16 minutes and 4 seconds after the completion of The Bloom, two things occurred simultaneously. First, the sun rose in the East, and arced across the entire sky, setting in the West after only 2 hours and 48 minutes. It stopped moving entirely at that time, and has not moved since. Regardless of where one was located on the surface of the Earth, the sun was seen to rise and set along this timeline. No matter how far one travels East or Westwards, post-Bloom, the sun remains exactly half set on the horizon from all perspectives.

Secondly, 4 out of 5 humans experienced a profound compulsion to walk deeper into the forest. Over the course of the 2 hours and 48 minutes during which the sun moved across the sky, any person that happened to be part of this 80% of the population wandered into the forest. Any that were impeded from doing so would fight to proceed. If fully restrained until the expiration of that 2 hour 48 minute period, the compulsion shifted towards vicious, rabid suicide by any available means.

None of those that experienced the compulsion and entered the woods during that period have ever been seen again. None returned. No trace of their passing could be found. They disappeared.

Many of the surviving 20% died in the ensuing chaos due to exposure, lack of medical care, violent looting, or even predation by wild animals.

In the 5 years since, in some places where the foliage is relatively less dense, and structural remains are relatively more habitable, groups of survivors have banded together to form communities and settlements. Beyond their borders, there are still many that survive in small, nomadic groups or as violent marauders... But no one goes alone. Any person alone in the forest for 5 hours 22 minutes and 8 seconds begins to hear Whispers. These voices drive the listener mad, eventually. Some manage to resist for days or weeks. Others crumble to derangement in minutes, becoming unpredictable, maybe violent, or merely running off into the forest to disappear like so many before. These poor unfortunates are referred to as Greens, and there is no treatment or cure for the condition.

The community you are a part of, Biltmore City, is one of the more populated, and thus powerful, regional hubs. The community is administrated by a Tribunal in tandem with a six member Council. There is hope here for a stable future.

>Cont'd

Welcome to After-Bloom! Welcome to new readers and welcome back to returning players from our first run. Very glad to have you with me to help tell this story!

The last thread may be up for a couple more weeks, but due to technical issues with the site, I decided to avoid launching another episode (that's the term I will use from here on out for each segment of the story) that might have been delayed. It was on page 8 (and maybe still is) when I made the call, and if posting remained hindered the last episode could have ended abruptly or broken in half, and I wouldn't want that.

Archive of our previous thread for newcomers or those looking to brush up: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/2026/6359994/
It isn't especially long, easy to review, and I think sets the stage well. Our final vote - on a couple of story beats to include in the next episode - had to go unresolved. As such, this thread will begin with an Oliver episode that includes:
>The medical staff would like some input as they work to treat a wounded officer and a comatose man rescued from a Painted Raider encampment
And
>A frightening encounter with something outside of his understanding

Rundown on the basics for this just joining us: This game will revolve around three characters that reside in Biltmore City. They are different in many ways but share two traits:

1) All three have seen things that even many other survivors are reluctant to believe. They know there are more than Whispers in the woods. There is a Presence out there. There are things in the forest that are neither human nor animal.

2) All three possess a secret which they have shared with no one else.

Actions will generally be resolved by the best of three 1d100 rolls with applicable modifiers. Nat 1's or 100's are considered Critical, and take precedence.

>Cont'd

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

The infirmary is a sterile chamber of clean steel instrumentation and white paneling. The low lighting from the lamps used for observing the prone, comatose figure on the examination table doesn't quite fill the room, leaving murky corners on the periphery that seem to contain something sinister. All attention now, however, is focused on him... Traumatized, unconscious, and helpless after his brush with the mysterious outside world.

"What's the stain on his lungs?" Wonders the statuesque woman standing over him. Her disposition is as sterile the room itself, but for a quiet apprehension just behind her eyes.

The X-ray monitor set next to where the patient lays shows a dark stain in the chest cavity, opaque, and spreading. You squint a little at the sight of it, wondering what that might mean...

The man observing him most closely also has a clinical sort of demeanor. "Whatever it is, it's blocking the X-ray." He remarks without taking his attention away from the patient. There's a pause, and the stain on the monitor continues to expand.

Brett pipes up then. "What happens now?"

At this, Ash sets down the partially melted pen he was still holding onto. He looks to the other man with them in deference instead of providing an answer to that question himself.

"You go back to work." Dallas says simply.

The scene cuts to an engine room, where Brett is at a cubicle with Parker overseeing him.

Your name is Oliver Thomas Mottley, and you're well into a viewing of the 1979 film Alien by Ridley Scott, which you've never seen, despite your deep fascination with all things space-related. The time is 9:46 PM EST, though the warm sunset glow indicates otherwise - tracking time and maintaining a strict schedule is crucial for the community of BC, for the sake of everyone's sanity as much as it is the success of the various labors that keep the whole place running. Weekly film screenings like this are an important part of that itinerary.

>Cont'd

You won the raffle last week, and so this showing was your choice. Like all screenings, it's being hosted in the courtyard of the stablehouse on the North section of the mansion, with all of the seating arranged to face that direction, where a massive canvas sheet hangs from the upper floors. You're towards the back, not far from the projector and sound manager's cart, sitting in a camping chair with a cold bottle of mead in hand. You've taken your feet out of your sandals and are enjoying the sensation of the slightly cool, smooth cobblestone beneath them. The dozens of other watchers all look ahead, some whispering to each other here and there, but no one is disruptive. Seems to be a good turnout, with maybe eighty or ninety of your neighbors in attendance.

You're startled suddenly by a hand on your shoulder, and nearly spill your mead, but jerking your head leftwards you relax. It's Leonora, your secret lover. She gives you a tense sort of smile, and her eyes narrow a little.

"Hey, you just get here?" You ask first, keeping your voice hushed and looking her over nervously. She's in olive green cargo pants and an open grey button down over a blue tank top, with her dark hair done up in a messy bun. It's the kind of utilitarian, comfortable outfit she usually wears - that most people around here tend to wear - but somehow, on her, the drab work clothes have a peculiar sex appeal. Your heart flutters even as you register something amiss in her energy.

She nods sort of curtly. "Yeah." Her voice also a whisper. Half a moment passes, and she sighs through her nose, squeezing your shoulder. "Come find me by the mag after breakfast, we need to talk." She says.

Five years of uninterrupted Summer have you nearly forgetting the cold, and still the dread that phrase fills you with is more frigid than a thousand Winters. We need to talk. You're new to romance, but even without the frame of reference you know that's never pleasant. "W-wh-uhm, uh, sure, sure. You ok?" You sort of stammer out, eyes darting to the sides. You see some movement off to your left, but the shrug that Leonora gives you snatches back the fullness of your gaze.

>Cont'd

"I'm fine, just tired. I gotta go, but I'll see ya then. Be a doll and bring mama a coffee." She replies, leaning in and whispering ever more quietly. She smirks a little at the end, but her eyes are half-lidded with that tiredness she mentions. It softens the blow, but you can't shake the icy anxiety of what it could be she wants to 'talk' about. Whatever it may be, Leonora let's go of your shoulder, letting her fingers linger for half a second longer than they perhaps need to on the surface of the light denim button down shirt you're wearing. She saunters off past you, not casting a glance backwards, and sits down next to a man just three tables ahead of you. While you can't see his face, the silhouette of his hair and sloped shoulders are identifiable as those of Doug Campbell.

Her husband.
Who is also the Mayor of Biltmore City.
Who does not know about the affair.

Briefly, her shadow joins with his where she leans in to kiss him on the cheek, forming one large dark shape on the horizon. Then she settles in her chair, and tilts her view up at the claustrophobic interior of the Nostromo.

Before you do the same, you're struck by the sensation of being watched. It's an instinctual rush in your blood, an atavistic sense that all people have, but which has felt especially potent since the Bloom. You've often wondered why that might be... A byproduct of no longer being surrounded by computer screens or vapid pop culture trash? A consequence of the forestation itself? Maybe a trauma response?

Whatever the source of your impulse is, you scan leftwards. Your eyes move quickly, drawn with the certainty of a magnet to the weird guy staring at you. He's leaning back against the wall just where it starts to curve towards the courtyard entrance. He's got sharp, handsome features and an athletic, broad-shouldered frame that his olive field jacket can't obscure. It's Roy Harris, of all people, living up to his reputation as a space cadet. When your attention settles on him, he turns away to look at an elderly woman nearby in a yellow jacket with lots of blue buttons. You can't help but continue to watch him .. and notice as he sidles closer to the lady and furtively withdraws something from his front pocket.

Something compels you to rise from your seat, and you begin moving in his direction, perhaps to confront him. You aren't really sure yet. But why was he looking at you like that? Does it have anything to do with Leonora needing to 'talk'? And what's in his hand?

>Cont'd

Passing three tables, it seems Roy doesn't have any spare awareness with which to notice your approach - he seems fixated on the woman in the jacket. Squinting, you think it's a knife he's holding... No, passing another table you can see know they're sewing scissors, small enough to hide in one's palm if needed, but he's worked his finger and thumb into them in anticipation of cutting something.

Concerned, you hasten your steps, squeezing past a cluster of older men and circling around a crowded table.

Then a figure steps into your path, eclipsing your view of the scissor-wielding weirdo entirely. Taking a half step back in order to prevent a collision, you meet his gaze. He looks to be around your age, just more muscular and fit, with a messy mane of brown hair and square shape to his face. He's in camo fatigue pants and a black mock-neck athletic shirt with the sleeves pulled up just behind his elbows. You've never held a conversation, but you recognize him from the security office, in fact you think you saw him playing cards in the barracks earlier today, briefly.

"Erh, hey, sorry, excuse me." You say politely, and peek around him to see Roy is leaned over a bit now, just behind where that woman is seated, but his back is facing you and you can't tell what it is he's up to.

The man in your path tilts his head to draw back your focus. "S'alright bud, was actually looking for you. Oliver, right? Wizard of Biltmore?" He asks with a brow quirked, and crosses his arms over his chest.

Your brow furrows, more in confusion now than the interruption. "That's me, but I'm not exactly the man behind the curtain or anything. Who are you? Do you need something, right now? It was my week to pick the film and it's not over for a while, so..." You reply.

>Cont'd

"Friends call me Hollywood, and I do need you. Something's wrong with the computer in the clinic. One of the nurses on this shift had to flake, she and her boo had a hookup on the outskirts and ended up rolling into some kinda fucked up poison ivy situation. So, they're both in treatment too, spreading shit real thin on account of the wounded we brought back earlier." He starts to explain. "Doctor Beck took the day off, anniversary of his girlfriend dying, and he's piss drunk, so the other nurse told me to find you instead. You mind checkin' it out real quick?"

The request deflates you a bit. With a community this small (relatively large though it may be), just a small disruption can go a long way. It's not unusual for you to be roped into these kinds of maintenance problems anyways, as you were involved with establishing and installing most of the estate's current systems in the first place. "Sure." You relent. You're unable to hide the mix of disappointment and irritation you have at needing to leave, though, and glance up to the screen. Then you try to look past Hollywood for another look at Roy, only to find that he's no longer there. Turning this way and that, you don't see him anywhere, now. You look back to Hollywood, squinting briefly, and then you sigh. A beat passes. "What do people that aren't your friends call you?" You inquire.

He smirks. "Oh, they call me, 'ow, ouch, fuck, please stop hurting me, please stop, please don't shoot me, shit, ow'. So why don't we head back to the basement to fix up those monitors before I put some dirt in your eye." Hollywood clarifies, giving you a sort of patronizing clap on the shoulder, and then steps past you and towards the archway leading into the courtyard. You follow in behind.

Both of you hang a right, up the short flight of stairs into the mansion, and then a left to take the stairs down into the basement. Only half-buried and exposed to the West, orange rays of light come in through windows, but much of the area is illuminated with oil lanterns and camping lamps. This part of the building makes up a little more than a third of its volume, and in its heyday was used to house servants and accommodate the mansion's daily needs, most especially the preparation of lavish dinner parties for the various guests. Presently, the various pantries and cellars are still useful for storage, though a few have been retrofitted into cozy dorms. The laundry rooms have been returned to their original purpose, though expanded somewhat to assist in some general cleaning and hygiene as well. The two main kitchens, however, have become BC's main medical hub, as they were by far the most suitable for that purpose.

