled fences on a winch so it slides from side to side, instead of opening in or out.
Whitey had a police scanner, so they know that there's an APB out for a group of people involved in a car chase and shoot out on the freeway. The description of Scarpedin is not very precise, but the last thing they want to do is raise suspicion.
"Follow my lead," Scarpedin says.
Whitey, a bit panicky about walking up to a cop station, takes a moment to get his cool, then puts on his best poker face. He and Scarpedin stride up to the booth. It has bulletproof glass, a speaker, and a sliding box. The speaker clips on as the cop puts down his coffee and donut. The cop looks like Jack Black.
"What'cha here for?"
Scarpedin feigns mild disdain, doing his best impression of an FBI agent.
"Good evening officer . . . ," he peers at the man's name tag, "Jackson. You'll understand if I'm brief Mr. Jackson, but my associate and I are here to take into custody a vehicle that you have in your impound."
The cop frowns and looks away from the mini-TV he's watching. "ID and claim number?"
Scarpedin chuckles. "I'm sorry, I don't think you understand, Jackson. You see, my associate and I are with a particular government organization that doesn't need IDs. You'll comply if you don't want any hassle."
Sighing, the officer finally really looks at the two men in front of his booth: a tall white guy in a black trenchcoat, and a short and fat black guy with white hair in a black biker jacket decorated with the Confederate stars and bars. The cop glances back and forth, a clear expression of amusement on his face.
Scarpedin sighs. "Do I have to spell this out for you, Jackson? I'm agent Jones and this is agent Smith. Department of Homeland Security. Understand now, Jackson?"
Whitey's face is implacable, almost intimidating. In truth, Scarpedin knows his buddy has no idea what the hell's going on, but he's always been good at playing along.
Officer Jackson rolls his eyes. "Sorry buddy. I can't let you in without seeing some ID."
Scarpedin tenses for a moment, suppressing his irritation. Then he relaxes his hands out of fists, sighs, and says, "I'm sorry it had to come to this, Officer Jackson. Agent Smith, what do you say? Fifth Freedom?"
Whitey does the bad-ass upward nod, like Ving Rhames in Pulp Fiction. "Yeah man. Fifth f*ckin' Freedom. Waste the nigga."
The cop laughs and taps his knuckles on the inside of the booth's window. "Bulletproof, guys. C'mon! I just need you to show me some. . . ," he looks from side to side, then makes a money-grubbing gesture, "identification."
At first Scarpedin interprets the hand gesture as some sort of crude offer for a sexual favor, but then he gets it, and his demeanor completely changes.
"Ohhhhh," he says, "sh*t man, if you just wanted a bribe you should've said that."
The cop rolls his eyes, then pushes out the security tray for Scarpedin to put his money in. "Just make sure to put your ID in there too. There's a camera watching."
"Yeah, right, whatever." Scarpedin pulls out fifty bucks and one of his fake IDs, puts them in the tray, and nudges Whitey. "Easy. I told you."
Officer Jackson takes the money, looks at the ID, chuckles, then presses the button to buzz open the gate to the impound.
"Stay here," Scarpedin says to Whitey.
"Sure thing, Scarface."
Scarpedin heads inside, looking for his motorcycle. There are a lot of abandoned flood cars, one rather nice looking Corvette, and one honest-to-god Harrier jumpjet, but he doesn't have the keys for any of those, so he just finds his bike. Thankfully Whitey brought along the sidecar. That'll be a good place to put the mini-gun.
"Yo!" Whitey shouts. "Scarface. The cop's shuttin' the f*ckin' door!"
Scarpedin glances just long enough to see the impound gate starting to slide closed, and the cop in his booth pulling out a phone, no doubt to report someone trying to break into the impound. Scarpedin curses.
He jumps onto his bike, turns it on, and guns it, knocking over a few other bikes parked nearby it, but managing to squeal through the gate before it jitters shut.
"Whitey, get in!"
Scarpedin flips the bird at the cop, holding it for several seconds as Whitey scrambles into the side car of the motorcycle, and then he drives off.
"Told you it was gonna be easy," Scarpedin says. He laughs, glad to be on his bike again.
