The Brotherhood of St Thomas -- A D20 Modern Adventure
Prince Atom
Explorer
The man in flannel stepped in and gave the unmoving thing a hefty whack with his axe, and then kicked its severed head into a corner. "Ain't gettin' up any time soon, Father," he said.
MacDonald was massaging his chin; his guns were nowhere to be seen. "What was that thing, anyway?"
The old priest snorted. "An amalgamation; a construct. It was formerly several people, but they died, and then their bodies were defiled for parts to this thing."
"Wha', you mean like Frankenstein?" MacDonald bent to pick up his staff; with a click, it telescoped to the length of a cane again.
The old man quirked a smile. "Sort of. More like his monster. Quite tough to put down. In fact, you didn't even kill it -- "
"You mean it's gonna get up again?" Lyakovetsky took a step away from the corpse(s).
"No, I mean it wasn't even alive; just animate, and given some specific orders. Now, who's injured?"
Lyakovetsky pushed the magazine follower back down into the clip of his gun and let the slide return to its normal position as he watched most of these brave people line up to be tended to by the old man. All the priest did was lay his hands upon their heads, each in turn, and mutter something; and then there were bright flashes, and they turned out pretty sprightly once more.
The former secret agent man stripped the empty magazine out of his gun and replaced it with a fresh one as the short-order cook dragged a large piece of plywood out of the back. It turned out to be cut to the right size for the broken window, and it had bolts and washers set into it already. The cook and his two waitresses set it up against the broken pane, and screwed it into place.
"I take it you've had to do this before?" he said to a pretty, smudged waitress.
"Hazard of the job," she said, in a broad Bronx accent, and Lyakovetsky could see a circular pin now on her collar, like the old man's but less flashy.
"So you're all in this together?"
"Yeah, but keep it on the q.t. Not that it'd work; Ned's is sort of the worst kept secret in New York."
"Except for Spider-Man's identity -- " he began, but the big man in flannel tapped him on the shoulder.
"Hey there, m'name's Barry," he said. "C'mon, help me move this big galoot out the back before someone comes in."
The big beast was heavy, and bulky, and Lyakovetsky was feeling his age by the time they'd hidden it under the spare plywood squares beside the dumpster.
Back inside, they found the waitresses mopping up the floor with ammonia and other strong cleansers; and it looked like everyone was getting set to move out.
The old man came up to Lyakovetsky, with his leather jacket slung over his shoulder. "We're about to get going, Rocky. What do you say -- are you in or out?"
Lyakovetsky didn't hesitate. "I'm in. Let's go." The old man turned away, and Lyakovestky thought of something --
"Hey, what's your name, anyway? You never told me that."
The old man quirked that smile again. "No, I didn't, did I?" And the door chimed behind him as he stepped into the cold night air.
MacDonald was massaging his chin; his guns were nowhere to be seen. "What was that thing, anyway?"
The old priest snorted. "An amalgamation; a construct. It was formerly several people, but they died, and then their bodies were defiled for parts to this thing."
"Wha', you mean like Frankenstein?" MacDonald bent to pick up his staff; with a click, it telescoped to the length of a cane again.
The old man quirked a smile. "Sort of. More like his monster. Quite tough to put down. In fact, you didn't even kill it -- "
"You mean it's gonna get up again?" Lyakovetsky took a step away from the corpse(s).
"No, I mean it wasn't even alive; just animate, and given some specific orders. Now, who's injured?"
Lyakovetsky pushed the magazine follower back down into the clip of his gun and let the slide return to its normal position as he watched most of these brave people line up to be tended to by the old man. All the priest did was lay his hands upon their heads, each in turn, and mutter something; and then there were bright flashes, and they turned out pretty sprightly once more.
The former secret agent man stripped the empty magazine out of his gun and replaced it with a fresh one as the short-order cook dragged a large piece of plywood out of the back. It turned out to be cut to the right size for the broken window, and it had bolts and washers set into it already. The cook and his two waitresses set it up against the broken pane, and screwed it into place.
"I take it you've had to do this before?" he said to a pretty, smudged waitress.
"Hazard of the job," she said, in a broad Bronx accent, and Lyakovetsky could see a circular pin now on her collar, like the old man's but less flashy.
"So you're all in this together?"
"Yeah, but keep it on the q.t. Not that it'd work; Ned's is sort of the worst kept secret in New York."
"Except for Spider-Man's identity -- " he began, but the big man in flannel tapped him on the shoulder.
"Hey there, m'name's Barry," he said. "C'mon, help me move this big galoot out the back before someone comes in."