>Cont'd

You follow Hollywood past the sauna - originally a room dedicated to a single, wall-sized rotisserie oven that you and Hector re-engineered - and in through the doors to the central clinic in the former master kitchen. The floor is smooth cement, and white tiles are set from its edge to halfway up the walls all around, with smooth red-orange plaster rising above there and to the ceiling. On the back wall, above the tile, large windows let in plenty of light from over the open flower fields beyond, which can't be seen from this angle; just the clear, golden sky occasionally punctuated by a particularly tall tree. Multiple large marble sinks are built right into the back and right walls, providing excellent wash basins and plenty of surfaces for medical instruments and supplies. There are five recovery beds here, jury-rigged out of milsurp cots and scrap steel, two of which are concealed by shower curtains on the left side of the room, one prominently decorated with the characters from Toy Story 2. The three others are plainly visible, with their curtains drawn back.

The left of the three is occupied by a skinny, middle aged man with his right arm and leg both in simple splints of fabric and wood. He's reading a book with his good hand, The Art of Loving by Erich Fromm, the cover says. To the right of him, in the middle but closer to the rightmost bed, is a huge Eastern-European looking guy with a bushy beard and bald head. A security officer you recognize like Hollywood, but don't know. He's propped up on some pillows to sit upright, with a blanket covering him from the waist down. He's shirtless, showing a couple of large wounds on his torso covered by gauze bandaging, as well as a tattoo of a severed wolf's head centered on his large, round belly. Looking closer, you notice a number of other scars, a couple of which seem to be from bullets, decorating his ribs, chest, and un-bandaged shoulder, as well as a half dozen other tattoos in a traditional or 'prison' style. His broad smile glints with a silver tooth as the young nurse next to him adjusts an IV bag hanging from a coat rack next to him.

On the final cot lays a stranger in a clean blue bathrobe. He's got dark, matted hair, with a scruffy, unkempt beard and mustache, and he seems to be asleep. You notice both his wrists are secured to the cot with handcuffs. A woman sits on a stool at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over her chest, but her back is to you at the moment. She's wearing a pair of black tactical pants which are tucked into her socks above the black combat boots on her feet, and a grey tank top, with a kukri sheathed along the small of her back in her belt, and a large revolver holstered on her hip.

>Cont'd

The nurse turns to notice you not long after you step into the room, taking an extra few moments to double check he liquid IV, probably saline. Then she exhales through puckered lips and shakes her head, stepping over to you and Hollywood. "Thanks, Ollie, real sorry to drag you from the movie but the med terminal is having issues. Started while I was checking the DB for Viktor's charts and got worse when I tried to set up a file for Mr. Asher over there." She greets you, and gestures to the bald man when she says Viktor, then to the sleeping man when she says Asher.

"Oh, no, it's ok. I can watch the movie later. Savannah, right? Been a while, but nice to see you. I'm glad to help." You say, recalling her from some of your past visits to the infirmary, mainly when helping to maintain hardware like the med terminal, the defibrillator, or the old (still finicky) EKG. She's older than you by ten or so years, you think, and is a little chubby, with a round face, round cheeks, and round glasses kept together with tape and hot glue, all framed by a shag of blonde hair that might look more at home on a punk rocker than the bookish nurse in front of you.

She smiles without opening her mouth, and nods, then jerks her head towards the pair of computer towers and three monitors clustered together on a finely carved wooden desk next to the back sink. The pair of you head over, and Hollywood splits off to chat up Viktor, whereupon they launch right into the typical shit-talk that characterizes a conversation between security officers.

Sitting down at the desk, you notice immediately that when the mouse moves across the middle monitor, there is stuttering and lag. Savannah points to the taskbar. "Go ahead and try to set a new file, last name Asher, first name Jackson." She instructs.

>Cont'd

When you attempt to do so, clicking on the patient database program, nearly fifty windows struggle to open at once, and the fan on one of the towers starts revving up, then the operating system crashes. "That's... Not great..." You mutter.

"Right. Idunno if it's just software or maybe a hardware problem, was hoping you could maybe sort it out, I'm a bit overwhelmed staying on top of all the patients as is." Savannah says with a frown. "I know you're real busy, too, like, aside from the movie or whatever. Anyways, thanks for coming down."

You lift the hand that isn't on the mouse to wave away her concerns like they're a fart in the air. "Don't mention it, like I said, glad to help, especially with you having to float so much. Why don't you fill me in a bit on what's going on while I start on this, ok?"

Savannah relaxes her shoulders a bit, nodding again. "Ok, I can do that."

Select TWO (2):

>So, what's the deal with this Asher guy? Did they pull him out of the woods? He looks like he's in a bad way.
>Is Henry around here? I heard he got hurt from Morty, but he wasn't totally sure how. Is he alright?
>I heard this was all Painted Raiders. It's been a while since they caused so much trouble. You're usually helping treat the victims when they act up, does this seem unusual to you?
>Hey, uh, maybe kind of a long shot, but... I was told earlier that Roy Harris was in one of the holding cells down the hall from here, see, but I saw him up at the courtyard during the screening. Since you've been down here all day, you wouldn't happen to know when about they let him loose? Or maybe why? Did he get a visitor after Henry left him?
>I know not all the windows down here give the best view of the Westside field, but... Well, idunno, have you noticed anything strange out there lately? Weird sounds or anything? I thought I saw something out there yesterday from the tower but it's hard to say
>Write-in

>>6400567
>So, what's the deal with this Asher guy? Did they pull him out of the woods? He looks like he's in a bad way.
>Hey, uh, maybe kind of a long shot, but... I was told earlier that Roy Harris was in one of the holding cells down the hall from here, see, but I saw him up at the courtyard during the screening. Since you've been down here all day, you wouldn't happen to know when about they let him loose? Or maybe why? Did he get a visitor after Henry left him?

Welcome back QM. I hope the break has you recharged, cause I’m ready to go!

>>6400559
>He's got sharp, handsome features and an athletic, broad-shouldered frame that his olive field jacket can't obscure.
I see we settled on Owen Wilson? Or maybe we caved to current zeitgeist and cast Ryan Gosling? kek

>>6400567
These two seem like they'd be top of mind:
>So, what's the deal with this Asher guy? Did they pull him out of the woods? He looks like he's in a bad way.
>Hey, uh, maybe kind of a long shot, but... I was told earlier that Roy Harris was in one of the holding cells down the hall from here, see, but I saw him up at the courtyard during the screening. Since you've been down here all day, you wouldn't happen to know when about they let him loose? Or maybe why? Did he get a visitor after Henry left him?

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>>6400613
>I hope the break has you recharged
I am def feeling rested, and I have some fresh ideas for this next phase of the story that have me itching to write.
>>6400648
Wilson Bethel, actually, and S2 of Born Again has me feeling even more confident about that decision. His look in Untamed is the closest to what I have in my mind, just maybe a bit more unkempt.

>>6400657
Forgot to put my hat back on (^:

>>6400567
>Hey, uh, maybe kind of a long shot, but... I was told earlier that Roy Harris was in one of the holding cells down the hall from here, see, but I saw him up at the courtyard during the screening. Since you've been down here all day, you wouldn't happen to know when about they let him loose? Or maybe why? Did he get a visitor after Henry left him?
>I heard this was all Painted Raiders. It's been a while since they caused so much trouble. You're usually helping treat the victims when they act up, does this seem unusual to you?

>>6400657
>Wilson Bethel
A little younger and leaner than I imagined Roy, but this seems within his dramatic range. Good shout!

>>6400567
>I know not all the windows down here give the best view of the Westside field, but... Well, idunno, have you noticed anything strange out there lately? Weird sounds or anything? I thought I saw something out there yesterday from the tower but it's hard to say
>Hey, uh, maybe kind of a long shot, but... I was told earlier that Roy Harris was in one of the holding cells down the hall from here, see, but I saw him up at the courtyard during the screening. Since you've been down here all day, you wouldn't happen to know when about they let him loose? Or maybe why? Did he get a visitor after Henry left him?

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Gonna post some pictures while I enjoy my lunch and maybe wait for another vote or two.

This is the courtyard for the stablehouse, and facing the direction where the projector screen would hang. That building houses the stable cafe, which in the setting has become BC's mess hall/cafeteria. Daisy lives upstairs with some of the other elderly/infirm residents.

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Facing the other direction to give a sense of scale/shape.

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One more. That left-hand side where the 'Bake Shop' is in the first picture is about where Roy was watching Oliver from.

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One of the basement pantries here, in setting it would look about the same, actually, albeit a bit more packed and maybe with some Pelican footlockers here and there, maybe some steamer trunks and plastic barrels too.

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This gymnasium is in the basement, and I imagine it would also be used for an infirmary and rehab area because of all the tile, though some of the equipment is probably repaired and back into use for the security officers.

Last one for now but they have a fucking pool down there, which for the time was insane. Would need to be completely drained, cleaned, and refilled every time it was used back in the day.

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Oops ok here we go (^:

>>6401001
>>6401000
>>6400999
>>6400993
>>6400991
Is Sloucho the most dedicated researcher of source material on all of /qst/? Signs point to yes.

>>6401150
The basic tour costs $80 @__@ kek
Worth the trip though!

>>6401150
Hey, usual advice is to write what you know. Sloucho appears to have extensive knowledge of trees and the Biltmore Estate (and possibly firearms), and somehow managed to unite them into a compelling story.

>>6401288
It was in no way a complaint.

>>6401165
It is appreciated, QM.

>>6401684
Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you were complaining.

I was just musing on how one can slam two unrelated things together to make a really unique bit of art.

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>>6401288
>have extensive knowledge of trees and the Biltmore Estate (and possibly firearms)
When I was writing full-time I found myself constantly going down rabbit-holes to help achieve authenticity, and used to buy reference books kind of compulsively. The 'howdunit' series in particular is fucking awesome for granularly understanding topics like how police departments function or how death/dying/decomposition occurs. Trees were something I did end up reading a lot about, and I went on a tangent reading up on dangerous trees/plants (pic related was me when they made a chunga palm into a plot element in Pluribus). Funny enough Biltmore is just because I used to live in Asheville, and guns are a mix of learning for writing and also being an occasional /k/ poster and gun owner - I often throw in guns I own or want while writing. Most /k/ anons are not very nice, though, so I am there less often. Have taught a bunch of friends how to shoot this year, though, which has been nice! Anyhow, thanks for the kind words, you're very right about going with what you know!!
>>6401684
Thanks bub, very glad ya'll have liked the pics! Took them for myself since there's nothing online, but figured it'd be helpful for anons that aren't as familiar with the area/history or that just aren't great visual thinkers.

Update soon, keep getting interrupted but it's coming along!

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In the fashion of any great movie computer whiz, you lace your fingers together and extend your arms before you to crack your knuckles, then settle in comfortably at the keyboard. You'll start with the operating system.

Savannah lingers nearby, leaning against the sink. "I can probably spare about fifteen minutes or so before I need to go check on the other room, maybe a bit longer." She says.

You nod without taking your eyes from the screen. "Gotcha. Appreciate it." You say, sifting through the task manager. "So that Asher guy, what's his deal? Looks in a bad way... They brought him back from the woods? He isn't one of the bandits is he?"

"Well, we aren't totally sure yet. Jackson Asher is the name we got from his buddy, Gus. But we haven't been able to wake him up yet. They were both being held captive at an outpost not far from here, and Asher was unconscious. Exhaustion from torture, malnourishment, dehydration. Allegedly they're both from the Augustine Commune in Georgia, part of a merchant caravan that fell apart until they got captured. The other guy is in a holding cell now that he's stable, and they did bring back one of the Painted Raiders, he's also in a holding cell." Savannah clarifies.