It costs Robert most of his cash, but when Scarpedin comes to pick him up they load up the motorcycle's side car. The mini-gun, a metal case with five thousand rounds of ammo in a chain, a belt of fragmentation grenades, another of tear gas grenades, a new uzi for Scarpedin, a pair of bulletproof vests, and a high-powered night-vision sniper rifle. He also brings along a tarp, which they use to cover the passenger car.
They say bye to Whitey, tell him to keep his nose clean, and then Robert takes a seat behind Scarpedin as they drive off to the house of Belladonna's nana.
Robert hits the bars and clubs, seedy dives and dock pubs where he hears veterans hang out. It's a bit of a miracle, but he manages to catch wind of a rumor of a retired Army colonel who lives east of the French Quarter. The man is renowned for a collection of military hardware that for most people would be illegal. Best of all, word is that the colonel is willing to sell.
Robert goes to an ATM and withdraws most of his bank account in cash. On his way to catch a cab, he hears screams in the distance, coming from the only dark and abandoned part of the docks, but he doesn't lose focus. He gets a ride, and heads to the local military hardware supermarket.
* * *
Scarpedin and Whitey link up and manage to find out what impound his bike is in. It's an outdoor one, close to downtown, surrounded by a high chain fence with razor wire, and watched over by a small booth with a single cop and a single camera. The entrance to the impound is one of those wheeled fences on a winch so it slides from side to side, instead of opening in or out.
Whitey had a police scanner, so they know that there's an APB out for a group of people involved in a car chase and shoot out on the freeway. The description of Scarpedin is not very precise, but the last thing they want to do is raise suspicion.
"Follow my lead," Scarpedin says.
Whitey, a bit panicky about walking up to a cop station, takes a moment to get his cool, then puts on his best poker face. He and Scarpedin stride up to the booth. It has bulletproof glass, a speaker, and a sliding box. The speaker clips on as the cop puts down his coffee and donut. The cop looks like Jack Black.
"What'cha here for?"
Scarpedin feigns mild disdain, doing his best impression of an FBI agent.
"Good evening officer . . . ," he peers at the man's name tag, "Jackson. You'll understand if I'm brief Mr. Jackson, but my associate and I are here to take into custody a vehicle that you have in your impound."
The cop frowns and looks away from the mini-TV he's watching. "ID and claim number?"
Scarpedin chuckles. "I'm sorry, I don't think you understand, Jackson. You see, my associate and I are with a particular government organization that doesn't need IDs. You'll comply if you don't want any hassle."
Sighing, the officer finally really looks at the two men in front of his booth: a tall white guy in a black trenchcoat, and a short and fat black guy with white hair in a black biker jacket decorated with the Confederate stars and bars. The cop glances back and forth, a clear expression of amusement on his face.
Scarpedin sighs. "Do I have to spell this out for you, Jackson? I'm agent Jones and this is agent Smith. Department of Homeland Security. Understand now, Jackson?"
Whitey's face is implacable, almost intimidating. In truth, Scarpedin knows his buddy has no idea what the hell's going on, but he's always been good at playing along.
Officer Jackson rolls his eyes. "Sorry buddy. I can't let you in without seeing some ID."
Scarpedin tenses for a moment, suppressing his irritation. Then he relaxes his hands out of fists, sighs, and says, "I'm sorry it had to come to this, Officer Jackson. Agent Smith, what do you say? Fifth Freedom?"
Whitey does the bad-ass upward nod, like Ving Rhames in Pulp Fiction. "Yeah man. Fifth f*ckin' Freedom. Waste the nigga."
The cop laughs and taps his knuckles on the inside of the booth's window. "Bulletproof, guys. C'mon! I just need you to show me some. . . ," he looks from side to side, then makes a money-grubbing gesture, "identification."
At first Scarpedin interprets the hand gesture as some sort of crude offer for a sexual favor, but then he gets it, and his demeanor completely changes.
"Ohhhhh," he says, "sh*t man, if you just wanted a bribe you should've said that."
The cop rolls his eyes, then pushes out the security tray for Scarpedin to put his money in. "Just make sure to put your ID in there too. There's a camera watching."
"Yeah, right, whatever." Scarpedin pulls out fifty bucks and one of his fake IDs, puts them in the tray, and nudges Whitey. "Easy. I told you."
Officer Jackson takes the money, looks at the ID, chuckles, then presses the button to buzz open the gate to the impound.