The big beast was heavy, and bulky, and Lyakovetsky was feeling his age by the time they'd hidden it under the spare plywood squares beside the dumpster.
Back inside, they found the waitresses mopping up the floor with ammonia and other strong cleansers; and it looked like everyone was getting set to move out.
The old man came up to Lyakovetsky, with his leather jacket slung over his shoulder. "We're about to get going, Rocky. What do you say -- are you in or out?"
Lyakovetsky didn't hesitate. "I'm in. Let's go." The old man turned away, and Lyakovestky thought of something --
"Hey, what's your name, anyway? You never told me that."
The old man quirked that smile again. "No, I didn't, did I?" And the door chimed behind him as he stepped into the cold night air.
Prince Atom
Explorer
Thanks! It went pretty much like that; but I did take some liberties. No one was actually thrown through the window; but the man in flannel did jump through it on his way to get his axe out of his truck. I thought it worked better, in the heat of the moment, the way I wrote it.
TWK
Prince Atom
Explorer
Lyakovetsky was flabbergasted.
"Does he always do that?" he asked of the man in flannel.
"What, walk out without explaining himself? Only when he's feeling his oats. He does that a lot, for an old guy." The man in flannel gave Lyakovetsky a smile, and he and the woman followed the old man out the door. Nonplussed, Lyakovetsky followed them. He was just in time to see them all get into the cab of a battered old truck with a camper on the back.
The woman was the last to climb in. Before she closed the door, she tossed something small and glittering in his direction. "Here -- catch!" He caught it one-handed, and by the time he looked up again, the truck was driving off.
He looked down at the thing in his hand. It was a key, just a bit of metal with teeth projecting from a plastic drum with a note attached on a bit of wire. The note read, simply, "5/29/17-11/22/63."
Lyakovetsky looked around, but there was no one else nearby; behind him he could hear Ned's diner locking its doors. Neither MacDonald nor Cherie were in sight. So he pocketed the key, swung his leg over his big Harley, and kicked it into life.
**************************************************
He had to wait four hours for the libraries to open, and all through that time he puzzled over the key. Aside from the note, there was a string of letters and numbers etched into the plastic of the drum. They were probably some sort of matching numbers; no doubt the thing it was meant to unlock had the same string of figures on it. He'd seen countless others in transit stations -- bus stations and airports had rentable lockers that used keys like this one.
The mystery did not leave him be. The last date in particular kept tickling his mind. He knew he'd seen it somewhere before....
The libraries finally opened, and he was the first on the computers. A brief web search for "November 22, 1963" turned up several websites about a former US president who'd been assassinated on that day; when a biographical site gave that president's birthday as May 28 1917, Lyakovetsky was convinced he'd found his man.
But what did John F. Kennedy have to do with a battered old key?
"Does he always do that?" he asked of the man in flannel.
"What, walk out without explaining himself? Only when he's feeling his oats. He does that a lot, for an old guy." The man in flannel gave Lyakovetsky a smile, and he and the woman followed the old man out the door. Nonplussed, Lyakovetsky followed them. He was just in time to see them all get into the cab of a battered old truck with a camper on the back.
The woman was the last to climb in. Before she closed the door, she tossed something small and glittering in his direction. "Here -- catch!" He caught it one-handed, and by the time he looked up again, the truck was driving off.
He looked down at the thing in his hand. It was a key, just a bit of metal with teeth projecting from a plastic drum with a note attached on a bit of wire. The note read, simply, "5/29/17-11/22/63."
Lyakovetsky looked around, but there was no one else nearby; behind him he could hear Ned's diner locking its doors. Neither MacDonald nor Cherie were in sight. So he pocketed the key, swung his leg over his big Harley, and kicked it into life.
**************************************************
He had to wait four hours for the libraries to open, and all through that time he puzzled over the key. Aside from the note, there was a string of letters and numbers etched into the plastic of the drum. They were probably some sort of matching numbers; no doubt the thing it was meant to unlock had the same string of figures on it. He'd seen countless others in transit stations -- bus stations and airports had rentable lockers that used keys like this one.
The mystery did not leave him be. The last date in particular kept tickling his mind. He knew he'd seen it somewhere before....
The libraries finally opened, and he was the first on the computers. A brief web search for "November 22, 1963" turned up several websites about a former US president who'd been assassinated on that day; when a biographical site gave that president's birthday as May 28 1917, Lyakovetsky was convinced he'd found his man.
But what did John F. Kennedy have to do with a battered old key?
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