You glance behind you briefly, looking to the stranger dozing in the bed, and when you do, the woman watching over him turns her head to meet your gaze. She has a muted, apprehensive sort of look that actually reminds you of the Ripley character from the movie you'd just been watching. You've never spoken, but you know who she is - Captain Magda Pickett, one of the four commanding officers under Henry. You notice the necklace of conspicuously large fangs and claws around her neck, from this angle, the gruesome jewelry behind some of the rumors about her having killed a giant tiger after it ate her husband. She doesn't say anything, though, and then turns back to refocus on Jackson. Still, the eye contact gave you a particular chill and quickly has you returning your own attention to the desktop. "Got it... That sucks. Hope he bounces back soon." You quietly reply.

Savannah tilts her head and shrugs a little. "Seems pretty tough to me. Once he's up I can get a better idea of what's going on. I think he may have a respiratory infection from being waterboarded out of a dirty bucket, he's got a fever but it's started to come down with some meds." She adds.

>Cont'd

"Well, that's good at least." You type away now, investigating some of the background systems, but find that the tower is starting to rev up loudly again, and you even hear a slight rattle before there's another crash. Your mouth scrunches up to the side and your eyes narrow in annoyance. Still, you keep talking as you reboot. "Uh, speaking of holding cells... Well, look, this is maybe a reach but I know they aren't far from here, so I bet you've got a good idea of who is in and out of there especially if you've been on your own today." You begin, then shoot the nurse a quick look.

She quirks a brow, but nods. "Sure, I mean, more or less. I'm not exactly keeping tabs, and it can get pretty bustling down here around breakfast and dinner..." Savannah answers.

You enter a query and hit enter, then lean back in the chair and give her your full attention while a program loads. "Sure, I know, but... Well, long story short, earlier today I was talking to Commander Langdon, and he told me that after an incident with the hunting crew, they had put Roy Harris into a cell until they were able to investigate more. Funny thing is, I just saw him up at the courtyard, and he had a sketchy look about him. Normally a hold like that takes the better part of a day, sometimes a few. Did you know he was let out early, or maybe why? Or, idunno, did you notice if he got a visitor earlier?" You carefully inquire, not wanting to sound overly curious. Out of your periphery, you notice that your line of questioning has returned Captain Pickett's attention to your conversation. Hollywood and Viktor are working on a crossword puzzle in the back of a magazine together, paying you no mind, and the man with the broken limbs to your left is still engrossed in his book.

>Cont'd

Savannah looks up and to the side, as if the memories were floating around the ceiling of the room, crossing her arms. "Hmm, well, I don't pay that much attention, but let me think..." She trails off, and a pause hangs for a few moments. Then, she looks back to you, and goes on. "I can say that I remember him getting escorted down here, but I don't remember seeing him pass by to leave. I do think he got one visitor from someone outside of the security office, at least, now that you say it I bet that's what it was. Mayor Campbell was down earlier, I recognize his laugh, he was cutting up with a couple of the kitchen staff and I remember him saying he needed to go down to holding and talk to Reggie, I know he was on guard down there because he brought me a coffee after his shift. Roy would've been the only one there at the time. So maybe Campbell let him off the hook?" She shrugs again, unsure.

You'd heard the rumors before, of course, that Roy Harris was a detective before the Bloom. You mask it well enough, but your blood pressure spikes and a chill scuttles across your shoulders. Doug pays him a visit and suddenly he's out early... You can't know for sure. But you're not in your position by being an idiot. What else would they have to talk about? Why else would that nutcase be staring at you?

You resist the urge to throw up. "Oh, huh, tha-" You start to say, but Savannah cuts you off, suddenly continuing.

"Oh, right, someone else came through." She interjects, and you pause. "It was before the first security party got back with the wounded, but after the midday distro crew made their pantry run. I don't know who, though, I was busy applying lotion to the lovebirds over there." She goes on, smirking a little and gesturing to the drawn curtains with a little nod of her head. "They were whistling, I heard that, they were really good, too. Reggie thought it was me, when he brought me the coffee he'd asked where I learned how, so I guess he didn't see them either, but they must've been close to the cells, right? Maybe you know someone he's tight with that has some kinda whistling talent? I mean, as far as I know, Roy isn't tight with anybody, but I'm not exactly miss popular myself." She sort of lightly giggles at this, and raises a hand to wave dismissively.

>Cont'd

Suddenly, Captain Pickett is out of her chair, and both the nurse and yourself stop to watch her.

"Hollywood, yer on babysittin' duty. Stay here with Vik." She says, pulling a double-edged knife out of her boot. She holds it out to him by the blade. Cautiously, the younger officer takes a few steps closer to take it, and tucks it into his belt in the front. Then she points to the sleeping captive. "He wakes up, you tell'em keep his yap zipped. No talkin' til' I'm back, not for nobody, I don't trust him an' I ain't askin' I'm tellin'. You shut his crusty half-dead ass up if he so much as thinks bout' mouthin' off. I come back an' he's been tellin' tales, nurse busy's gonna need two more beds fer what's left of ya plus a bucket an' a mop." Her instructions are laid out with ironclad severity. No one else speaks at all. A beat passes, she grimaces, and then she turns, leaving quickly.

After the door closes behind her, the quiet pause lingers for another few seconds. Eventually, the wounded officer breaks the silence with a thick Balkan-sounding accent. "What in the fucking was that about?" Viktor wonders aloud, and he exchanges a look with Hollywood, and then turns to face you. You are sure you look just as confused and surprised as he does, and then you turn yourself, looking to Savannah, who is still gazing over to the door.

She seems a bit unsettled, but after a second feels your attention, looking at you, then glancing over to Viktor and Hollywood. "I uh... I don't know. She hasn't left his side, though I guess you knew that since you got in first. I guess she knows someone that can whistle?"

"Maybe." Hollywood says in a somber sort of tone. He moves slowly over to the chair she was in, and sits in it backwards, facing the door. "She... Well, she's been on edge today. I think something set her off in the woods. Happens to all of us."

>Cont'd

You take a deep breath, unnerved by her sudden departure and unsure of its meaning, while still entirely nauseated by the possible coordination of the Mayor you're cuckolding having had some kind of meeting - even releasing from confinement - with an ex-cop you're pretty sure is mentally ill. People are getting hurt in the woods. There's... that knife... The air is pregnant with the kind of unusual dread that you didn't even know could exist before the Bloom. It's sickening.

Nevertheless, this place needs you to keep the gears turning.

"Sav, can you bring me the toolbox from the side room there? Should be in the old china pantry, it's just got some basics. I need a screwdriver." You ask, standing up from your own chair and glaring down at the tower that's making all the noise when things go wrong.

Oliver is going to make a go of repairing the admin terminal. Seeing as he helped install it (and even helped cobble together the software it runs on) after reading a dozen or so textbooks on the relevant topics, he is highly suited to the task.

Roll 1d100+15, BO3

Rolled 90 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>6401893

>>6401893
>>6401911
Highly suited indeed

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Rolled 92 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>6401893
Let's see if we can go even further beyond...

>>6401918
*slow clap*
I've been bested

>>6401911
>>6401918
FUCKING KEK

Rolled 79 (1d100)

>>6401893
Aaand here’s the nat 1.

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When the toolbox is delivered, you pull out the top tray and fish around. It just happens to be your luck that there's a Ziploc bag in the bottom with a dozen thumb drives inside, all labeled with tape and markers - different programs and files for the computer system down here. While you were a big help in setting this up, and benefitted from your massive brain being able to crunch and retain the relevant information to be useful, you're a naturalist at heart and hadn't much background with code or computer electronics before the Bloom. The original, primary architect of BC's handful of crucial computer systems was Ted Latham, who unfortunately (albeit mercifully) passed in his bed during last year's flu outbreak. Seems that, before that happened, he had the foresight to organize these backups and storage devices for the inheritors of his hard work.

You find the screwdriver you need next, and begin your disassembly. "Alright Sav, can you do me one more favor? Last thing and I can let you go." You ask as you carefully place the screws together on the marble countertop.

"Sure, what's up?" She says, still seeming uneasy from Magda's abrupt exit.

"Pantry three has a shelving unit just for hardware. I'd like you to grab a roll of electrical tape, some copper wire, and see if there is a spare computer fan there, too, should be a little Tupperware with four or five of them, I think?" You say, all the while carefully turning the tower to give you a better view of its interior from where you've returned to the chair.

She gives you a thumbs up, and heads out the same door you came in by. Hollywood has pulled the chair from Jackson's bedside to Viktor's, and they are back to looking at the magazine. The Balkan groans. "Five across, erhh.. 'strips in a club'? Strips in a club... What the fucking."

Hollywood heaves a wistful sort of sigh behind you. "Y'know I only ever had one trip to a strip club? Went with a couple of guys I knew, Ray and Tweedy. T had just got cheated on... Honestly just made me fuckin' sad, man, all those wome-" He starts to say.

"Yes, yes, you are sensitive and also gay." Viktor grumbles. "Focus yo-HURKhnn! Fack! AHHGH you gay bastardous fag!" He groans in pain, earning a look over your shoulder to see that his companion had just given him a smack on the gash in his shoulder.

>Cont'd

Hollywood steps out of his reach, as smug as you've ever seen him. "First of all, I'm not gay, you big Bosnian bitch, but if I was, that would be fine. Maybe Oliver's gay! You could be hurting his feelings!" He waves a hand at you, and they both look in your direction.

You just shake your head.

"Well, maybe that guy's gay then, huh?" The younger man follows up, moving his arm to point at the patient with the broken limbs. He frowns, and also shakes his head, then returns to reading his book. Hollywood rolls his eyes. "Whatever, doesn't matter! Point is, I'm over here just trying to share my life with you, man, and you're so reactive when I try to be vulnerable, and-and it's, like, it's a real barrier to the kind of healthy homosocial intimacy we should be having as friends and brothers in arms, ok? You're always shutting me down when I try to be open, it's so damn lame! Just be cool dude!"

There's a pause. Then, as sudden and loud as thunder, Viktor is belching out a massive belly laugh. "BEHAHAHAHUHAUAGHAAGHAGHHEHE! Oohh, wugh-ugh, ahh... It is hurting to laugh. But you admit it! You say you want homosexual relations! It is ok my brother, I love you still! HUEHAHAHAHEHEH!"

"HOMO-SOCIAL! I SAI HOMO-RRGH IT'S NORMAL DUDE!" Hollywood attempts to protest over the laughing.

Now it's your turn to roll you eyes. "Hey! Both of you! Cut it out! Bacon!" You bark out as assertively as you can. That last word settles them both into a confused silence.

Viktor furrows his brow at you. "Bacon?"

"Strips on a club? Five letters?" You say back in the tone of a question. Then you turn back in your chair to face the computer. "Club sandwich. Strips of bacon."

With that, you leave them to the puzzle and resume your work. Fishing out one of the thumb drives, you plug it in. You realized the issue was just some corrupted files and maybe a little moisture damage pretty quickly, but thinking fast had given Savannah a chore to get her out of the room. You estimate that the shelf with the wire is half a foot beyond her reach which should buy you a little extra time even with the officer's distracting you.

>Cont'd

It definitely isn't good behavior, but you're under pressure, and may not get another window of time that puts you alone at the clinic's terminal so...

You download the medical files for Roy Harris onto the drive, and slip it into your pocket. Two can play at the game of investigation.

Then, you set yourself to cleaning up the files, and the fan, which is more than a little dusty and with a blade bent from getting caught on some loose hair. Easily straightened.

Savannah re-enters the room with the items you asked for just as you're holding a magnifying glass to some of the internals to double check for corrosion anywhere. She's followed by an older man, another security officer, whom you know a bit better than the two already here - Mortimer Conroy, of Mort for short. He is looking pretty tired, wearing paint-stained jeans kept up by a braided belt with a belt buckle that looks like a pack of Marlboro reds, a red Cookout T-shirt that's seen better days, and black and grey button down shirt over it that's open in the front, sleeves rolled up to his elbow. Above his door face, a Cabela's ballcap attempts to contain his messy, greasy hair. He's carrying the Tupperware with the rolls of wire and tape on top, and lazily scans the room with a certain disinterest upon stepping in. "Where's Magda?" He asks before anything else, but seemingly not to anyone in particular. He looks over to the other officers first.

