>>6341244
>wasn’t around much

>>6341244
>wasn’t around much

>>6341244
>wasn't around at all

>>6341244
>wasn’t around much

>>6341244
>>wasn’t around much

>>6341244
>>wasn't around at all

>>6341244
>wasn't around much

Cat's in the cradle...

VOTE CLOSED
>>wasn't around much [Wins]

>>6341244
Your father wasn't around much. Like a shadow, only a silhouette of the man existed in your conscience. He was a soldier, a decorated veteran of the Second World War and the Korean War. When he wasn't fighting a war, he was halfway across the world preparing for another one. You don't know if he was there for your birth, but he definitely wasn't when you took your first steps, graduated primary school, or lost your first tooth. His rare appearances were like catching a whiff of something delicious—overpowering but fleeting.

It was just you and your mother, really. Your father never shirked his fiscal responsibility; a colonel's stipend always arrived on the first of every month. Combined with what your mother earned as a professor at St. Cabrini's and her literary royalties, you were never left wanting for any material comfort.

This strange situation made you the frequent recipient of one persistent comment: "You're so lucky."

Your classmates were under the impression that your mother was "cool"—bohemian and maverick in ways their own parents weren't—and your apartment was "fun" for a myriad of reasons. Mom always kept a well-stocked pantry, you had a television, all the popular comics, toys, and books. On the occasions a critical mass of classmates came over, your mom would enlist Elizabeth "Birdie" Wyckes to keep an eye on things.

Six years your senior, she was almost a goddess to your cloistered middle school peers. They rarely experienced such proximity to the fairer sex anywhere else, and they loved to revel in her presence. To you, though, the occasions were tiresome, and they often devolved into puerile contests for her 'affection', you became a captive audience, annoyed at their antics. You remember the last time a large party of classmates ever visited your home. A classmate of yours, Freddie Forrest had tried to hug Birdie after a stupid game. And even though Birdie liked to indulge them you could tell she was tired, and that day you had experienced the perfect storm of events that pushed you over the edge.

>>You grabbed Freddie by the collar and shoved him away from her, hard enough that he fell tumbled over the coffee table.
>>You shoved your chair back and told him to “stop fucking doing that”, the words tore out of you before you could stop them
>>You swept everything off the coffee table. Comics, snack bowls, half-empty soda bottles. The crash was loud enough to freeze the room.

>>6341481
>>You shoved your chair back and told him to “stop fucking doing that”, the words tore out of you before you could stop them
Never go full white knight.

>>6341481
>You shoved your chair back and told him to “stop fucking doing that”, the words tore out of you before you could stop them

>>6341481
>>>You shoved your chair back and told him to “stop fucking doing that”, the words tore out of you before you could stop them

>>6341481
>>You grabbed Freddie by the collar and shoved him away from her, hard enough that he fell tumbled over the coffee table.

Embrace violence.

>>6341306
>>6341407
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbtChxwAdj8

>>6341481
>>>You swept everything off the coffee table. Comics, snack bowls, half-empty soda bottles. The crash was loud enough to freeze the room.

>>6341481
>>You shoved your chair back and told him to “stop fucking doing that”, the words tore out of you before you could stop them

>>6341481
Vote Closed
>>You shoved your chair back and told him to “stop fucking doing that”, the words tore out of you before you could stop them. WINS

Sometimes you just have to speak your mind right.

>>6341481
Your outburst quieted the room instantly. You could hear your heart drum, and it felt satisfying to see their wide eyes and gaping faces. They were afraid of you; there must have been something in the way your eyes brimmed with hostility. You noticed the shakiness in their eyes, how none could meet your own. You felt invincible in that moment.

No one said anything when Birdie stood up to place a call. Everyone just stood there awkwardly, and you wished for someone to say something–anything– just to see if your body would once again act of its own volition. But a minute later Birdie returned and announced that everyone's parents were coming to pick them up.

She corralled all the kids, who glumly followed her to the coat closet, they made a small line, each in front of the other: so contrary to the ruckus of a few minutes ago. You meanwhile stood in the living room, the surge of passion that prompted your reaction had begun to dissipate, and an immense tidal wave of fatigue suddenly came over you, such that you when you sat down on the couch you didn't remember the closing of your eyes, like a film, the fade to darkness happened so seamlessly that it felt natural.

When you opened your eyes everyone had gone. A blanket covered you and Birdie was sitting right next to you. You stirred, and she turned to you, lowering her book.

She smiled kindly. "Feeling better?"

You felt your through dry up, words wouldn't come out so you nodded instead.

“Thats good,” she stood up. “I have good news and bad news.” She waited for you to say something, but you stared with a half foggy expression

“Well the good news is that everyone is gone, and you won’t have to go to school tomorrow. I let your mom know that you caught a chill.”

For the first time you realized you were freezing under that blanket. Birdie continued on.

“..the day after tomorrow this will all have been squared up, we’ll chalk your little… performance up to your illness and general grumpiness" her grin turned into a straight line as her lips pursed. "The bad news is that the TV stopped working. It won’t turn on, I think one of the kids messed with it or something. Regardless, I told your mom about it already.” She glanced toward the door. "She'll be here any minute now, I should pack up." She paused, then added, "And Rich? It was very gallant of you to do that."

>>Stay Silent
>>”It wasn’t about you Birdie”
>>”You’re welcome.

>>6342014
"you're welcome"

>>6342014
>”It wasn’t about you Birdie”
It's not like I l-like you or anything, b-baka.

>”You’re welcome, though."
No need to turn down a compliment, just got to set the record straight.

>>6342014
>>>”It wasn’t about you Birdie”
Shut the fuck up bitch

>>6342014
>>”You’re welcome.

>>6342014
>>”You’re welcome.

>>6342014
>”You’re welcome.“
When do we get the blowjob of gratitude?

Vote Closed
>>”You’re welcome WINS

>>6342485
Not until you grow some hair on your balls.

>>6342014
"You're welcome Birdie."

She smiled, small dimples appeared on the round of her cheeks and you felt a vindictive pleasure in being the sole recipient of her gratitude. Fuck Freddie, you thought.

You let your head fall back onto the couch. You heard the door open and the musical jingle of keys.

