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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Watus" data-source="post: 1524066" data-attributes="member: 14589">What follows is an interpretation of a new occasional campaign my group and I are undertaking: d20 Modern in Alternity’s Dark*Matter setting.  In the first session, we ran through Exit 23, the introductory adventure in the Dark*Matter campaign setting.  This should be familiar ground to Story Hour regulars, and if you haven’t read the inestimable JonRog’s telling of his group’s Dark*Matter adventures, then you should do so immediately.  Our group’s handling of this scenario, however, was somewhat different.I should also mention that I encouraged the group to dream up eccentric characters for themselves: more Lone Gunmen than Millennium Group, if you follow my drift.  That may have colored what happened later.Dramatis Personae (in order of appearance):Mary Katherine O'Connor, Catholic High School Girl [Charismatic Hero] Fr. Michael Ryan, SJ, PhD [Smart Hero/Dedicated Hero] James O’Connel, Network Security Specialist/Conspiracy Theory Enthusiast [Smart Hero]Andi Oki, American Sumo [Tough Hero]Jubal Song, Aging Folksinger/Burnout [Charismatic Hero]Exit 23, or "Hawaiian Heavy is Hostess Hero"It was a cold night and an empty interstate.  In the median, a too young girl stood with her thumb extended.  After a time, a black Suburban slowed to a stop and through the open window leaned a man with a neatly trimmed beard and a roman collar.  Words were exchanged.  A ride was offered and accepted.  Mutual suspicions were temporarily suppressed.Fifteen minutes of silence and it had begun to snow.  Twenty minutes later and the wipers could no longer keep up: the headlights illuminated nothing but a blank sheet of whiteness and the wind was threatening to blow the truck off the road.  It was a tense hour at a claustrophobic crawl through the worst snowstorm either had ever seen before they crossed the first exit.  They had said almost nothing to one another.8:33 pm, Sunday, November 21st, 2004Angola Rest StopAngola, New YorkThe Suburban carefully nosed through the drifting snow, up the exit and into the illuminated parking lot.  The dome light came on and the heat of the cabin was instantly lost to the wind.  Wrapping themselves as tightly as possible, the two of them ran through the stinging snow and exploded into the vestibule, wiping their faces and stomping their feet.The floor in the lobby was wet and almost blue under the fluorescent lights.  Brochures, scattered by the wind and ground into the grime, littered the floor.  Casino Niagara, the falls, and all of the many wonders of Western New York and Southern Ontario had been trod under foot, ignored.  A boy in a red apron looked up from his mop in the fast food restaurant.  He nodded and pointed to the donut shop.  “Everyone else is in there,” he said, going back to his work. Inside awaited a disparate group of unhappy strangers, drinking bad coffee and watching the weatherman stammer his confusion on the local news.  He didn’t have anything good to say.  Parkas and mittens and heavy boots were scattered everywhere.  Several people had blankets and sleeping bags and were obviously settling in for the night.  A matronly waitress glided toward them, smelling of AquaNet and Juicy Fruit.  “I wasn’t expecting any more tonight,” she said, with not much kindness.  She pointed them toward an empty booth and, smacking her gum, disappeared into a back room.Taking a seat, Father Ryan turned to consider his young charge: out in the middle of nowhere, on the side of the highway in her school uniform with no jacket.  She had not offered an explanation.  Nor did she.***When you’re trapped for an extended time in a small space with people not of your choosing, you take your entertainment where you can, and James was enjoying watching the fat man eat.  He’d been peering over the top his laptop for nearly half an hour, and had become less furtive about it as time passed.  The man clearly wasn’t going to notice.  Or didn’t care.  Or maybe he was just used to the stares of strangers.  Donut after donut disappeared down that gaping maw, leaving a dusting of powdered sugar down his pronounced stomach and across the counter in front of him.  He was Hawaiian or Samoan or something and he was huge in every way it is possible for a human being to be huge.  His fingers were like rolls of quarters.  James wondered what could possibly lead a person to eat like that, and without shame.  Whatever else there was to say, it must take some real discipline.  And James was a fan of discipline.***Jubal stared off into space as his coffee got cold, fingering the chords to a half-remembered song on his pants leg under the table.  “I can’t believe she never heard of ‘Pack up your Sorrows’,” he said, shaking his head. “Some people got no taste.  No taste at all.  Anyway, it was just a question - no need to get all bent out of shape.”  He froze for a moment, wondering if he’d just said that out loud.  No one reacted.  He peered across the room at her slumping form, a surly woman with a broad back and thick lips, busily trying to forget he existed.  Screw her, anyway.  He’d find another ride.  He went back to trying to remember that progression.  Brushing a matted lock of frayed and graying hair out of his eyes, it occurred to him that he’d forgotten more songs than he could remember.  Absent-mindedly, he reached out and touched the neck of his guitar.  He had a lot of catching up to do.***Time passed and nerves grew thin.  Donuts were eaten.  Coffee was drunk.  Some time after midnight, a young state trooper arrived and announced that the interstate had been closed.  It most likely wouldn’t be opened again until morning. Everyone groaned.  She ordered a cup of coffee and took a stool at the counter.  More time passed.  Strangers struck up conversations.  Some tried to sleep.   Claustrophobic, others wandered around the rest stop, peering out into the storm, unable even to see their own snow covered cars.***Some time afterwards, the lights went out..</blockquote>

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