Savannah speaks up, however. "Oh, she just left, like right before I did. She seemed concerned about something after we were talking about a guy being released from holding? It sounded like she'd be back, though, I think Henry assigned her to question the one on the far cot there, when he wakes up." She answers.

The old man grumbles under his breath, then turns his gaze on you, sauntering over to the computers. "Hey kid, they gotchu tinkerin' on your night to pick the movie? Tough break. You ain't missing out though, shitty old movie. Sequel's way better." He says. His half-lidded, half-bloodshot eyes, gaunt jowls, and generally disinterested demeanor reminds you of your grandmother's basset hound from when you were a little kid. He tightens his lips and exhales through his nose, looking around the room as if it would make Captain Pickett reappear.

>Cont'd

"What'd you need her for?" You ask, opening the Tupperware as you do just in case there is a better fan to use.

He slips his hands into his pockets, and leans on the sink just next to where you're working. "I don't remember who all owes who a drink by now, just know the boss was gonna go to the bar with us." He replies evenly. "Say Hollywood, you still game for a couple a' cold ones? Been a long day."

"No can do, Morty, the Captain said she'd stomp my shit if sleeping beauty woke up and started talking shit without her. Wants to transfer him to holding for questioning herself." The younger man answers, sounding sincerely regretful about it.

Mort naturally just seems to be frowning most of the time, just by the way his face is, but you notice that the one that comes across his face at the rejection seems to have real intent behind it. "Welp, suppose that's it for my evening plans... Say Ollie, you bout' through down here? Wanna join us at the bar, maybe put a handful a' hair on your chest?" He asks, shifting his attention to you.

You tilt your head either way as you think it over. "Uh, maybe, who's 'us', exactly?" You ask.

"Mmm, not too many, now. Fred from construction, Josie from distro, Tara and Henry, once he's done havin' his little pow-wow with Ritchie." He says. "Wish he'd have stayed down here for the night and just got some rest, but I ran into him before I saw Savvy over there strugglin' in the pantry, was just comin' down to rustle up the crew."

"Oh, yeah, how is Henry, haven't seen him since this morning but I heard he had to come down here to get looked at too, yeah? Nothing too bad, I hope." You look up to Mort, but then let yourself glance to Hollywood.

Savannah peeks out from behind the Pixar curtain at the other end of the room, where she's been checking on the other nurse and her boyfriend. "He's ok to move around. He only got shot once." She states matter of factly.

Your jaw drops a bit, and your heart races. "THEY SHOT HIM?!"

"Relax hun, just a twenty two. I mean, one of those little 'self-defense' rounds you see sometimes with the copper, but still, just winged him in the upper arm, some damage to his shoulder too, but nothing serious." She says, then ducks back behind the curtain.

>Cont'd

Typical Henry to take a bullet and then take a meeting afterwards. Though, you suppose, you've always known him to be exceptionally strong, and he certainly does seem to have a lot on his plate at the moment... It occurs to you that you haven't yet answered Mort's original question.

You turn back to the computer and think for a moment.

Select one:

>Agree to link up at the bar later, some socializing will be a good distraction with so much weighing on you. Seems like things were worse than you thought in the woods, and Henry might want to talk about it.
>Decline, you're curious as to what Pickett's exit could've been about... You have a bad sense around it, and want to track her down and ask. Henry trusts you, so maybe she will too.
>Decline, you intend to head back to your office to review Roy's medical records and maybe figure out what he's up to or if you could get some leverage, assuming he's investigating you for some reason.
>Decline, as nice as the bar would be, you're feeling bad for Savannah being alone down here, and while you aren't a medical expert, you are definitely qualified to help as a nurse. You'll hang around and help treat some of the patients, like Viktor, maybe run some food and meds down to Gus and the captured raider.
>Write-in

>>6402162
>Decline, you're curious as to what Pickett's exit could've been about... You have a bad sense around it, and want to track her down and ask. Henry trusts you, so maybe she will too.

>>6402162
>Decline, you intend to head back to your office to review Roy's medical records and maybe figure out what he's up to or if you could get some leverage, assuming he's investigating you for some reason.

Oliver the super hacker.

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Basement tunnel!
Not all of the house's underbelly is like this, but it probably gives some context for how it would be difficult for trees to grow through and/or demolish it all.

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Another pantry...

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And last one for now, the basement bowling alley, because a swimming pool wasnt ambitious enough

o__O

>>6402162
>Decline, you intend to head back to your office to review Roy's medical records and maybe figure out what he's up to or if you could get some leverage, assuming he's investigating you for some reason.

>>6402161
>Decline, you intend to head back to your office to review Roy's medical records and maybe figure out what he's up to or if you could get some leverage, assuming he's investigating you for some reason.
In and out of character, I think looking into Roy makes the most sense.

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The bookstore next to my office is kind of my second office, the owners are buddies, and I am walking in today to have my lunch + write and Tia Blake is playing over the speakers, after my having shown it to them recently.
Pure kino, I am in Writing Mode (^:

>>6402514
>in today to have my lunch
Hope you don't get any of the books dirty.
>Tia Blake is playing over the speakers, after my having shown it to them recently.
Playing Guilty gear so listening to that games soundtrack.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHyGBWFOU-0

>>6402526
The JRPG with anime/manga vibes with a top tier soundtrack that dominated my youth was Custom Robo
https://youtu.be/sbvvbtLiN2s?si=k76XiKKIwFUpkl7K
Hate how tempted I am, among many ideas, to run a Custom Robo quest........
And yet I shant B^)
Thanks for sharing anon, after another update or two I will probably consolidate the After-Bloom OST thus far.

>>6402529
>Custom Robo
Basedbasedbased. If I wasn't still looking forward to this and to Legend of Zuzo, I'd be hyping that idea the hell up.

I wanted this update out sooner, but it is turning into a pretty long one! Still chipping away though.
>>6403483
Premise: You play as the [Hero's Father], with your illegal Ray Legend you will form the Z Syndicate, recruiting powerful fighters, stealing advanced technology, and amassing influence in your secret lair in order to one day capture or defeat Rahu once and for all... Bounty hunters, other criminals, officers of the police squad, and rival robo fighters will all threaten your rise to power... But you and the Z Syndicate are DESTINED TO ONE DAY SAVE THE WORLD!
^^^spoilers for custom robo, thou has been warned^^^

Ok here we go meow

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"Uhm... It's tempting, but I think once I wrap up here there's some documentation I need to go over back in my office. Should probably double check fuel projections ahead of the Union visit tomorrow, too, now that I think about it." You finally say, turning your head to look up at the officer.

Mort's eyes somehow become even more half-lidded and tired when you decline, but he is able to give you a resigned nod all the same. "That's alright, son. If them papers drive you to drinkin', I expect we'll be at the mag for a while." With that, he pushes himself off the counter, and offers a half-hearted salute to his comrades on the way to the door. "I'll try not to have too much fun without ya'll." He says, and then takes his leave.

"Heh, since when does he know how to have fun?" Hollywood asides to the Bosnian in a smug tone.

Without missing a beat, Viktor lowers the magazine. "He knows that the first step is to get far away from you." He retorts, then snickers to himself a bit and raised the puzzle back up.

Hollywood leans way back in his seat to give his friend a sideways look, grinning. "Just your luck neither of us is going anywhere for a while, then, ain't it?" He says, then gets out of the chair and strolls closer over to Jackson, standing just next to his head. Arms crossed over his chest he stares down at the man's sickly face.

You aren't watching either of them for the moment, however, too busy tightening screws back into their proper place. While you're reorganizing the toolbox, you hear Hollywood pipe back up.

"Hey, Ollie, do you know your sign?" He asks.

You reply without looking behind you. "My...? I'm sorry, is that a security thing?"

"Your star sign? It's ok if you don't know it, I could tell you if you gimme your birthday, but I can guess it, too. You just need to answer three questions and I can nail it, like, ninety nine out of a hundred times, basically."

"Oh, astrology? No, no, I mean yes, I recall it, but you don't need to guess, I don't believe in that junk."

"Ah, that figures. Neither does the boss, though I can't say I get the reluctance, yaknow, I mean, like, look around... A jungle ate up the whole world and the sun stopped spinning. Dunno why it's so hard to believe in something like astrology after that."

>Cont'd

"Totally separate realms of phenomenon, however improbable the former is, it's still material, still readily observable. Also, the sun wasn't spinning, we were. Well, maybe we are, I haven't been able to tell yet, but according to principles of Newtonian physics, an abrupt halt to the Earth's rotation would have scoured the entire surface of the planet's crust due to sheer inertia." You answer, closing the clasp on the toolbox and turning your chair then, to make it easier to look back at Hollywood and give him your attention. You glance away only once, when Savannah re-emerges and heads over to a marble counter on the other side of the room, where she begins to deposit medicines and dried herbs from the cabinets above it into a large, stone mortar and pestle. You blink, looking back at the young security officer again. "Look, the climatological, ecological, and astronomical shifts that occurred during the Bloom are obviously unprecedented for much of recorded history, and do invite serious metaphysical questions for us to wrestle with. But, I find the context of history and discovery exceptionally grounding when I'm brought to contemplating it all, and that context tells me that we never really knew all that much about how anything works to begin with, for one. But even in our relative cluelessness about the nature of reality, we observed facts that boggle the mind as much as any of what's happened in the last five years." You lay it out for him rather clinically, but not for a lack of at least trying to seem friendly.

Hollywood doesn't appear far from genuinely dumbstruck at your assertion. "Sure if you go by, like, the Bible or Lord of The Rings or whatever, people wrote about crazy shit but that doesn't mean science ever backed any of that shit up. This?" He points to the windows that are beyond you and just above. "This bullshit is off the map, dude, way more than stars influencing our lives."

Your face scrunches a little for a second, the words are sour in your ears. You shake your head quickly, and respond. "Not entirely. Are you familiar with the carnian pluvial episode? Just shy of two hundred and fifty million years ago. Geological and archeological research suggests it rained for two million years uninterrupted. Two million years of raining. Really think about that. Makes five years of warm sunset seem like a gift by comparison, doesn't it? Imagine how people would've talked about it if it'd just rained everywhere on Earth for... Five years, back when the Bloom was still 'off the map', like you said. Would've lost their minds. Mass famine. Mass migration from natural disasters. Just a five year pluvial episode might've killed more people than... Whatever you'd call this. Mass verdancy incident?" You smirk, and shrug.

>Cont'd

"We might've misunderstood the discoveries we made indicating that kind of climatological event. Let's assume we got it right, though. Let's also assume that Newtonian physics were more immutable than they now seem to be, and that astrophysicists and astronomers had a fuller conception of outer space than it now seems they did. One might consider tidal disruption events inside of black holes, where we saw stars vertically stretched, and horizontally condensed; pulled like saltwater taffy. Gravity so intense it can stretch anything into a spaghetti noodle so thin and compressed until the atoms are separated into a kind of nothingness. An extreme of common, fundamental forces that is so profound, it seems difficult to conceive as being within the realm of possibility."

You stop speaking at this point, and just watch Hollywood where he stands. You notice that Savannah has stopped working on the drugs, the crippled man to your right is looking to you instead of his book, and Viktor has almost lost his grip on the magazine, watching you with rapt attention. No one else dares to fill the silence, however, and so after a few more seconds you continue. "What I mean to say is, the Bloom appears impossible to us because of how it defies expectations developed in the span of our species' limited experience. Recorded human history only spans five thousand years. That's zero point twenty five percent of the length of the carnian pluvial episode. Even with our restricted view of the universe, having observed phenomenon like that, it suggests a much stranger and improbable reality than most of us are able to properly comprehend. It frequently makes this whole Bloom business seem comparatively tame. Maybe it will last two million years. Maybe hundreds of millions of years after that, it will be referred to - almost patronizingly - as a mere 'episode'. For now, though... Well, I suppose we're too close to see the forest for the trees."

Your saying this makes Hollywood blink a bit, at a loss for one of his typical quips. The others in the room are likewise quiet. Viktor is contemplative, while the other two seem almost uncomfortable, in some small way.