"Richard, Elizabeth!"

It was your mother's habit to call out to you and whoever was watching you the moment she arrived.

Birdie stood up. "We're in the living room, Mrs. Sinclair! I put a blanket over him and brewed the tea like you told me to."

"Thank you, Elizabeth," your mother said; she removed her coat and pillbox hat and beckoned Birdie to the doorway. "I'll take over from here." She handed her a few bills and with a hug and thanks, ushered her out the door.

You thought it was strange behavior honestly. Mom usually liked to chat with Elizabeth, encouraging her to share thoughts about school and plans for the future. You exchanged one last smile with her before she slipped past the open door, closing it behind her.

Your mother's attention turned toward you. She touched your cheek and fussed, which you didn't appreciate, but her hand felt nice against your face.

"You're freezing," she said worriedly. She got up and went to the kitchen before returning with a steaming cup of tea in her hands.

You got up against the armrest and took the cup without question. It was hot, and for a few seconds you sat there, feeling it heat your frigid fingers.

"Drink," she said gently.

You took a careful sip. Lemon paired with honey; it hit a pleasant note, you let the flavor linger in your mouth for a moment before swallowing.

"Good right? I got the lemons from Ms. Rossi last week."

You nodded and took another sip.

Mom pressed the TV’s power button but nothing happened and she turned to you with pursed lips."Elizabeth said she thinks one of your classmates might have messed with the TV. Did you see anything?"

You took another sip and shrugged. "Not really. I can't remember. We didn't watch a lot of TV.”

You glanced out the window and for the first time noticed the shift from day to twilight. A thought reared its head inside your mind. “Mom, what time is it?”

Your mother looked up from fiddling with the television set and looked at her wristwatch, “It’s 7, why?”

“Birdmam comes on at 7 and the new episode is where he fights the Horned Rat!” you complained. This day had turned out to be a let down. Annoying classmates, illness, a broken television set and the cherry on top, having to miss your favorite show.

You let out a long exhausting sigh and put your tea on the coffee table. A sudden fit of annoyance came over you. And you couldn't help but take it out on something. You stood up and let the blanket that was half wrapped over your lower half slide downward. You gathered it and with all your young might threw it against the couch.

>>Roll 1d100 High is more “explosive"

>>6343171
how "explosive" might a child throwing a blanket against a couch be?
if someone rolls high

anyways

dice+1d100

Rolled 13 (1d100)

>>6343171
>>6343179
Gotta put it in the 'options' field, questie

>>6343179
oops I fucked up the roll, how do I roll the dice?

Rolled 94 (1d100)

>>6343180
I see,

Let's destroy that couch man

>>6343179
Literally explosive

. >>6343182
>>94. Especially explosive.

>>6343183
big bomb explosive?

>>6343184
Lets just say that we're about to discover we're not a normal kid, its not a normal world, and our parents are a little different than most.

>>6343187
oh damn, I thought this was a drama, excited for future entries

>>6343189
Oh it's also that as well, this may or may not have been inferred by the readers but the quest is set in the 60s. The tittle is an ode to probably one of the wildest times in America.

Rolled 8 (1d100)

>>6343171

Rolled 22 (1d100)

>>6343171

>>6343171
"Richard!!!" your mother screamed.

You released the bundled blanket and were instantly engulfed by a blinding light. A violent crack split your eardrums; you flew backward onto what felt like a wall, dazed. When the light subsided, you opened your eyes to a smoldering crater at the center of your living room—everything previously there just gone. Even having been thrown to the edge of the room, the rift was great enough that it took no effort to see the pair of young women from the floor below shrieking like banshees.

"Richard! Richard!" Your mother pulled you into an embrace before drawing back to survey your face. "Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?"

Ironic considering your mother was the injured person. A nasty bruise marred the front of her forehead, and her bottom lip was swollen red. As your mother's hands searched for any sign of damage, you realized that you felt fine—it was acutely confusing. You remembered the pain of being thrown, of falling down. It had happened before: playing sports with the older kids, accidents while riding a bike. That hurt, you should have been hurting. Why were you not?

"Nothing hurts, Mom." You uttered both a realization and question. "Nothing hurts? Why?"

She just smiled, as if to say later. She sat you down against the wall and gave your cheek one last caress before going to the edge of the crevasse and peering down.

"Are you okay? Is anyone hurt?"

A piece of floorboard that hung off the edge broke and fell. You heard the scurrying of footsteps and a feminine yelp. "NO! WE ARE NOT OKAY! THERE IS A HOLE IN OUR CEILING!"

"Look, just calm down and move away from there. We don't want anyone to get hurt."

"IT'S A MIRACLE WE DIDN'T DIE!"

You watched your mother pull back from their sight and rub hard against her temple. Fists pounded on the apartment door. You looked to your mother who nodded and gestured for you to open it.

Your legs felt rickety, more the product of nerves than anything else. You opened the door to find the concerned faces of your neighbors: Mrs. Rossi from next door, Mr. Tathil from across the hall, and a few of the young working professionals you knew by sight but not by name. A deluge of questions followed. Are you okay? What happened? Where's your mother?

One by one, you stammered through each question until Mrs. Rossi interrupted to announce that she'd called the fire department already, and they told her that everyone in the building should evacuate.

"Mom, Mom! They say we have to come out!"

Between the narrow doorway leading to the apartment proper and the fact that your mother and the two ladies below were engaged in a full-blown shouting match, your voice didn't travel far. Mrs. Rossi gently nudged you aside and pulled your mother from her argument.

It was the tail end of autumn, and the wind had begun to nip at the skin more frequently. Neither you nor your mother had remembered to bring a coat. You were forced to put your hands in your pockets and press your arms close to your body.

Eventually the fire brigade pulled up in their caravan of bright red trucks, armed with ladders and hoses. A captain asked the gathered crowd in which apartment the incident took place. He was pointed to you and your mother's direction. He and your mother spent a few minutes talking, going over the details. You zoned out and didn't bother to pay attention, which was why when he asked you a question, you didn't register it at first. It took a second attempt to drag you out of your daze.

"What happened son?"