"Stay here," Scarpedin says to Whitey.
"Sure thing, Scarface."
Scarpedin heads inside, looking for his motorcycle. There are a lot of abandoned flood cars, one rather nice looking Corvette, and one honest-to-god Harrier jumpjet, but he doesn't have the keys for any of those, so he just finds his bike. Thankfully Whitey brought along the sidecar. That'll be a good place to put the mini-gun.
"Yo!" Whitey shouts. "Scarface. The cop's shuttin' the f*ckin' door!"
Scarpedin glances just long enough to see the impound gate starting to slide closed, and the cop in his booth pulling out a phone, no doubt to report someone trying to break into the impound. Scarpedin curses.
He jumps onto his bike, turns it on, and guns it, knocking over a few other bikes parked nearby it, but managing to squeal through the gate before it jitters shut.
"Whitey, get in!"
Scarpedin flips the bird at the cop, holding it for several seconds as Whitey scrambles into the side car of the motorcycle, and then he drives off.
"Told you it was gonna be easy," Scarpedin says. He laughs, glad to be on his bike again.
* * *
It costs Robert most of his cash, but when Scarpedin comes to pick him up they load up the motorcycle's side car. The mini-gun, a metal case with five thousand rounds of ammo in a chain, a belt of fragmentation grenades, another of tear gas grenades, a new uzi for Scarpedin, a pair of bulletproof vests, and a high-powered night-vision sniper rifle. He also brings along a tarp, which they use to cover the passenger car.
They say bye to Whitey, tell him to keep his nose clean, and then Robert takes a seat behind Scarpedin as they drive off to the house of Belladonna's nana.
RangerWickett
Legend
Halloween
Having determined that Terry does not want to simply pass on in death, Robert and Scarpedin have the firepower and the ride, and now all they need is a bracelet. Terry's girlfriend Lin -- who was assassinated just days earlier -- gave Terry the bracelet as a gift, and if they are going to keep Terry's ghost around, they'll need something of emotional significance. The problem is, they don't know where Terry's body -- and thus the bracelet -- is. They have a possible lead, however.
With the help of the ghost of Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau and the New Orleans phone book, Scarpedin and Robert are able to find Belladonna's nana. The woman's house is sealed tight against supernatural intrusions this evening, with strange voodoo tracings and the faint smell of burning in the air, but Robert lures the woman out with a story that Belladonna needs her help. As soon as she's outside, Marie starts speaking in thick Creole French, and the nana breaks down and falls to her knees, begging for mercy. Marie then inhabits the woman's body, and tells the group what the nana knows.
When the Lee family has some dirty laundry (in the form of dead bodies) that they want taken care of, there's a particular hospital to which they send their linen. They also get phone numbers for various important people, and most importantly they get a large bundle of voodoo supplies from nana's house. They toss the bundle into the motorcycle's side car, next to the mini-gun and the sniper rifle.
They ride to the hospital, but notice two cop cars parked in front. Scarpedin stays at the bike and Robert goes in, since he at least was not involved in the car chase earlier this night. Inside, Robert acts casually and chats with the receptionist for a few minutes to get a sense of the place, then heads to the morgue. It's midnight or later by now, so few people are around to ask him questions. When Robert gets near the morgue, he sees a secretary with a suspiciously glazed look, but she doesn't stop him, so he starts to head in. Then he hears voices.
Two people are talking inside the morgue, a British man and a woman with what sounds like a Minnesotan accent. They mention that 'the Rastafarians' should be here soon, and they should be able to finish the ritual inside the morgue.
Not wanting to risk getting caught, Robert backs away and asks the woman who she just let into the morgue.
"There's no one in the morgue," she replies. Her voice emotionless, mechanical.
Robert curses. He hates magic.
He starts to head back out to the front when he sees a short male doctor heading to the morgue. Robert stops him and finds out that the doctor was on his way to do a routine check on a newly arrived stiff. Robert winces, realizing he's talking about his dead friend, but manages to convince the doctor that it would be dangerous to go into the morgue right now, because someone else is in there.
The secretary mechanically says, "There's no one in the morgue."
The doctor frowns, and looks suspicious, but Robert is convincing as ever. The doctor offers to get them in through the loading area, and they head outside. With Scarpedin and his bike in tow, they head around the back of the hospital.