"Anyways... I'm gonna head up." You rise from your seat in the awkward quiet. Standing a moment, you nod, and raise a hand to scratch at the back of your head, and neck. "Uhm, Savannah, you should be good to go over here. Glad I could lend a hand." Then you look to Hollywood and Viktor again. "Officers. See you around." You offer a small wave as you stride past and step into the hall.

>Cont'd

There are a few others down here, some from a distribution crew, a woman you recognize from the kitchen, and a couple of aimless looking scavengers. Rounding a corner, a security officer wearing a tactical vest and holding a pump action shotgun gives you a nod of acknowledgement as he strolls past, patrolling the corridors. You return the gesture with a small smile, continuing on your way. A tuxedo cat darts from a pantry right past you, though you avoid stepping on the poor thing, and bounds down the hallway, meeping and marping like a little muppet.

Climbing the stairs, your mind oscillates between various anxieties.

What does Leonora want to talk about tomorrow?
Why was Roy staring at you?
Did the Mayor really cut him loose early?
Did they make a deal?
Is that what Leonora wants to talk about?
Or does Roy know about what you saw yesterday? Or the tree you saw earlier today? The one with that carving... And the burls in the shape of BC's population...
The knife...

Turning down another hall, you brush by a pair of elderly men carrying duffel bags, and make your way over to the grand spiral staircase near the front of the mansion. The security officer stationed at the bottom is very tall, barrel-chested, with a Hawaiian shirt, camo cargo shorts, and a camo hat to match, hiking boots, and in his hands a kind of imposing looking submachine gun you can't easily identify, with multiple magazines attached to the utility belt he's got around his waist. He stares ahead like one of the old British royal guards, unphased by your looking him over and heading up the concrete steps.

When you finally approach your office, you notice there's someone leaning against the frame of the door, facing the other direction. In the dimly lit corridor, and with some sunlight ahead, the figure is a silhouette. A man, you can tell, a few inches taller than yourself and with sloping shoulders. Short greying hair, in grey cargo pants and an olive drab collared shirt. It's just the two of you in this part of the third floor at this hour.

>Cont'd

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"Hey, uh, ar-" You begin to say from ten or so feet away, but the man turns immediately, and you relax when he cuts you off.

"There the fuck you are! Jesus, pal, you ok?" He wonders, sounding more happy and relieved than anything else. He has a long, narrow face, with short, trim facial hair that's also greying, dark eyes, and wrinkles in his brow that suggest he's older than you know he is. It's Howard Jordan, formerly a chemistry professor at Warren Wilson, nearby. He's got a doctorate, but isn't conceited enough to want to be called a doctor, and is the husband of Kate. You remember talking to her this morning when you left her class, and then remember that you said you'd look out for them at the film screening. Despite the age difference, he is one of your closest friends, so it's little wonder he was looking for you.

You smile, and answer him. "Howie, hey, yeah, yeah I'm fine. Just got pulled down to the clinic, problems with the patient database." About a quarter of a beat passes. "Everything ok with you?" You tack on.

Howie quirks a brow. "Ok with me? I was just watching one of my favorite films ever with my wife in the courtyard of one of the last civilized bastions of humanity remaining on this big green marble. Only thing wrong was my buddy disappeared before the interlude they ran for bathroom breaks and snack refills." He eases his features into an even smile, and claps a hand on your shoulder when you close the rest of the distance. He gives you one deliberate squeeze before he lets go and crosses his arms. "You're so..."

"Helpful to the community?" You say in a rather unsure yet hopeful tone.

"No, kid, you're so fucking annoying sometimes. Could be a year before someone else picks Alien again. I'll probably have to weather four more showings of Pineapple Express between now and then." He smirks as he completes the thought.

>Cont'd

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You snicker a bit at that, rolling your eyes and pushing past the man to open the door into your office. Parmesan the cat appears from around the corner, trotting up to you both with her tail raised like a periscope. She trills a bit, sneaking a quick rub against your shin, and then dashes into your office.

"I'll make it up to you, I swear." You say, glancing back at him as you step further in, meandering vaguely towards your desk.

Howie stays in the threshold of the door, leaned against the frame. "Sure you will. How's about you have a bottle of wine or two with Kate and I over some cards, or chess, maybe? Seeing as my plans for entertainment got dashed by my tender concern for you."

You turn around to face him fully, hands in your pockets, but continue in the direction you were moving with a few slow, backwards steps, and gradually slow to a stop as you reapond. "Tonight like now? Uhm, well, I do have some documentation I need to take a look at, or, well, I need to read over it for my, uh, notes... Really I had some briefs that I was thinking of making amendments to, as well. I could... Well, maybe I could do a game or two of uno, I guess?" You say.

"You're not that busy, Ollie, don't bust my balls, here, please?" Howie shoots back. A beat passes. "Forget the briefs. You're overworked because you do all this extra bullshit. Why don't you just focus on reading the documents you mentioned for your notes? Anything that needs to be adjusted you can save for tomorrow. I'll even help, I don't have a shift scheduled all day. I need to grab libations, and my beautiful wife. So, while I work on that, you can do your reading, jot a couple things down, then we can all relax for the night and unwind with uno... If I can find the deck. You may have to settle for chess, or maybe checkers. I promise whatever I bring it won't be monopoly." He holds up his hand at this in a gesture of scout's honor, then recrosses his arms, grinning.

>Cont'd

You take in a big, deep breath, and let out a big, long exhale. Looking to your desk, then back to your friend, you feel oddly conflicted. "Uh... I don't, exactly, uhm... Maybe."

He frowns. "Alright, well let me put it this way, then: Kate and I love you, and we're worried about you. I could tell yesterday night at dinner that something was on your mind. She said the same about you today, and even right now it's clear something's eating at you that's bigger than just your work." Howie lays it out bluntly. "I think you need some company. I definitely do. We're your friends, Oliver, just let us have your back." At this, he tightens his lips into something that's no longer a frown, but which is only trying to be a smile.

You sit in the silence for a few moments, considering his words as much as his concern. Ultimately, though, you relent. "You're, uh... Yeah, you're right. It won't take me very long to check out the files. And, uh, there really is a lot on my mind, just a, yaknow, just one of those really long days, I guess."

"I'll fucking say, s'been the same long day for five years." Howie finally smiles again. "Anyways, good, you might actually be as smart as they say. I'll swing back in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Any requests for what I bring back?"

Select one:

>Yeah, being a couple of bottles of that dandelion wine that Kate makes, and some bread if you've got it. I think I could be up for some chess, so bring your board. Let's just take it easy.
>Well... If you still have the draft proposal for the university expedition, maybe instead of playing some games, you and I could take another look at that and polish it up? Even with everything going on, I'm impatient to make that pitch. I think it could really move the needle on my research.
>Maybe a tall order, but do you think you could look out for Henry? Last I heard he was having a meeting with Captain Salyards, which would probably be in the observation room down the way. If he isn't there, he is probably having some drinks at the Magnolia, but he can't risk a hangover with the Union coming tomorrow, so maybe you could tempt him with a nightcap up here together...
>Write-in

>>6403759
>Yeah, being a couple of bottles of that dandelion wine that Kate makes, and some bread if you've got it. I think I could be up for some chess, so bring your board. Let's just take it easy.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AnA9jMaoPVU

>>6403759

>Yeah, being a couple of bottles of that dandelion wine that Kate makes, and some bread if you've got it. I think I could be up for some chess, so bring your board. Let's just take it easy.

>>6403726
Would play.

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Spiral staircase at the front part of the property..
>>6403813
Oh, nice song! Ty ty
>>6403851
One day... Though right now I see myself doing another ten threads of AB, and /qst/ may not even last that long RIP

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A fall down this motherfucker would be so rough....

>>6404216
>/qst/ may not even last that long RIP
I hope it does. I don't spend much time here anymore, but this and several other quests are still very cool and I want to see them reach their natural end.

>>6403759
>Yeah, being a couple of bottles of that dandelion wine that Kate makes, and some bread if you've got it. I think I could be up for some chess, so bring your board. Let's just take it easy.

>>6404217
Gonna be one intense chess game.

>>6403759
>Yeah, being a couple of bottles of that dandelion wine that Kate makes, and some bread if you've got it. I think I could be up for some chess, so bring your board. Let's just take it easy.

>>6404216
I’m out of the loop. Are they gonna sunset QST?

Either way, as long as my favorites are still here I’ll be checking in.

>>6404480
No, there aren't any plans to, I think it's mainly just that traffic and participation has sharply fallen off even just in the roughlyyyyy half year(?) that I've been active here. I don't exactly love 4chan, but it's kind of strange to see it falling by the wayside after having been around in (what at least seemed to be, to me) its heyday.

>>6403759
>>Well... If you still have the draft proposal for the university expedition, maybe instead of playing some games, you and I could take another look at that and polish it up? Even with everything going on, I'm impatient to make that pitch. I think it could really move the needle on my research.

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You feel a nudge near your ankle, and look down to see Parmesan rubbing her face against your leg and then the top of your sneaker. You reach down and pick her up, holding her in your arms like a baby, she purrs loudly. "Yes, why don't you grab two bottles of that dandelion wine that Kate makes, and your chess board, too, I could go for a game. Don't sweat uno, I mean, unless you see it while you're grabbing things. And thanks, it'll be nice to actually take it easy and unwind, actually." You answer your friend. Parm trills again when you lift her up a bit to kiss her forehead.

"Two dandy's, a game I know I'll whoop your ass in, and a side of wife, comin' right up." Howie replies with a conspiratorial wink. "Alright. Catch you in a bit. Do your homework so we can have fun when I get back." With that, he steps back out into the hall, pulling the door closed behind him.

You exhale through your nose, and pivot, stepping over to your desk. When you get to the chair, you lift Parmesan for another quick smooch, then open your arms to drop her onto the surface of the desk, where she lands gracefully on her feet. She struts slowly to the edge and takes on a gargoyle posture, surveying the bookshelves, tables, and telescopes. You have a seat, slide up a little, and open a drawer to pull out a Lenovo Thinkpad tablet and a charged battery module. Combining them, you open the laptop and press the power button to boot it up.

You look out towards the window and the sun peeking over the canopy, a red-orange disc half eclipsed by an endless quilt of every green color ever imagined.

>Cont'd

Eventually, the cobbled together Linux on your tablet shakes off enough of the cobwebs to prompt a login. Then you plug in the thumb drive and open up the file for Roy Harris' treatment history...

Grazed by a bullet... Twisted ankle... Twisted ankle... Rash... Going down the list it's all pretty typical for a Biltmore resident. What's odd, however, is just how often he seems to switch crews. You can't tell the precise length of time he stayed at any post, but his occupation is noted with each time he's visited the infirmary, even just to get some Tylenol for a headache or other minor check-ins. He spent at least eight months on scavenging, and that was when the current labor system was first implemented in the latter part of year 1. He's returned to scav at least three times since, but also worked kitchen, distribution, sanitation, construction, foraging, fabrication, gardening, and most recently hunting, as you see he had a quick physical a few days ago before being sent off with P.K. and John Stoker for their ill-fated trek earlier today.

The page for mental conditions and treatment is also peculiar. Though, that was at least to be expected. But it isn't peculiar in the way you thought it would be.

You see there was a 'traumatic incident' back in year 1, the psych attendant notes him finding the bodies of two missing children. You remember when that happened, but totally forgot Roy's part in it. They'd been kidnapped. Security protocols changed overnight, this was when the community was still figuring out the risks of being alone in the forest, and still trying to determine how to organize childcare or community defense. Treatment was buspirone and bi-monthly check ins with the psych attendant, Gladys Mangum, but after she died in a leopard attack on the edge of the encampment a couple of years ago, he switched to Rudy Fenton, who you know does the bulk of talk therapy appointments around BC these days. He was also referred to the Mosaic Club, a recovery group that meets in the library a few different times through the week in order to allow residents with different shifts to have access. Phil Welch runs those groups when he isn't working his kitchen shifts - he had to drop his nursing duties due to memory issues starting to compound in his older age - and you happen to know him decently. Funny enough, he used to be a local friend of Howie's and you had talked about attending the group a few times.