The first thing you noticed was his height. He was tall, like the men who starred in action movies and westerns, tall like a star athlete. Like Broadway Joe had decided to play at being a firefighter. Your mother must have mistaken your pause for apprehension because she pulled you back behind her and stepped in front of you before you could say anything.

"I just finished telling you what happened, captain." She said, voice clipped with annoyance.

"And I know that ma'am. But your son was also involved and I want to hear his story."

"Involved? Story?" Your mother made that face when she could not believe what she was hearing. "No one was involved, officer." Her tone was icy. "There is no story. There was a freak accident, and now there's a gaping hole in my apartment, and it's your job to investigate and make sure everything is safe. So I suggest you go about it."

Your mother turned you around just as a member of the captain's fire brigade ran up to tell him something. You crossed the street and saw him looking over in your direction. At the corner was a payphone booth—you remembered it being installed the year prior. Your mother opened the booth before she remembered that her purse and money were still inside your home.

For a moment you both stared blankly at each other, unsure about what to do. You were about to suggest to her that you could go across the street and borrow the ten cents from one of your when your mom started to sniffle, said sniffle transformed into tears seconds later. She gave you a giant hug, practically something you. “It’s all going to be alright” she whispered. And you weren't sure why she was crying or what exactly was wrong.

Something had happened: an act of god, like those the priest at mass talked about. An act of god that demolished your living room, that left you confused, and your mother crying. Whatever words you held in your mouth died when the phone booth rang. It startled the both of you and once again you stared at each other.

>>Answer the phone.
>>Let your mother answer.

>>6344301
>Let your mother answer.

>>6344301
>>Answer the phone.

>>6344301
>>Answer the phone.

>>6344301
>>Answer the phone.

Vote Closed
>>Answer the Phone WINS

Your mother took only a single glance at the ringing phone before opening the booth door and darting out. You thought about going after her, but the phone was on its third ring. You answered with some suspicion. "Hello?"

"Richard?"

Father? Any other time, hearing your father's voice meant the start of a pleasant weekend outing—a rare leave from work—but the abruptness of his call meant you stayed silent

"Richard? Are you there?"

On instinct you stood straighter. "Yes."

"Good, now give the phone to your mother."

His words struck deep-deeded fear within you; that the first thing your father asked was for you to stop talking with him could only mean he did not care for you or so your childish brain thought. Still, something else within that childish psyche bid you to obey. Because if you obeyed, eventually he would notice.

You set the receiver on top of the phone box and opened the door. Your mother's eyes were dry by that point. "It's Father! He wants to speak with you."

She frowned, she shook her head no. she looked as if she would break into tears again. "Richard, tell your father I don't want to talk to him right now. Tell him I'm angry at him."

That was the first time you had ever heard your mother say she was angry at another person. This day had been the strangest day of your life so far. With no other option you returned to pick up the receiver. The noise on your end told your father someone had picked up, but he must have thought it was Mother because he spoke her name. "Violet, I—"

"No, it's me, Dad… uh Mom said she doesn't want to talk to you. She said she’s really mad at you right now."

There was a sigh on the other end. "It's very important, Richard. Tell her."

You got your mother's attention and gestured that Father really, truly, wanted to talk to her. But she only shook her head, and with a finality that was not to be argued with, silently mouthed: I'm mad at him.

"She said no."

"Did she say why she's mad at me right now?" There was a nervousness to his question.

You thought about bluffing, making something up that sounded adult-like, just to impress him, but Mother always said lying doesn't pay.

"No."

"That's good. Listen carefully, Richard. You are the man of the house while I'm away. You know that, right?" That was the first time he had said that. "A friend of mine is going to come around and pick you up in a car. You won't miss it—it's going to be a fancy convertible. Her name is Ilse." He paused. "Did you get that?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Listen to her. I think you'll like her. She'll take you and Mom to a special place. Hang up now."

A million questions died the moment he told you to hang up.

>>6345657
the actual fuck

A few minutes after you had hung up, a silver car pulled up to the curb. The driver was indeed a woman: blonde, with a put-together outfit punctuated by stylish shades. She looked like she was driving a rocket ship. It painted a scene that for the first time in your life sparked a sense of admiration previously reserved only for men like astronauts, athletes, G-Men, and rock stars. You didn't know who she was or what she did, but you wanted to look as cool as her.

Your mother told you to pick up your jaw. The two women exchanged a kiss on the cheek, and then the woman turned to you, bright-eyed, with a disarming smile. "Richard! It's so nice to finally meet you."

Now that she was standing at her full height, you noticed she was only a hair's width taller than you. You thought it almost superhuman how much larger she had seemed a moment. You were looking at her eyes when she pulled you into a smothering hug. On instinct, you hugged her back.

"We talk about you a lot, your father and I. You're very popular at the lab" she said.

"The lab?" you asked.

Father never made mention of his work, and neither did your mother talk about it, you grabbed onto the sliver of a clue and prepared to dig further.

"I never—" you were interrupted. "Richard, dear, please." Your mother used that tone which told you any issues you had were to be discussed later. "We should get going, Ilse."

>>Roll 1d100

Rolled 92 (1d100)

>>6345661
I'm rolling for more hugs, right? Right?

>>6345662
More like, how well can the government cover this whole incident up.

Rolled 27 (1d100)

>>6345661

File: ilse.png (742 KB, 553x937)

742 KB PNG

10000 hours refining an ai prompt

Interlude

John Sinclair was tired. The kind of tiredness that settled into a body and never left. He took a look at a small mirror by his desk: a habit he'd acquired during his flyboy days in the Pacific. It grounded him to reality, and now, looking at himself, he couldn't help but notice the bags under his eyes and the fact that his bags seemed to be developing bags of their own. He resisted the urge to rub his eyes and instead stood up to pace around his room.

He heard the dying groans of the ventilation systems and knew they had malfunctioned. He wagered it would be a few hours before the techs would have it up and running again so he loosened his tie and flung off his uniform jacket.

There was a knock at his door and in stepped the young Lieutenant Carver. "Sir." Carver held out a dossier, a standard manila folder, thicker than John would have liked. HELEN, the tab read.

"What's she done now?"

Carver opened his mouth to answer, but John waved him away. "Never mind, I'll deal with this later. You can go."