A modest strip of pavement passes by the morgue drop-off, with a high fence separating the hospital from a nearby canal. Lamps provide scattered illumination. Scarpedin parks the motorcycle discreetly in a shadow near the fence, and Robert and Dr. Gomez head for the ramp that leads to the back entrance.
Scarpedin quietly sets up the mini-gun, then hides himself and the bike under the tarp so he can see out. He hopes something happens. He's itching to use this thing.
The back entrance has a heavy metal door with a shattered overhead lamp and a security camera with a strange bulky device attached to it. Robert guesses it must be some sort of signal-interruptor, and he suspects someone will be arriving at this loading dock soon. To be safe, he offers Gomez a pistol, but the doctor refuses. He's willing to let them in, but he's not going to fight.
Dr. Gomez pulls out his key card and is just about to slide it when Robert hears a car approaching. He gestures for Gomez to hide, and the two of them jump off the ramp and hide beside it in a shadow. Robert tucks the pistol into his pants, then pulls out his stun gun and straight razor.
From around the corner of the hospital approaches an old, beat-up 70s Cadillac. Its headlights slice across the loading dock, but the driver must not have noticed Scarpedin, parked and hiding under the tarp. The car creeps slowly, its engine coughing as it turns and stops on the opposite side of the loading ramp. Only four feet of low concrete separate Robert and Dr. Gomez from the car.
The horns honks once, and a moment later the back door opens.
"Good," Robert hears the woman say, "we can get this over with."
"Wait," says the British man. "I sense something."
Robert tenses, feeling a will casting about, looking for him psychically. But then the doors to the Cadillac open, and the British man's concentration is disrupted.
The air is suddenly thick with the musk of marijuana smoke, and a deep voice with a Jamaican accent asks, "Is the boy's body inside?"
It is this moment that Scarpedin decides to open up with the mini-gun.
Out of Game:
Scarpedin's player asks, "Okay, how do I use this thing?"
"It's an area attack," I say. "You just have to beat AC 10, and then everyone has to make a Reflex save."
Robert's player, having heard how effective Scarpedin's last attempt with the mini-gun was, says, "Don't miss."
Scarpedin's player rolls, and hits.
"Okay," he says. "Now how much damage does this thing do?"
I begin picking out d12s, placing them next to him, until he has six. "Roll these," I say.
In Game:
Scarpedin holds down the trigger for three seconds. The gun's motor spins the barrel as fifty bullets fly through the air toward the Cadillac, and the kickback nearly spins the gun out of his hands. The air is thick with debris and smoke, and he cannot see his targets. For a moment he is afraid that the line of bullets might have wandered and torn Robert to bits, but then he realizes just how cool he is. He lines up the gun to fire again, enjoying the sweet feeling of power and mayhem in his hands.
Out of Game:
"Sh*t," Scarpedin's player says. "Only 34 damage."
I laugh. "How many hit points do you have?"
"23. Huh. So, what happens?"
I roll saving throws for four Rastafarians, the British man, and the Canadian woman. Amazingly they all save.
In Game:
Sensing something amiss, the British agent ducks back inside the door to the morgue and takes cover. His Canadian assistant leaps off the loading dock ramp in the opposite direction from Robert and Dr. Gomez, out of the path of the mini-gun. The Rastafarian leader hears the first pounding sounds of bullets chewing into his car, and he jumps over the loading ramp -- in the direction of Robert and Dr. Gomez -- while his three men take a few bullets but manage to take cover in the car.
Robert sees a huge black man with dreadlocks leap to take cover in the same place he and the doctor are, and in an instant Robert stabs out with the stun gun. The Rastafarian is holding a wooden suitcase, and he blocks the strike, then immediately backhands Robert with the suitcase, smashing him in the face.
Out of Game:
Robert's player is incredulous. "Wait? They took no damage?"
I say, "Three of them didn't. They have evasion. The other guys jumped to take cover in the car, and only took half damage."
Scarpedin's player gestures for me to continue. "Okay, but the car blows up, right?"
I ponder. I quickly check the rules for car's exploding, then laugh. "In order for a car to blow up, you've got to deal enough damage to it in one hit to reduce its hit points to 0 or below, and deal more than half its hit point total at once. You definitely did more than half it's hit points, but the car had 30 hit points and hardness 5, so it's at . . . 1 hit point."