>Cont'd

You take a pad of paper from the drawer and write down those names. You don't have any indication of his attendence at Phil's group, that isn't explicitly part of the medical infrastructure for the community. You do see that he has made every appointment with Rudy, just like he had with Gladys. But that leads you to what it is that's so peculiar about this mental health treatment file.

There's barely anything here.

No diagnoses anywhere, just a basic treatment for post-traumatic stress when those kids died, but not even a mention of what he might have suffered from before reaching BC. It's a rare survivor by this point that doesn't have SOME variety of mental condition, of course, and it's mostly a matter of scope and manageability now. You know your own file lists chronic anxiety, depressive episodes, recurring night terrors, and even a brief, week-long agoraphobia after the run to recover what is now your best telescope. No documentation or notes from any of his sessions. All of them, including from Gladys, simply have an X in the box showing he attended and, 'N/A' in the comments and review section.

It's either Roy Harris is the most stable mind on the estate, or something strange is going on with his paperwork.

You decide to check the metadata on the file to see what could be going on. There's no ability to access any previous versions, but you can at least partially see how it's been accessed. It looks like after the third session together, Rudy made a massive edit to the document, and every entry after that has been consistent and just the same, you surmise that it is the entry of that ubiquitous N/A. You can't view an access from any other computer or user, it seems this has only been changed on a medical terminal by Rudy, or maybe someone using his login, though you doubt that, and anything Gladys or anyone else did is unable to be seen in any way.

Very, very peculiar.

You circle Rudy's name on your paper. Then you write down, 'kids? Relatives?', thinking that perhaps whoever was looking after those children before Roy tracked them down may be able to provide more insight into how it affected him.

>Cont'd

You go back to the file itself and start scanning through it again for anything that stands out, any dates that seem significant, though there isn't much else to look at.

KNOCK NOK-NOK KNOCK NOK.. KNOCK-NOK

The door to your office rattles a bit with the heavy thuds of each knock, to a 'shave and a haircut' rhythm. Parmesan perks up, craning her head from silky shoulders, and angles her ears towards the disturbance. Must be Howie already; time sure flies when you're being frustrated by opaque medical records.

You rise from your seat, press the power button, then close the laptop, withdrawing the thumb drive and sliding it back into your pocket. "Coming! One sec!" You call out, putting the tablet back into the drawer where it goes, along with the paper you were scrawling on.

Striding over, you open up the door...

And no one is there.

You open it wider, and poke your head out, then take a step forward to check out either end of the corridor. No one's around.

Select One:

>Close the door and lock it, return to your office, and wait for Howie and Kate to get there, and let you know they're on the other side of the door before you open it. Grab the radio from your desk and turn it to Henry's channel.
>Leave the office to investigate the hallway for whoever it was knocking, maybe a prank, like a ding dong ditch?
>Write-in

>>6405661
>Close the door and lock it, return to your office, and wait for Howie and Kate to get there, and let you know they're on the other side of the door before you open it. Grab the radio from your desk and turn it to Henry's channel.
It's probably nothing, but if it's not nothing, it's probably Mack the Knife (or as our current protag probably better knows him, the Invisible Man).

>>6405661
>Close the door and lock it, return to your office, and wait for Howie and Kate to get there, and let you know they're on the other side of the door before you open it. Grab the radio from your desk and turn it to Henry's channel.

>>6405661
>Leave the office to investigate the hallway for whoever it was knocking, maybe a prank, like a ding dong ditch?
Don't wanna be locked in a small office with a spook.

>>6405661
>Leave the office to investigate the hallway for whoever it was knocking, maybe a prank, like a ding dong ditch?

If we stay, it’ll stay inside. If we leave, it’ll follow. We have absolutely no way of evading Mack.

>>6405661
>Leave the office to investigate the hallway for whoever it was knocking, maybe a prank, like a ding dong ditch?
If it is Mack, we're probably better served by moving than sitting still.
>inb4 this is the trap option

Sorry for the wait, fellas, lost a day to backed up errands. Update out tomorrow, Monday at the latest since it's my next day off. See ya soon!

>>6406996
See you then, QM!

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"Hello?" You ask the empty air, hoping for a response from someone shy, or with a bad sense of humor. Cautiously, you close the door behind you, and step out, glancing left, then right. "Hey..."

Still no answer.

You move down the hall to your right, then, looking at each of the doors as you pass only to find they're all closed. Just as you approach the South tower room, you hear... someone whistle...

FWEEEH FWEE-THWEE FWEE FWEE THWEE-FWEEH

An echo of that 'shave and a haircut' tune. It's emanating from your left, from the spiral staircase down the way, to the front of the mansion. The hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention, and your heart begins to crawl up the walls of your chest cavity. You quicken your pace, and move in the direction of the sound. Even at this late hour, there is at least one security officer stationed or patrolling the upper floors, and more on the ground level. Maybe it's one of them? If you find one you'll be able to ask.

"Hey, who's there? Did you knock on my door? Were you in holding earlier today?" You call out as you proceed, raising your voice a bit louder now. "This isn't funn-" You stop yourself as you reach the top of the staircase. Looking down, you see Leonora mid-step, a little over a third of the way up from the floor below.

"Oliver? What isn't?" She says, bringing her back foot up to plant both on one step. She removes her hand from the railing, and crosses her arms across her chest.

>Cont'd

You take a few steps down, moving towards her, and let your voice drop again, not wanting to disturb anyone - the dorms aren't very close, but they aren't very far, either, after all. "Hey, Lee, sorry, I just- Was that you, whistling? Did you see someone come down past you?" You ask.

Her eyes narrow in the dim light that streams in from the massive windows that curl around the stairs. "Uh, no, I don't know how. What whistling? No one's around, I just heard you calling for me to come up, you said to be quick, right? What for?" She replies.

You take a deep breath, descending further until you're just a couple of steps apart from her.

Alarm bells are starting to go off in your head. You look past her, behind you, scanning all over the stairs.

When you don't answer her immediately, she asks another question, brow furrowing with either concern or irritation. "Was I supposed to see someone pass by?"

"Yes. Well, I mean, maybe. I guess I don't know. Are you sure it was me you heard? Someone was knocking on my office door a minute ago." You rub your temples a bit, and take another deep breath. Then you shake your head, blinking a few times, and plant your hands on your hips. "Sorry, I know I'm maybe not making sense. It's been... Today's been strange, something's just off. I swear I... I heard someone."

She frowns, but eventually nods a few times, slowly. It's definitely concern she's looking up to you with, now.

You sigh. "Yeah, sorry. I, uh, I'm not... What's got you up here anyways, are you alright?" You ask, returning yourself to the present enough to realize it's odd that she's here.

Leonora quirks a brow incredulously, and leans a bit to the side. "Uh, looking for you, duh? You picked the movie this week, dummy, people noticed when you left." She says, and then her features soften. "I guess I was worried it was what I said. I didn't mean to make you anxious... But I'm a little pissed, too, I gotta say." Her gaze shifts down over the railing, then.

"What's wrong?" You ask. Your throat is too dry to muster more syllables than that.

>Cont'd

She looks pained to say, but does anyways, looking back to you. "Well, earlier today I asked what you'd gotten into, or worked on. You told me you just 'found new questions' or something, and that you'd been watching the weather." Leonora starts. A beat passes where she searches your eyes, then she goes on as you stand petrified. "Well, I had a chat with Doug before dinner, after his meetings with the Tribunal. He said he could tell me more later, but that you and Henry had found a threat carved into a tree on the edge of the Westside field. Why'd you bullshit me?"

There's a certain flatness to how she lays this out that almost throttles you.

Select One:

>Henry told me to keep it under wraps, what we had been talking about goes a bit beyond just a carving - he didn't want to risk a panic, and I promised him I'd keep it confidential
>I didn't want to scare you before we learned more about what was going on, I'm not even totally sure what it is I saw out there
>Did Doug mention anything else about it? Did he tell you about the knife?
>I think we should talk more in my office. Captain Pickett was acting weird earlier when she heard about someone whistling around the mansion, and I just heard something like that. Something feels off.
>Write-in

>>6407357
Damn, I guess news gets around in a small, closed community.

>I'm sorry, I know you can keep a secret, but Henry told me to keep it under wraps, and I don't even know what exactly we're dealing with. I didn't want to burden you with unwarranted anxiety until ai had an actual answer. We all have enough unknowns in our lives these day that we can't do anything about...

>>6407366
So it does. To be fair, I think it was a solid gamble that Doug wouldn't clue her in about this after he had his meeting with Henry, but this is perhaps an indication, or reminder, to Oliver that Doug isn't the dishonest one in his marriage...

>>6407357
>Henry told me to keep it under wraps, what we had been talking about goes a bit beyond just a carving - he didn't want to risk a panic, and I promised him I'd keep it confidential
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=flGJj6d1Q9M&list=PLMiHJ43NPK4WB--3hOsU7FQWVnupB6gcp&index=5

>>6407380
Oh this rules dude, QRD on I Am Not a Human??

>>6407392
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5aSTaVY0J7I
Horror VN with "whos the body snatcher" game/story. See some similar connections to After bloom.

>>6407370
>Doug isn't the dishonest one in his marriage...
Have... Have we misjudged Mayor Bill Murray?

>>6407357
>Henry told me to keep it under wraps, what we had been talking about goes a bit beyond just a carving - he didn't want to risk a panic, and I promised him I'd keep it confidential

>>6407544
Maybe more accurate to say you learned something new about him, another layer.

>>6407357
>Henry told me to keep it under wraps, what we had been talking about goes a bit beyond just a carving - he didn't want to risk a panic, and I promised him I'd keep it confidential

Update tomorrow most likely, swamped with graduation season stuff with the senpai, thanks for your patience!

>>6409165
See you then, QM!

>>6409165
Hey, congrats man!

Real life always comes first. We’ll be here when you’re ready.

>>6409413
Thanks lol but not my graduation, too long in the tooth for that, forgot f,a,m gets replaced with senpai here still xD
Got the day off to make the ceremony though so I'll probably have time to scribble at some point soon.

>>6409417
Well congrats to your senpaily, kek!

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Trembling a bit, you go with what feels like the most honest response. "I... Henry told me to keep it to myself. It goes a bit beyond just a carving, and he told me he didn't want to cause a panic or have it getting around until he was able to meet with the others. I made a promise to him." You say, scratching at your left bicep, and struggling to keep eye contact as you confess.

She winces a little, and scrunches the side of her face for a moment, looking off to the side with her hands on her hips now. Then casts her eyes down to the steps again. "So you trust me to keep it a secret that we're fu-"

You cut her off, raising your hands up in a slowing gesture. "Hey, hey! Please, someone could be just downstairs!" You practically hiss, looking nervously over the railing, and then behind you. You're reminded of the knocking, and whistling, and that someone definitely is nearby.

"You trust me not to tell anyone we're fucking, I wish you'd trusted me to know about something that's worrying you, or, or that seems dangerous." She speaks again, dropping to a whisper. Her eyes are narrow and full of ice. "Just because we're a secret, doesn't mean I'm ok with you keeping secrets from me..." She adds, and the ice melts into a couple of tears, the possibility of crying. She blinks them back before they embark across her cheeks, instead, looking away from you.

Your gut turns into cold mud and everything else in your torso starts to sink into it. You feel hollow. "Leo... I'm..." You reach out, not sure what to say. Placing a reassuring hand on her bicep, she's able to look at you again. "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do, I wasn't thinking about anyone's feelings as much as I was safety, I guess, not stepping on Henry's toes, it was like a direct order... Next ti-"

"YHEEEEEEEAOWRRR!"

Both of your heads snap towards the upstairs at the loud, distinctive yowl of an extremely pissed off cat.

>Cont'd

You take a step up, but hear a rapid scampering headed in your direction. You almost miss her, but a grey tortoiseshell blue zips by you and Leonora both, bounding down the steps in a hectic scramble. You can tell it's Parmesan, if only barely, and that anxious feeling of yours spikes when you notice the trail of red flecks left in her wake. "Oh shit, what-"

"Is that blood?" Leonora asks in a cautious tone.