John set the folder aside. The door closed and he was again alone with the thoughts he'd been avoiding since the reports regarding his son came in; Richard wasn't supposed to manifest for another two years. Maximilian's models and his team of white coats had been explicit—expected genesis at sixteen, plus or minus six months. The old man had been so certain. They'd planned—he had planned around that certainty. There were timelines and projects and expectations with that assumption in mind. John was wrong to believe he had room to breathe; just like in the war, the world loved to throw curveballs.

The intercom on his desk crackled. "Dr. Maximilian on line two, Colonel." His secretary's voice betrayed nothing behind her professionalism.

John picked up the receiver. "Doctor."

"Colonel Sinclair." The accent had softened over the decades but it had never fully disappeared—he still carried those old Bavarian consonants, and his old aristocratic formality that oscillated between respect or mockery depending on the man's mood. "I have just finished reviewing the field report from this evening. Fascinating, truly fascinating."

"Yes," John said flatly.

"The early onset suggests a more robust expression than we initially projected. The boy will certainly exceed our baseline estimates by a considerable margin. This is excellent news for the program."

John's jaw tensed. "The boy is my son."

Maximilian paused. He shifted his tone by the smallest degree to something reminiscent of warmth: the old scientist's small concession to the moment. "Of course. I do not mean to diminish the personal complexities. But you must understand, Colonel, this development, while unexpected, is ultimately fortuitous. And there is the committee, of course. I believe they will be pleased. I would like it if you passed along my wishes for additional funds—to capitalize on this moment."

John let the doctor go on while he listened silently.

"Your son, he must be examined, of course. We need a comprehensive study of his status. The whole nine yards, as you Americans say." A dry sound that might have been a chuckle came forth from the doctor. "Not here, of course. This facility is much too dreary for a young boy; it would not be conducive to healthy development. We must think of his wellbeing." The word wellbeing sounded strange in Maximilian's mouth. Like he was merely borrowing it for show.

"Don't pester me with your recommendations, Maximilian." John forced himself to unclench his jaw. "And your faux concern is unbecoming. Update me on the operationality of the grounds."

A pause—and a smattering of paper being riffled through. "Ah, of course. Rembrook is undergoing renovations. The Maryland facility has a full cohort and cannot accept new subjects until the spring. That leaves two options." The doctor's tone shifted into something like a sales pitch. "The upstate campus in the Adirondacks. It is isolated, quite remote, but the grounds are beautiful. I believe there is an advantage to residing near such nature. If not there, then there is the North Shore facility, on Long Island. I know the committee would welcome that. The grounds present itself as a small private boarding school. Quite unremarkable at first glance, but it has state-of-the-art subterranean levels."

John knew what was coming.

"My recommendation," Maximilian continued.

John cut him off. "Should I need a recommendation, I shall ask for one."

Silence on the line. John could almost imagine the calculations running through the doctor's mind—whether to push back, whether this battle was worth the cost.

"As you wish," Maximilian said finally. "Whatever your choice, Colonel, I will make the arrangements. I trust you to update Ilse. I hear she has gone and fetched them."

"I'll handle the family logistics."

"Of course. Give my regards to your wife."

John set down the phone and leaned back. The office was quiet, buried in the earth. The HELEN dossier sat on his desk, waiting. John reached for it, then stopped. Tomorrow. Everything else could wait until tomorrow.

>>Adirondacks
>>North Shore

>>6346072
>>Adirondacks

>>6346072
>>Adirondacks

>>6346072
>>North Shore

>>6346072
>>Adirondacks

Vote Closed

oh boy I can't wait... private "school" innawoods?

I just caught up. I hope this quest isn't dead! It's getting pretty interesting.

Apologies for the radio silence, holiday season is hectic at work and at home. Just an announcement that the quest will resume after the 26th.

>>6349136
Nice! Merry Christmas, QM.

>>6346072
Your trip had taken you deep into the night time, you were in the middle of nowhere, on a lonely road with little to do and even less to see; the hazy outline of trees and the jagged silhouette of mountains acted as a sort of backdrop. You'd been staring at it for the past several hours and you now qualified as being one foot in the grave: the cause–boredom.

Even Ilse's spirits had dwindled. Her eyes no longer wandered from the road, talk was sparse, and when she did talk, her words were curt and clipped, mostly to badger you about stopping the tapping of your fingers or the rocking of your leg; and of course her words were unaccompanied by that bright smile of hers.

Only your mother was spared the journey's present miseries. She was asleep, her body was spread out across the backseat, with her arms serving as pillows. She looked to be in place of tranquillity– a mercy, considering how vexing she had been at the start of the journey: fretting over you, dodging your questions, and stewing in awkward silence. Still, you understood that she loved you, and that all her actions–however strang--were borne out of that fact.

If only she possessed the wherewithal to see that whatever she was keeping from you was sure to be uncovered sooner rather than later.

You tried turning to Ilse–who seemed to know what was what, but your mother put a lid on that. But not before you spotted a shred of hesitation in Ilse’s expression–she knew something-- and she wanted to say something; she just needed a little more nudging. Your mother had been asleep a good hour or so, and with no signs of waking. You would not be getting another opportunity like this anytime soon.

You faced the window, you didn’t want Ilse looking at your expression.

“Hey Ilse, can you finally tell me why all this is happening?

Leather creaked, you saw her reflection through the window, a quick glance paired with a deep intake and exhale of breath. She was thinking..

>Bo3 1d100 [DC: 50, 75, 95]

Rolled 36 (1d100)

>>6351505

Rolled 99 (1d100)

>>6351505

File: IMG_5040.jpg (137 KB, 1125x1096)

137 KB JPG

>>6351526
100 would’ve been nice.

Rolled 36 (1d100)

>>6351505

Alright, Ilse spills the beans, she has no talent for secrets, is that why she's your minder? Who knows.

>>6351538
maybe she isn't gruntled enough

>>6351526
Based.

>>6351538
Little superkid 2cute. Who could lie to a face like ours?

>>6351527
>100
>Ilse spills beans AND spaghetti

Testing out 3d person POV

>>6351505
Lying was wholly unnatural to Ilse. The few times she was forced to, a nauseating zest would perch itself atop her tongue, right besides the lie, ready to slide down her throat the moment the words left her mouth. A physical handicap she had never learned to overcome.