Robert's player says, "I don't know what kind of Rastafarians you've been hanging out with, but their cars aren't in pristine conditions." He laughs.
I smile.
In Game:
And then the Cadillac explodes! Scarpedin cheers, and the explosion distracts the Rastafarian leader long enough for Robert to step in and slit the man's throat with his straight razor.
Unfortunately, Scarpedin's woot revealed his position, and the British man steps out from behind the morgue loading door. Tall, dark, and handsome, he looks like Denzel Washington, dressed in a black intrusion suit like Sam Fisher from Splinter Cell. Again the air fills with the indistinct feel of a mind reaching out, and Scarpedin growls.
Out of Game:
I look at Scarpedin's player and grin malevolently. "Make a Will save, okay?"
To be continued. . .
Having determined that Terry does not want to simply pass on in death, Robert and Scarpedin have the firepower and the ride, and now all they need is a bracelet. Terry's girlfriend Lin -- who was assassinated just days earlier -- gave Terry the bracelet as a gift, and if they are going to keep Terry's ghost around, they'll need something of emotional significance. The problem is, they don't know where Terry's body -- and thus the bracelet -- is. They have a possible lead, however.
With the help of the ghost of Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau and the New Orleans phone book, Scarpedin and Robert are able to find Belladonna's nana. The woman's house is sealed tight against supernatural intrusions this evening, with strange voodoo tracings and the faint smell of burning in the air, but Robert lures the woman out with a story that Belladonna needs her help. As soon as she's outside, Marie starts speaking in thick Creole French, and the nana breaks down and falls to her knees, begging for mercy. Marie then inhabits the woman's body, and tells the group what the nana knows.
When the Lee family has some dirty laundry (in the form of dead bodies) that they want taken care of, there's a particular hospital to which they send their linen. They also get phone numbers for various important people, and most importantly they get a large bundle of voodoo supplies from nana's house. They toss the bundle into the motorcycle's side car, next to the mini-gun and the sniper rifle.
They ride to the hospital, but notice two cop cars parked in front. Scarpedin stays at the bike and Robert goes in, since he at least was not involved in the car chase earlier this night. Inside, Robert acts casually and chats with the receptionist for a few minutes to get a sense of the place, then heads to the morgue. It's midnight or later by now, so few people are around to ask him questions. When Robert gets near the morgue, he sees a secretary with a suspiciously glazed look, but she doesn't stop him, so he starts to head in. Then he hears voices.
Two people are talking inside the morgue, a British man and a woman with what sounds like a Minnesotan accent. They mention that 'the Rastafarians' should be here soon, and they should be able to finish the ritual inside the morgue.
Not wanting to risk getting caught, Robert backs away and asks the woman who she just let into the morgue.
"There's no one in the morgue," she replies. Her voice emotionless, mechanical.
Robert curses. He hates magic.
He starts to head back out to the front when he sees a short male doctor heading to the morgue. Robert stops him and finds out that the doctor was on his way to do a routine check on a newly arrived stiff. Robert winces, realizing he's talking about his dead friend, but manages to convince the doctor that it would be dangerous to go into the morgue right now, because someone else is in there.
The secretary mechanically says, "There's no one in the morgue."
The doctor frowns, and looks suspicious, but Robert is convincing as ever. The doctor offers to get them in through the loading area, and they head outside. With Scarpedin and his bike in tow, they head around the back of the hospital.
A modest strip of pavement passes by the morgue drop-off, with a high fence separating the hospital from a nearby canal. Lamps provide scattered illumination. Scarpedin parks the motorcycle discreetly in a shadow near the fence, and Robert and Dr. Gomez head for the ramp that leads to the back entrance.
Scarpedin quietly sets up the mini-gun, then hides himself and the bike under the tarp so he can see out. He hopes something happens. He's itching to use this thing.
The back entrance has a heavy metal door with a shattered overhead lamp and a security camera with a strange bulky device attached to it. Robert guesses it must be some sort of signal-interruptor, and he suspects someone will be arriving at this loading dock soon. To be safe, he offers Gomez a pistol, but the doctor refuses. He's willing to let them in, but he's not going to fight.