You hear footsteps above, now, and soon a security officer is leaning over the railing to look down at you both. He's clean-shaven, maybe in his early forties at the latest, with a dirt-smudged Buc-ee's trucker hat on his head, and a a bolt action hunting rifle that's seen better days clutched tight in both hands. "Ya'll hear that? See a critter sprint through?" He asks, then cranes his head around to get a look at the blood on the floor near him, and the steps.

"Yeah, it was Parmesan, one of the cats. Did you see where she came from?" You ask up to him.

"Nah, just heard the ruckus, there's a trail a' blood up here though." He replies.

You turn to Leonora and place a hand on her shoulder. "Can you go look for her before she gets hurt worse? She'll need a bandage for whatever happened at least, find a security officer and get in touch with the infirmary. Sav should be down there, she can probably handle it. I'll find you tomorrow."

She nods, and then turns to head down the stairs in a hurry, following the crimson trace of your poor feline friend.

You head up the stairs briskly, hand quaking a bit each time you reach to grab the railing on your ascent. "I saw her maybe five minutes ago, she was in my office. I heard someone in the hall but didn't see them. I'm going with you." You say firmly. Your eyes oscillate between the sporadic splashes of red and the face of the officer you're speaking to. When you reach the top of the steps, you gesture to the trail and then further down the hall. "It looks like she came from that way, come on. Something's wrong, you should call it in. Hand me something to shoot." You hold out a hand as you walk back the way you came with the officer in tow. You aren't an expert marksman by any measure, but nobody survived five years in the jungle without learning how to at least handle a pistol. You aren't exactly an authority, either, but you are a kind of leader around here, and you lean into as you try to meet the moment and be decisive.

The officer unfastens the button on his sidearm holster and hands you a sort of bulky 9mm pistol with some Arabic script on the slide, some knockoff of a Beretta you think. You rack it, and hold it ahead of you with both hands, barrel angled towards the floor as the two of you pick up pace again as you reach the corner.

>Cont'd

Peeking around, you see the door to your office is ajar, and warm light is spilling out into the hall from within. "Tell them someone broke into Mottley's office on the third floor."

He nods, and presses the button on his radio. "Officer Stowman to Patrol Four, break-in at Mottley's office, tower, floor three, wounded animal, no eyes on perp, need backup now."

KSHRKSH "10-4, Gallego en route." Comes the first response from his radio, almost instantly. Then another. RSHKSH "10-4, Bowers on the way." And another. KSHKSHR "Officer Welch here, gonna sweep level two and check the nearby stairwells now, over."

With help on the way, you move into the hall and proceed, closing in on your office. Stowman stays close, his rifle is pointed ahead of him, the barrel leveled forward and parallel with your right shoulder. There's more blood on the hardwood floor the closer you get.

You hear some faint movement within...

You take in a deep breath.

Kicking the door open wider with one foot you stomp forward and step quickly into the room, hugging the wall just left of the door and raising your pistol to sweep the interior. You take four steps to create space for Stowman to do just the same as you, keeping your backs to the wall and guns raised. Both of you notice the same thing at once, and train both of your guns on it.

A mottled grey, furry little appendage, roughly the size and shape of a hot dog. It's touching to the wall. It's moving. It's leaving wet red marks across the surface of the wall. It's a tail. It's Parmesan's severed tail.

It's moving through the air of its own volition. It is writing a word in blood, like a macabre paintbrush.

M I S E R U

It freezes abruptly the moment your guns are trained on it, as if halted by the act of observation.

Then it drops to the floor with a quiet thud, adding a tail to the U that streaks halfway down the distance to the ground.

MISERY

"The fuck.." Stowman gasps.

You tighten the grip on your handgun.

Dark spots well up on the wall below the bloody word. Black and grey splotches of mold blooming at a breakneck speed. They do so in the arrangement of more words, which come into focus in a few mere seconds.

L O V E S
C O M P A N Y

You blink a few times in grim disbelief.

>Cont'd

Officer Stowman's radio crackles alive in unison with another one you can hear nearby in the hall.

KKSHRSH "CODE PICASSO NORTHWEST HEADED TO THE STA-" The transmission is cut short by the sudden pierce of a gunshot from outside, just as the second radio and it's wearer, Officer Bowers, enters the doorway. "The fuck is going on?!" He sweeps the room with his AR-15, eyes locking on the bloody, moldy, cryptic message behind your desk.

You don't have an answer for him, but when you open your mouth to try, an eruption of more bullets in an array of different calibers and fire rates. The heavy plinks of bolt actions bicker with the fever pitch of submachine guns and assault rifles fitted with forced reset triggers.

The radios perk up again, transmitting in a slightly disorienting unison. KSHKR "TOP GUN TO ALL CHANNELS CODE PICASSO ON THE STABLEHOUSE, MANOR PATROLS TAKE WINDOW POSITIONS ON LEVELS TWO, THREE IF YOU'RE ABLE, ESTATE PATROLS COME IN FROM THE WEST DECK AND FROM THE EAST LAWN NOW GUNS HOT!"

"I don't know what this shit is man, but we gotta move if there are Painted Raiders making a move on the Northside, " Stowman says quickly. He nudges you. "Stay here and lock up or roll with us, you pick, but pick quick, we're rolling." With that he starts to make for the door.

"WAIT! FUCKING WAIT! SOMEONE MUTILATED MY FUCKING CAT, THEYRE STILL HERE! I THINK THEY'VE BEEN HERE MOST OF THE DAY!" You call out as he rounds the corner and Bowers falls in behind him.

Select One:

>Fall in with the officers, if raiders are attacking the stable house and courtyard, the community will need as many guns as they can get to fight back.
>Stay here. Whoever... Whatever did this is still around. It's dangerous. This isn't normal. None of this makes sense.
>Leave to go look for Leonora and Parmesan, take both of them down to the clinic in the basement, Hollywood will still be there at least, and at least a couple of security officers will move in to reinforce defenses around the wounded.
>Write-in

>>6410039
Leave to go look for Leonora and Parmesan, take both of them down to the clinic in the basement, Hollywood will still be there at least, and at least a couple of security officers will move in to reinforce defenses around the wounded.

>>6410039
>Leave to go look for Leonora and Parmesan, take both of them down to the clinic in the basement, Hollywood will still be there at least, and at least a couple of security officers will move in to reinforce defenses around the wounded.
The bae and the adorable cat come first.

>>6410039
>Leave to go look for Leonora and Parmesan, take both of them down to the clinic in the basement, Hollywood will still be there at least, and at least a couple of security officers will move in to reinforce defenses around the wounded.

>>6410039
>Leave to go look for Leonora and Parmesan, take both of them down to the clinic in the basement, Hollywood will still be there at least, and at least a couple of security officers will move in to reinforce defenses around the wounded.

>severed cat tail writing threats in blood
QM you have one demented imagination. I am hooked.

>>6410307
Thanks very much, anon! Lemme know if you have questions as you acclimate. I'm gonna try and have the next update out tonight or tomorrow.

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Suddenly, you're alone. You glance back to the wall, the message... You scan the room for any sign of another presence.

You don't have time for this. You don't have time to think, or to worry, or to wonder what the fuck is going on. You make for your desk, quickly, tucking the pistol you have into the front of your waistband with the safety on. Tugging a drawer open as if you're here to ransack the place, you snatch out your Walther, which you have more practice with as a shooter, and then do an about face to dart towards the door. You peek your head out first, then step out, looking to the trail of blood left by Parm, and which Leonora hopefully is also following still.

You turn to look behind you one last time, down the hall towards the smaller Northern stairwells. You freeze.

There it is. About a dozen yards from you at the intersection on the far end.

The knife.

It's hanging in the air, lilting like a feather. A straight-edged triangular blade, with a wide, brass hilt, and a smooth, black handle shaped well to fit within a killer's palm. There's still some red blood adhering to the silvery steel. It reminds you of a symphony conductor's wand, the way it lazily waves and wafts. This is interrupted by a couple of acrobatic looking twirls as it slowly moves towards the corner to the right.

"Heheghehaeheehheh.."

Your head snaps a hundred and eighty degrees in the other direction at the sound behind you, opposite the dancing blade. It's a dry, wheezing, hoarse kind of chuckle, the kind one offers up to an old inside joke. But there is no source for the sound of this laughter. Just empty air. Snapping your head back the other way, you see only the bare glint of the blade as it fully disappears around the corner and out of your view.

For a moment you consider pursuit. But it's as brief and fleeting a moment as there has ever been.

Fuck that.

Fuck whatever that is completely. Your cat is bleeding. Your girlfriend is on her own. Raiders are assaulting the estate. This X file shit just needs to be someone else's problem right now.

You glue your eyes to Parmesan's trail and jog after it, down the stairs to the first floor. You hang a left, then curve rightwards, the cat's trajectory heads right for...

>Cont'd

There, you see Leonora ahead of you in the Winter Garden, to the left of the giant poplar tree. She's crouched down by some of the old, luxurious wood furniture and a marble bench, next to some enormous ceramic planters bursting with exotic flowers and tall indoor palms.

"C'mere pompom, issok, pspspsps, issok..." She coos in a soothing tone.

You slow down a bit as you get closer, keeping your voice low and speaking fast. "Lee, hey, it's me. Something cut her tail off maybe two thirds of the way. Bandits are attacking from the North and West, idunno if any have made it into the house yet, or if that's what we heard earlier." You crouch down next to her and peer over her shoulder to where Parm has cornered herself back behind the planters and wall near the short set of steps down into this area. "We need to get her fast and get to the clinic to lock down, there are at least a couple of officers down there."

"Alright, get on the ledge behind her and come from above." Leonora says quickly, giving you a double-take glance, but not wanting to take her attention from the cat for too long lest she bolt off again.

You do as you're bid, tucking the Walther into a pocket, wordlessly dashing up the steps and swinging over the railing, gripping it with one hand and brushing palm fronts out of your face with the other. Parmesan is swiveling her head back and forth between you both, eyes wide with fright. A low rumble of displeasure emanates from between her whiskers, and she hisses as your arm lowers down to her like the robotic appendage of a bowling alley claw machine.

With her attention on you for a second, Leonora takes the opportunity to lunge in and roughly grab the cat in the upper torso, another hand shooting up to get her head. There's more hissing, some scratching, but pulling back, your lover is able to rearrange her grip to scruff the wounded stray. You jump down, stepping along the edge of two heavy planters and then onto the marble bench, then next to her.

"Here, here." You say, helping to restrain Parmesan a bit so she can get a better, tighter, safer hold of the cat, squeezing her tight to her chest but keeping a hand gripping the scruff tight. "Ok, let's go." You pull the Walther back out and gesture with a tilt of your head towards the barracks and the stairs beyond.

>Cont'd

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You both take off, hustling up the steps, then veering to the left. Half a dozen security officers inside are scrambling to grab weapons and throw on whatever armor they can find, you see one getting tugged out of his bunk and another digging through a footlocker with reckless abandon. Keeping a hand gripped tight onto Leonora's arm and another around your handgun, you pull her along, around desks and tables and towards the right of the grand hearth. Rounding all the way around the corner you both plunge into the narrow stairwell and down below.

At the bottom, the sound of gunfire and shouting is closer, and stepping out, you see through a window two figures in camouflage jackets sprinting through the servant's courtyard and in the direction of the service entrance that's around the corner to your right.

>THE RED X MARKS YOUR LOCATION, THE BLUE ARROW MARKS THE TRAJECTORY OF THE RAIDERS

Select One:

>Push Leonora back, dash to the service entrance, and gun them both down as they walk into your line of fire. (PINK ARROW)
>Duck down, hide, then wait to exit through the door in the rightmost room to come up behind them for an ambush, shooting them in their backs as they go down the service entrance hallway. (GREEN ARROW)
>Dip to your right, into the nearby clinic, and barricade the door quickly. (YELLOW ARROW)
>Write-in

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Reposting this floorplan map from the first thread, as it may be helpful for you guys! The stable cafe/stable house isn't included, but if you look to see that curved wall on the lower right side, you can probably match it up in your mind to the photos of the stable courtyard that I shared further up in the thread to get an idea of where Oliver was earlier, where he's been, and how he got where he is now. Keep in mind, with this orientation of the map: North is to the right, South is to the left, West is up, and East is down!