For much of the journey, Violet had spared her from it. The woman possessed a talent for deflection, cutting down Richard's inquiries before they could turn fully in her direction. But Violet had fallen asleep some miles back and had stayed that way, and in her absence Ilse had felt the familiar nervousness creeping in. It manifested in dwindling chatter and a statuesque rigidity. She knew that Richard had noticed—had formed some notion that the journey was wearing on her. And it was, but not for the reasons it wore on him.

Her grumbling about his habits—his drumming fingers and oscillating knees—weren’t the result of any annoyance; rather, they were attempts to dislodge any ideas Richard might have about asking questions.

Clearly, her attempts at dissuasion had failed. And now he was asking questions. Or rather asking a single question but it might as well have been a hundred, for all the disparate answers that would need to be stitched together to satisfy it.

Unable to tolerate the silence any longer Ilse swallowed, she spoke in a whisper. "Richard, you're special. You know that right?"

Richard paused at the statement wrapped within a question. She watched him weigh the claim against some internal measure of himself before nodding. "Because I'm smart...?" he said, uncertain, curious to see if he was correct.

He doesn't know anything, Ilse thought

In the absence of a response Richard’s conviction in his answer seemed to grow less certain. His brow creased, he juggled possibilities, trying to determine whether the kind of special she meant was the same kind he was thinking of.

Ilse couldn't let this go on. Direct truth was the only avenue forward. “You’re special because you have powers. Richard, the accident, you caused it.” she whispered, treating the words like a fragile secret

Richard blinked owlishly. "What?" Almost immediately he retreated from her, hurt, as if he was the casualty to a cruel joke, but before he could voice his sudden and bitter indignation the car swerved right, rolling over asphalt and dirt as Ilse brought it to a halt near a wide clearing.

Ilse reached out to clasp his arm, squeezing once, and certain she held his attention, she indulged in a showman’s pause before snapping her fingers. There was no spark, striker or match, yet a flame bloomed atop her index finger; dancing its way to the center of her palm.

Richard's eyes darted to the window, the light reflected clearly. Astonishment erased his previous indignation.

“Take it,” Ilse said, extending her hand.

Richard's arm rose of its own accord. A pre-historic instinct warned him that fire was dangerous. Another part compelled him forward, like the first man reaching for Prometheus’ gift, he couldn't help himself.

The flame, as if sentient, didn't wait. It leapt from Ilse’s hand to his own. There was an involuntary flinch on Richard's part, he half expected to be burnt, but the pain never arose. He flexed his fingers before deciding to abruptly wave his hand, the fire clung to him in spite of his jerky movements

“Try to blow it out,” Ilse challenged softly.

Richard gathered air and released a forceful puff. The flame guttered before being whittled down to a few errant embers. But the moment his stamina failed, the fire sparked back to life.

Richard stared at the flame, forced to re-evaluate the foundational laws of his reality. This wasn’t something that happened. People didn't summon fire from the ether. Things like this that occurred in films, cartoons, comics– not in the passenger seat of a car.

Ilse read the confusion in his eyes. She leaned in; he could see the flame reflected in her pupils. “You can do this too Richard. Close your eyes. I want you to imagine something that makes you angry. Something you want to punch.”

Richard squeezed his eyes shut, a face swam up from the dark. “Freddie,” he mumbled.

“Good. Now close your fist. Clench it. Hard,” Ilse coached. “Like you’re trying to crush that anger into dust. Until it hurts.”

Richard obeyed, he willed every drop of disdain and rage into his fist until he felt a bubbling heat in his chest.

Ilse’s hand clamped his forearm in a vice grip. “Open your eyes, Richard. Let go of the feeling, but keep your hand steady. No sudden movements.”

He popped his eyes open and gasped.

He saw why Ilse was holding him so tightly.. His arm was a roaring sleeve of fire. He took a second to marvel at it. “You set fire to my arm?” Richard whispered, horrified and thrilled.

“No. You set fire to your own arm. I just kept you from torching my car. Now, put it out.”

Richard assumed that whatever power the fire was imbued with had been retracted. He blew, but the flames simply bent stubbornly, refusing to die.

“Not like that, silly,” Ilse said. “Think of the flame as an extension of your will. You tell it what to do. Let it know what you want and it will listen.” She tapped his temple. “Closing your eyes helps.”

He shut his eyes and directed his thoughts inward. Go away. Extinguish Disappear he repeated until his hand turned a touch colder and he knew even before he opened his eyes that the fire was gone. On impulse, Richard leapt forward and wrapped Ilse in a clumsy hug. Who, What, When, and Where no longer mattered, who cared about such stupid questions like those when he could literally summon fire. He pulled back and instantly sought the feeling again. He found the knack for it almost instantly, he snapped a finger—fwoosh—a wisp of flame appeared. He clenched a fist—flash. His fingers lit up one by one like the votive candle at church. Then, a darker, more intrusive thought took hold. What else could he do? Richard took a deep breath and exhaled: letting out a stream of fire from his lips

Smack!

The sting was sharp and immediate. The fire vanished instantly. Ilse had smacked him across the ear, eyes filled with genuine alarm.

“Ow!” Richard rubbed his ear, he saw the anger in her eyes and surrendered. “Okay, I deserved that.”

“You got the knack for it, clearly,” Ilse said, her chest heaving. “But promise me you will not do that while I am driving. I don't want to die in a fiery wreck tonight.” She held out her hand in a formal offer. “Tomorrow, I can show you a few more tricks. Only if you behave.”

Richard giddily took her hand, “deal,” he said, and sat back as the car pulled back onto the road. He resisted the urge to snap his fingers, in the end settling for folding them across his chest and imagining tomorrow.

>>Interlude....A man crossed the border, a guard dies, a beatdowm red truck pulls into the only motel in town. Three people could have seen him arrive, only one does.

>Vitcory Lap: Tommy Aldrich. Hometown hero, golden boy jock. Tonight he's on top of the world, tonight for the first time he feels afraid.

>Peter Koeg: Loner, and invisible. He's avoiding his drunk father. A knack for people watching, he knows the man in red didn't check in.

