>>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.