Dr. Gomez pulls out his key card and is just about to slide it when Robert hears a car approaching. He gestures for Gomez to hide, and the two of them jump off the ramp and hide beside it in a shadow. Robert tucks the pistol into his pants, then pulls out his stun gun and straight razor.
From around the corner of the hospital approaches an old, beat-up 70s Cadillac. Its headlights slice across the loading dock, but the driver must not have noticed Scarpedin, parked and hiding under the tarp. The car creeps slowly, its engine coughing as it turns and stops on the opposite side of the loading ramp. Only four feet of low concrete separate Robert and Dr. Gomez from the car.
The horns honks once, and a moment later the back door opens.
"Good," Robert hears the woman say, "we can get this over with."
"Wait," says the British man. "I sense something."
Robert tenses, feeling a will casting about, looking for him psychically. But then the doors to the Cadillac open, and the British man's concentration is disrupted.
The air is suddenly thick with the musk of marijuana smoke, and a deep voice with a Jamaican accent asks, "Is the boy's body inside?"
It is this moment that Scarpedin decides to open up with the mini-gun.
Out of Game:
Scarpedin's player asks, "Okay, how do I use this thing?"
"It's an area attack," I say. "You just have to beat AC 10, and then everyone has to make a Reflex save."
Robert's player, having heard how effective Scarpedin's last attempt with the mini-gun was, says, "Don't miss."
Scarpedin's player rolls, and hits.
"Okay," he says. "Now how much damage does this thing do?"
I begin picking out d12s, placing them next to him, until he has six. "Roll these," I say.
In Game:
Scarpedin holds down the trigger for three seconds. The gun's motor spins the barrel as fifty bullets fly through the air toward the Cadillac, and the kickback nearly spins the gun out of his hands. The air is thick with debris and smoke, and he cannot see his targets. For a moment he is afraid that the line of bullets might have wandered and torn Robert to bits, but then he realizes just how cool he is. He lines up the gun to fire again, enjoying the sweet feeling of power and mayhem in his hands.
Out of Game:
"Sh*t," Scarpedin's player says. "Only 34 damage."
I laugh. "How many hit points do you have?"
"23. Huh. So, what happens?"
I roll saving throws for four Rastafarians, the British man, and the Canadian woman. Amazingly they all save.
In Game:
Sensing something amiss, the British agent ducks back inside the door to the morgue and takes cover. His Canadian assistant leaps off the loading dock ramp in the opposite direction from Robert and Dr. Gomez, out of the path of the mini-gun. The Rastafarian leader hears the first pounding sounds of bullets chewing into his car, and he jumps over the loading ramp -- in the direction of Robert and Dr. Gomez -- while his three men take a few bullets but manage to take cover in the car.
Robert sees a huge black man with dreadlocks leap to take cover in the same place he and the doctor are, and in an instant Robert stabs out with the stun gun. The Rastafarian is holding a wooden suitcase, and he blocks the strike, then immediately backhands Robert with the suitcase, smashing him in the face.
Out of Game:
Robert's player is incredulous. "Wait? They took no damage?"
I say, "Three of them didn't. They have evasion. The other guys jumped to take cover in the car, and only took half damage."
Scarpedin's player gestures for me to continue. "Okay, but the car blows up, right?"
I ponder. I quickly check the rules for car's exploding, then laugh. "In order for a car to blow up, you've got to deal enough damage to it in one hit to reduce its hit points to 0 or below, and deal more than half its hit point total at once. You definitely did more than half it's hit points, but the car had 30 hit points and hardness 5, so it's at . . . 1 hit point."
Robert's player says, "I don't know what kind of Rastafarians you've been hanging out with, but their cars aren't in pristine conditions." He laughs.
I smile.
In Game:
And then the Cadillac explodes! Scarpedin cheers, and the explosion distracts the Rastafarian leader long enough for Robert to step in and slit the man's throat with his straight razor.
Unfortunately, Scarpedin's woot revealed his position, and the British man steps out from behind the morgue loading door. Tall, dark, and handsome, he looks like Denzel Washington, dressed in a black intrusion suit like Sam Fisher from Splinter Cell. Again the air fills with the indistinct feel of a mind reaching out, and Scarpedin growls.
Out of Game:
I look at Scarpedin's player and grin malevolently. "Make a Will save, okay?"
To be continued. . .