>New Arrival: Margot Vance, a reader and a dreamer. Her mother's sleeping on the bed, she can', she's too nervous for a fresh start. She looks out the window and and he looks back and smiles.

Damm didn't meant to put that first part in green text. That is not a voting option. Just a little blurb to set the stage for the interlude POV.

I just realized the previous post had really bad wording, I think basically told you guys not to vote lol. But I do want some votes, the following is a short Interlude introduction and the options for the Interlude POV.

A man crosses the border, a gaurd dies, a beatdowm red truck arrives in the only motel in town.

Select Interlude POV

>Victory Lap: Tommy Aldrich. Hometown hero, golden boy jock. Tonight he's on top of the world, tonight for the first time he feels afraid.

>Peter Koeg: Loner, and invisible. He's avoiding his drunk father. A knack for people watching, he knows the man in red didn't check in.

>New Arrival: Margot Vance, a reader and a dreamer. Her mother's sleeping on the bed, she can', she's too nervous for a fresh start. She looks out the window and and he looks back and smiles.

>>6352707
>New Arrival: Margot Vance, a reader and a dreamer. Her mother's sleeping on the bed, she can', she's too nervous for a fresh start. She looks out the window and and he looks back and smiles.

>>6352707
>New Arrival: Margot Vance, a reader and a dreamer. Her mother's sleeping on the bed, she can', she's too nervous for a fresh start. She looks out the window and and he looks back and smiles.

>>6352707

>Peter Koeg: Loner, and invisible. He's avoiding his drunk father. A knack for people watching, he knows the man in red didn't check in.

>>6352707
>Peter Koeg: Loner, and invisible. He's avoiding his drunk father. A knack for people watching, he knows the man in red didn't check in.

Vote closes at 10 EST AM, 31st. Random dice roll will be used if the tie is still ongoing.

>>6352707
>Victory Lap: Tommy Aldrich. Hometown hero, golden boy jock. Tonight he's on top of the world, tonight for the first time he feels afraid.

Rolled 1 (1d2)

[b]Vote Closed[/b]

1=New Arrival
2=Peter Koeg

Deep in the bosom of the Adirondacks sat the town of Serenity. Originating in the 19th century as merely one of a hundred independent logging camps—nothing but a band of men with calloused hands and ambition. They harvested White Pine and Spruce, and found eager customers in the British who had long ago exhausted their own forests and were forever in search of more. The men grew rich and attracted even more men, they built a lumber mill, and from the timber they felled, they raised the walls of their homes. Little by little the town began to grow.

Eventually, when a curious doctor down in Saranac proclaimed the thin, crisp mountain air to be a balm for the "white plague," the region transformed. Tuberculosis sanitariums and cure cottages sprouted all along the region, drawing a pilgrimage of desperate patients seeking some reprieve from their illness. Serenity, which sat perched at an elevation just a tad higher than its neighbors, became a favored destination. The crown jewel of this era was the Von Haldern Sanitarium complex, an expansive array of wide porched cottages and medical practices. But time is a river that refuses to freeze. The golden yesteryears have faded. All that's left of the logging industry are old stumps and abandoned lumber mills, while the march of human progress has rendered the sanitariums obsolete.

The families that remained sent their men to work in distant places, or else submitted themselves to menial labor in the nearby region. The town has been relegated to a niche curiosity for those fleeing the city: woodsmen, hunters, amateur historians, and the travelers who indulge in winter sports. Everyone arrived with a departure time in mind.

Keeping all that in mind, it was a curious event for the residents of Serenity when the mother and daughter pair of Rebecca and Margot Vance arrived in town to stay. The gossip mongers latched onto a rumor that she was escaping a wrathful husband, though they were torn between whether she was the offender or the offended. All this talk was kept to the chest however, no one wanting to seem unwelcoming to the first newcomers in a long time. They stayed lodged in the Redhorn Motel, The only establishment of its kind that remained, the rest having gone out of business long ago. It persisted half as a keepsake from the bygone years and half a necessity, serving as a pit stop for the occasional traveler passing along and for the odd drunk fleeing an irate spouse. There the pair waited while a moving truck from Plattsburgh arrived with their belongings.

Margot for the most part indulged in the few books she carried in her travel bag, when she wasn't reading she was writing down story ideas as they came. Early on she had tried exploring the town, walking around what constituted the town center and finding it to be drab in comparison to her childhood home of Plattsburgh, and in her honest opinion Plattsburgh was sufficiently drab, especially in comparison to an energetic city like New York. She decided there was nothing worth exploring and she wondered whether her weekly visits down to her aunt in the city would still occur, they used to be the highlight of her week and she would be loath to lose them because her mother and father split up.

On occasion she'd spot a group of teenagers mounted on their bikes outside the motel–not in the parking lot–but riding along the street, always led by a blond boy in a letterman jacket, she imagined them heading towards some local hiding spot or on an adventure. Her mother would look up from her book and tell her to go out and make their acquaintance, but each day they drove by at differing hours and Margot decided she wasn't going to sit by the window like a distressed damsel, nor was she going to spend all day outside with her thumbs out like some kind of hitchhiker; she would stay inside and wait. Her mother wasn't one to stay idle, she spent the week making acquaintances and perhaps even friends of the town's women. Whatever speculation swirled seemed to have been put to rest and calls for her company grew more common throughout the week.

It was at the tail end of said week, a day before the movers were set to arrive that something peculiar happened. She and her mother woke up to find a beat up Ford pickup truck parked right next to their car. It was rusted and aged, looking like it belonged on a farm from before the war, there was momentary wonder about who would drive a rustbucket like that in--even in these parts; Her mother was leaving on a social call and called out goodbye, she dismissed her useless musings and kissed her goodbye, telling her to have fun before she sat back in bed and for the second time this week opened up her copy of "The King of Elfland's Daughter".

Margot usually read with the curtains open, she loved to read in natural light but today something felt off, the world seemed a bit duller, and there was something ugly and off-putting about the old car outside her window, its rusted bulbous nose the color of burnt copper seemed to Margot the definition of unsightly, and if the driver of the car owned it for any reason other than necessity or nostalgic value, she would take him for a tasteless boor. Tired of dedicating so much time on a thing, she stood up and snapped the curtains shut. She turned on the lights and engrossed herself in Alveric's quest for a bride.

Margot lost track of time and at some point fell fell asleep. She woke up to a book on her chest and the night wind pushing against the window. Her mother was in the bed next to her, having arrived while she was sleeping. She checked the old clock by the wall- 10pm- it was late but not so late that she could easily fall asleep again, she would have an hour or two with her lonesome self. Automatically she picked up her book and before she could decide on whether to turn on her lamp and finish the story or leave it for tomorrow a noise by the door drew her attention.

The unmistakable sound of a car door loudly closing. She stood up and crept to the curtains, she slid in a finger, lifting the fabric just slightly to peek. It was that car, a person dressed like a farmer got out of it, he was old, balding, and morbidly thin, his hair was unkempt, the edges fraying, his overalls were stained an ugly red and the only reason she could see all this was because his headlights were on.

The passenger's seat was occupied by a young man, a boy actually around her age, she didn't recognize him from anywhere, he was wearing normal clothes and looked to be in some discomfort. She must have stared a bit too long or pushed the curtain a bit too wide because the boy looked in her direction and locked eyes with her. His eyes grew wide and he looked almost like a frightened cat, his pupils expanded and painted over the white of his eye. He shook his head slightly and something in her arsenal of survival instinct spoke to her, like in the city; when her aunt would tell her to listen to her instincts at night, she let go of the curtain and stepped back, suddenly aware of every bit of noise she was making, the sound of breathing seeming too loud at that moment.

She was prepared to go to sleep and blame her overactive imagination when a knock came at her door. She froze, in the space spent agonizing between answering or ignoring it, another knock came, more annoyed, less polite than the first one. She rushed to her feet and shook her mom awake. Her mother’s initial anger gave way to concern when she read the worry in her eyes. Her mother's words were interrupted by a third savage thump. Her mother grabbed the nearest solid object she could find–an old glass ashtray– and approached the door.

Margot grabbed onto her mother, "Don't go" she whispered, "we should call the police."

"The room doesn't have a phone honey" her mother said, and Margot for the first time, took a real look around and cringed at having missed that detail. There was some crazed man outside and they had nothing to call help with.

The assault was getting more intense and the door was beginning to buckle to the point Margot thought it would come crashing down at any moment. A voice outside shouted, "Just apologize!" It didn't sound like a grown man's voice, it must have been the young man she saw in the passenger's seat; the banging against the door continued. "Don't open the door! Just apologize through the curtains, with the window closed!" Just apologize and don't open anything!" he repeated.

Margot stepped forward against her mothers protest. She slid open the curtains, the boy looked scared: for her, of her? She didn't know. She only knew someone trying to do you harm didn't give you advice. The man wasn't just old and thin, he had a ghastly ghoul-like visage, as if he held onto life by just the smallest of margins. He saw her by the window and broke from his frenzied trance, walking up to the glass separating them he leered at her and she wondered what was to stop him from smashing the window in rage?

She gave a mouse-like squeak, "I'm sorry." She scanned the man's face for any sign of acceptance but he glared at her with his malevolent eyes and mouthed something inaudible. His lips were torn and he was missing a number of teeth, the man noticed where her attention was and snarled. He raised his arms, as if to smash the window.

Terror seized Margot, she turned away, cowering and screaming in a single breath "I'M SORRY!" She yelled, infected with dread and panic. A few seconds passed, there was no sound of glass shattering, just her mother's arms pulling her away. The man stood smiling at her from the window, as if he'd won some great victory by driving her to tears. The boy stood behind the man, looking resigned but in some ways satisfied with himself. Good luck, Margot thought she saw him form the words silently. The man turned and the boy followed. They drove onto the road, in the direction of the mountains. She tried closing her eyes, wanting to forget, but only saw his face. She cried into the arms of her mother.

>>Roll 1d100 Bo3 Police Response
>>Roll 1d100 Bo3 ??? Response

I am back, I was incapacitated for a bit due to illness but I am much better now. After these rolls we will rejoin our main cast.

Rolled 38 (1d100)

>>6356597
Glad to see you back, QM! Rolling for the fuzz.

Rolled 52 (1d100)

>>6356597

Rolled 57 (1d100)

>>6356597

Midling reaction from the cops: 57

In the interest of speed, feel free to roll again to those that have already done so. Need 3 more.

Rolled 37 (1d100)

>>6356768

Rolled 12 (1d100)

>>6356768

Rolled 91 (1d100)

>>6356768

Alright Cops 57. And the ??? got 91.

You didn't expect to be woken and find a pair of police cars flashing their cruise lights in the middle of a run down motel’s parking lot. There was a single lit room, its door agape with two officers standing right outside. One of which, at the sight of your car, motioned for it to drive in and park a few spaces to the left.

Ilse followed his orders and brought the car to stop. As the officer walked over she nudged you to lower the window. He came by the passengers side and leaned forward with a hand near his holster. He was in his 40s, equipped with a burly pair of arms and a razor sharp jawline that combined to give a bellicose air to him, though he relaxed at the sight of a woman at the wheel and a boy in the passenger seat.

“It's mighty late to be traveling round these parts.” He glanced back to the door where a raven haired woman had come out to talk to the remaining deputy. “We had a violent incident and speaking truthfully the culprit is most likely out on the road.”

Ilse gave him an assuaging smile. “I wouldn't worry about that officer.” From under her seat she revealed a metal box, opening it to showcase a sleek silver pistol and a slew of papers which she took and held out for the officer to inspect.

He read through the pages before finally looking up and handing them back. “Well Ms Haldern, permits for every county in the state, even New York City.” He was unable to hide his wonderment. “I won't deny that I'm curious as to how a civilian has more permits than a Sheriff, but right now I've got my hands full. If you're traveling any further north than Serenity, I advise you not to.”

“I never caught your name, Sheriff…?”

“Sheriff McDaniels.”

“Like I said Sheriff McDaniels, you don’t need to worry, neither for our safety on the road or for our destination. We are actually headed for Serenity, we’ll be staying there for some time.”

“Huh, tourists?”

Ilse shook her head. “I've been before, we're staying at my old family home.”

There was something the Sheriff wanted to say. Perhaps to clarify the fact her name sounded familiar to him, but he refrained and dipped his hat. “In that case, I’ll get out of your hair. Have a good night and get there safely.” With that he turned around.

“Roll up the window.” Ilse told you.

But a spark of spontaneity flared up and instead of listening you called out to the Sheriff. “Sheriff McDaniels! What happened?” You resisted the urge to point.

The Sheriff looked back, wondering where a kid got the nerve to ask that kind of question, and if he should indulge you. He exchanged a split second look with Ilse, and with pursed lips came back to the car. “A man tried to break into the motel room, he had signs of blood on his clothing and was dragging along a minor. So you see kid, this is serious stuff, a bad man is out there. Make sure you protect the ladies.”

Curiosity satisfied, you gave him your most fervent “of course.”

You rolled up the windows, the engine was rumbling and the tires were beginning to spin when you looked over to the room. You thought about your accident, how you had someone to help you. And you wondered if the woman and the girl that stood next to her had people looking out for them.

Ilse could sense something brewing in your thoughts, she gave you a look, daring you to do something capricious.

>We should help them
>Nevermind

>>6358030
>We should help them

>>6358030
>We should help them

>>6358030
This dead?

>>6360870
I sure hope not...

Quest isn't dead, just my body's energy levels. Busy with work, long story short I have a decent sized update waiting to be edited before I can post it. Stay tuned later tonight or tomorrow morning.

>>6360896
Looking forward to it, QM!

>>6360896
Glad to hear it, this looks really good.

>>6358030
"We should help them." You said.

Ilse cradled her head. "Kid, you're going to kill me." She let out a tired breath, "we can't help them."

“What do you mean? Of course we can!" You twisted onto your knees, half-bent over your seat to shake your mother back and forth.

A small struggle ensued. Ilse hissed for you to stop and grabbed your arm. You were surprised by how strong her grip was. You shouted loud and belligerently, and though she tried to smother you, you persisted.

Amidst that ruckus and chaos, your mother rose from her sleep with the bewildered expression of an unwilling awakener. You spewed a series of disjointed words at her. And impassioned as you were, it took several minutes of ‘what’ and 'wait’ from your mother before your words sorted themselves into something coherent. In the end, you had made clear that a mother and a girl--who you assumed to be her daughter–were in danger. Thus your mother promptly delivered a look in Ilse's direction that accepted no arguments.

Without another word Ilse got out of the car and walked toward the women and the police.

The conversation that transpired between the Sheriif, the woman, and Ilse, was a mystery. You only know that Ilse returned with the woman and the girl in tow. Your mother slid over to make room and they slipped into the backseat. She greeted them with a warm considerate smile. They smiled back but said little beyond a soft but sincere "thank you."

The car pulled away from the motel.The red and blue police lights shrank in the rearview mirror. The ride passed in silence. The small clearing of the parking lot once again gave way to the tall shadows of trees. You felt the road begin its serpentine ascent toward Serenity.

At one point you thought you saw a sign, or at least the dark figure resembling one. But the car moved too fast for you to be certain of anything. Still, after a certain period you began to see the boxy silhouettes of buildings, you knew then you'd entered a town. Serenity, most likely.

It seemed an ironic name, all things considered. Ilse had mentioned a family home. Did she grow up in Serenity? What did the town look like when it wasn't blanketed by darkness? Your questions would have to wait. The car held the fragile silence common to new meetings between strangers. A fragile silence no one wanted to disturb–certainly not you.

The car didn't stop anywhere near the entrance of the town, nor the center of it. It cut straight through without slowing. On instinct you found yourself counting the shapes you passed. After a certain point it seemed like you had passed by everything. And you were beginning to wonder if this was in fact not Serenity. The car appeared to be heading back into forest territory, but then, Ilse diverted from the main road and took a backroad up a hill. She drove up until the car arrived at a gate.

Squint all you might, the only information you could gather beyond the short reach of the headlights was that the grounds beyond stretched on forever. The night swallowed everything beyond the fence. Drizzle began to fall. Little beads struck the car: they slid down the windshield and traced liquid paths across every curved surface. You stared at the locked gate. A realization dawned. One that seemed to strike Ilse at the same moment, because she turned to you just as you turned to her.

Neither of you wanted to open that gate.

Ilse held out her fist enclosed by her opposite palm

You narrowed your eyes. From the backseat came a scoff and a small chitter of laughter. The first sound either of your new passengers had made since their ‘thank you’. Your mother looked on with narrowed eyes.

"Chicken?" Ilse prodded.

"Bring it on." You retorted.

You readied yourself for battle. Three. Two. One.

Your fingers spread into a V. Scissors.

You stared at Ilse's still-enclosed fist. Rock.

You inhaled deeply, you exhaled and let all those unspoken curses scatter into the air.

Ilse patted your back with mock sympathy. With a roguish smile she opened the glovebox and pressed an old rusty key into your palm. She sent you forth on your quest to wrestle with an ancient lock and a stubborn gate.

It's cold. That was your first thought upon opening the car door, the little droplets of rain only added to it. You ran. But when your ankle nearly twisted from some hidden roots, you decided to walk the rest of the distance.

The lock and chain had definitely seen better days. Rust clung to it, and every part of it was flaking. The metal had gone brittle. You fumbled with the key, inserting it one way and then flipping it the other side when the first refused to slide in. The key scraped its way through dust and corrosion. It groaned as you turned it.

Fuck, it was old.

No matter how much force you applied it wouldn't turn past a certain point. You angled your wrist and braced your grip, still nothing.

Was this a joke?

You looked back towards the car. Through the rain-streaked windshield you could see Ilse making a turning motion with her hands. A knowing smile sat on her face.

God this was embarrassing.

You put everything you had into it. Your fingers turned red, they began to hurt but you gritted your teeth and twisted harder.

You heard a metallic snap through the rainfall. You looked down. Half the key sat between your fingers. The other half remained lodged inside the lock, broken clean.

Dammit.

You gave the lock a frustrated yank.

>Roll 1d100 Bo3

Rolled 54 (1d100)

>>6360983

Rolled 41 (1d100)

>>6360983

Rolled 94 (1d100)

>>6360983