Caught a sweet stretch of free time, if I get three votes I may be able to do a second update tonight (^:

>>6410435
Specifically, this one:
>>6400993

>>6410431
>Duck down, hide, then wait to exit through the door in the rightmost room to come up behind them for an ambush, shooting them in their backs as they go down the service entrance hallway. (GREEN ARROW)

>>6410431
>Dip to your right, into the nearby clinic, and barricade the door quickly. (YELLOW ARROW)
We ain't no Tiger-Widow.

>>6410431
>Dip to your right, into the nearby clinic, and barricade the door quickly. (YELLOW ARROW)

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You decide:

Fuck that, too.

You hang an immediate left out of the stairwell, moving through a small room originally intended for storing and washing dishes - now it's just another big sink and the locked cabinets are full of medical supplies, linens, and water. Just beyond is the infirmary where you'd been just a short while ago.

This entrance is on the right side of the room, on the far side is the entrance to the sauna, and along the left wall is the main door that most people enter and exit by.

Jackson is still asleep on the bed closest to you. The man with the broken limbs is still in his bed as well, but he's sat up now, and his book is tucked partially under his lower back. The curtains are drawn back on the other end of the room to show the two beds where a young woman and a young man are also sitting upright, their arms, necks, and most of their heads covered by a nasty, bright red rash. On the far end of the room, Viktor is on his feet, wearing baggy camo cargo pants and a white tank top that stretches tight around his gut and broad shoulders, along with another security officer who is helping him to move a metal filing cabinet up against the door there, they both slow and look over their shoulders to you.

Hollywood points a small snubnose revolver at you from where he's leaned next to the door on the left, causing you and Leonora to freeze.

"WOAH! IT'S US!" You blurt, raising your empty hand in surrender and pointing your Walther to the ceiling.

Savannah emerges from where she was ducking behind Jackson's recovery bed. "Oh fuck, thank God, what's happening?!" She asks.

You don't answer her, instead grabbing a metal table along the wall and dragging it towards Hollywood, who then moves to help with his free hand. As you slide it into place, you look to him and nod back in the direction you came from. "Some of them are coming in from the servant's courtyard, we need to cover all the doors here. Anyone else nearby?"

"Officer Page here just got in a few seconds before you, a couple other guys from the patrol down here have already taken positions in the hallway and locked the service entrance. Maybe some distro crew got caught down here, there's the guys in holding, too." He says, peeking through the window in the door, and then nodding towards a bench of thick, dark timber against the wall near the rash victims.

>Cont'd

You follow him to start moving it, pushing it along, and glance to see Leonora carefully detach Parmesan and transfer her to Savannah, trying to explain that her tail was severed, at which point she looks to you with eyes full of the realization she didn't even have time to really ask how that happened in all the chaos.

"There's something else in the house. I don't know what it is. I don't know really what I saw, but I think it's connected to the whistling, from earlier? I think that's why the Captain left so suddenly earlier." You say to Hollywood, but you're looking back over to her as you do. "It's got a knife. I can't really explain anything else, too much going on, I don't know what I saw, just that I think it's dangerous."

You hear gunfire from the nearby hallway, and shouting, curse words, insults, commands.

THNK! THNK!

Two hard slams against the door you've just blocked, Hollywood and yourself instinctively drop low to brace the barricade and create space between your bodies and the window. You feel a tug behind you and whip your head around to see Viktor has removed the pistol you'd tucked into the back of your waistband.

He aims for the window, and as soon as a darkness enters the frame, he squeezes the trigger. Glass shatters, Savannah screams in shock, but you see some flecks of red... And there is no more knocking at the door.

"We hold here for now. I think not safe to take the hallways just now, and we can't be leaving the patients behind." Says the Bosnian in a calm tone.

"YOU ARE A FUCKING PATIENT YOU PSYCHO, WARN A MOTHERFUCKER BEFORE YOU SHOOT OUT GLASS, THAT SHITS IN MY HAIR NOW!" Shouts Hollywood with a raw new umbrage, spittle flying from the edges of a mouth dried by adrenaline.

Viktor merely extends the other man a hand to help him to his feet.

Hunched down on the ground, you look to them, and then to Leonora, the other wounded.

Could be a worse crowd to try and survive with.

K-SHNKK!

Your collective gaze all shoots at once to the sauna door, where it looks like a pickaxe has been buried in the door, jutting out by just a few inches through the puncture.

Could be a worse crowd to die with, you think.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

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>Cue the music

https://youtu.be/3aHMndcxhtA?si=qWFOq6iIngqtlUgM

>Roll credits

Oliver - - - Alex Lawther
Roy - - - Wilson Bethel
Magda - - - Mary Elizabeth Winstead
Hollywood - - - Joe Keery
Viktor - - - Darko Peric
Mort - - - Harry Dean Stanton
Leonora - - - Joanne Kelly
Parmesan - - - Parmesan
Howie - - - Hugh Laurie
Screenwriter - - - Sloucho
Director - - - Anonymous (Plural)

######################################

Cliffhanger!!!

I am going to end our first episode of the thread there.

Before I launch into our next episode, I am gonna do something entirely unexpected, pretty meta, and hopefully entertaining while I work on launching our NEXT episode. Thanks everyone for playing so far!

Check this out!

######################################

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"Hello, hey everybody, welcome to the QSTV studio in [REDACTED], thanks for joining us in The After-Room where we meet with the cast to field your questions, discuss the show, and get input from the amazing actors and actresses that make this happen!" Says the bald man sitting in the comfortable looking chair on the left of the set. Behind him is a massive backdrop of a dense jungle, late afternoon rays of sunset light streaming through the canopy. Nooses of various materials are hanging from the branches of different trees, many dripping with blood. In the foreground of the image, yellow dandelions have burst up from between a tangle of roots, arranged carefully to form the shape of the words, AFTER-BLOOM.

"I'm your host, Sean Evans, you may know me from First We Feast's show Hot Ones - it's the off season and I'm excited to be on board with QSTV to interview some of their fantastic talent with all of you guys today." He goes on, then gestures across from him. The camera pans to a row of three seats, each occupied by a well-dressed guest: Alex Lawther, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, and Wilson Bethel. The three of them smile and wave for the camera, Alex shifts in his seat a bit, and Wilson rolls his shoulders a bit to settle in.

The camera returns to Sean. "So Alex, before we get started, since you were the main star of the last episode I wanted to talk real quick. First off, what a cliffhanger, I did not expect Oliver to end up in so much danger just while, you know, watching a movie, doing some work on a computer! I was really hoping he was going to have a nice night with a couple of friends, but I guess that's never a guarantee in the jungle, right? Do you have anything on your mind about doing this episode, and how it differed from the pilot?"

Alex nods a bit and laughs, crossing one leg over the other. He scooches a bit to sit up straighter. "Yeah, yeah, he is in a real tight spot, at this point." He begins, and his natural British accent is a bit surprising in quick juxtaposition to his performance of a perfectly neutral American enunciation in his dialogue. "But, he always kind of is, right? So much riding on him, for this community, and no one realizes he is, he's playing this dangerous game, cheating with the wife of this mayor, who is another central pillar for the community of Biltmore, a man that we know is not just this kind of influential leader, but who knows how to kill to survive, to protect what he's got. Oliver is a part of that, a part of his success, right, but how will he react if he ever finds out that Oliver is betraying him, or that his wife is?" He asks. Then he leans his head left and right, sort of shrugging.

>Pic related to quest; Parmesan BTS photo taken by TMZ paparazzi

>Cont'd

"Anyways, the pilot was great, I think it asked some interesting questions." Alex goes on, leaning forward a bit. The camera zooms out a bit to show his co-stars looking to him attentively. "But we hadn't been approved yet for, uh, the sort of like, prestige TV timeslots, where we have more room to breathe and explore the world. This time around it was nice to really get to chew the scenery, nice to finally have some overt interactions with other key cast members as things come together, and you know, I loved finally getting to have some red meat in my script; the infirmary monologue about the rain episode, the pluvial episode, yeh? I liked getting to show more of how Oliver, you know, he knows so much about the natural world, and instead of that confounding him in this unprecedented new status quo, you see that knowledge has made him open-minded, and curious, and it sort of, it's like it gives him a sort of balance."

The camera cuts back to Sean, who is smiling and nodding along. "Right, I was blown away by that, actually, I guess I have never thought that much about how the world got the way it is, as we know it today, or how disruptive or strange that process was, or could have been. Thanks, I think you did great!"

DING DING!

A bell goes off, and the backdrop shifts to a graph with the names of the cast, and a feed on the right side shows a chatlog that's moving live along the show.

Sean Evans tucks his cards under a thigh, and pulls up an iPad that was sitting in a pouch on the side of his chair, then looks to the camera with an excited grin. "Alright fans, looks like it's time for you to take to the polls, first with a question for one of our two other cast members: who was your favorite co-star to work with on the show? Help us decide who answers!" As he says this, the graph changes to reflect the inquiry. "In the meantime, log into the After-Room chat to share feedback about the story so far, or pose some questions of your own for the screenwriter."

This just for fun! These votes and questions are all totally optional, and regardless of response I will launch the next episode sometime this weekend.

Select one:

>Ask Wilson Bethel
>Ask Mary Elizabeth Winstead

Additional feedback:

>Did this episode change your conception of Oliver, or does he seem about the same?
>How was the balance of dialogue, intrigue, and action? Do you feel like one was over-emphasized or that another was distinctly lacking? Not every episode will have fight sequences, but I want to know what clicks and feels rewarding to play.
>Were the horror elements/animal violence too much, or is there an appetite for more stuff that is dark and scary in that tone?
>Any theories about what's going on with 'Mack The Knife', or theories about what's going on with any of the other characters introduced thus far that have more going on under the surface (Doug, Jackson, Leonora, etc)?
>Write-in (encouraged!)

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Also in the meantime, just because, here's the After-Bloom OST so far:

Gordon Lightfoot - - - Sundown
Tanya Tucker - - - Delta Dawn
Bobby Darin - - - Mack The Knife
Sergio Mendes & Brasil '66 - - - Going Out of My Head
Tia Blake - - - Hangman
The Mystery Lights - - - It's Alright

>>6411064
>Ask Mary Elizabeth Winstead
Her character has been responsible for the show being shopped around a bit, as I hear it, but is an early favorite as well with certain segments of the audience. How does she balance that edge to her performance with relatability? Has she ever found herself pulling back from the script, wanting to soften her character?

>Did this episode change your conception of Oliver, or does he seem about the same?
About the same, but the other characters and circumstances around him are more nuanced than at first blush.

>How was the balance of dialogue, intrigue, and action? Do you feel like one was over-emphasized or that another was distinctly lacking? Not every episode will have fight sequences, but I want to know what clicks and feels rewarding to play.
While I know there are elements of drama/character building, mystery, and action in each segment, I admit I do sort of semi-consciously think of Oliver sections as drama sections, Roy sections as the mystery ones, and Magda sections as the action scenes.

>Were the horror elements/animal violence too much, or is there an appetite for more stuff that is dark and scary in that tone?
I love a good horror quest and, while I love animals, I have no special attachment to them over humans. I find it weird when people do. The implication of some dude eating two kids in the last thread, in the background for Roy's friend, was way grislier

>Any theories about what's going on with 'Mack The Knife', or theories about what's going on with any of the other characters introduced thus far that have more going on under the surface (Doug, Jackson, Leonora, etc)?
I think Mac is a Green given a mission and special powers to carry it out. I admit that I am also weirdly partial to imagining the "giant evil chameleon who kills people" theory which another anon put forth, though.

>>6410431
>Duck down, hide, then wait to exit through the door in the rightmost room to come up behind them for an ambush, shooting them in their backs as they go down the service entrance hallway. (GREEN ARROW)

BANG BANG

>>6411178
…I should have updated the thread… I am a little late

>>6411064
>Were the horror elements too much?
They’re absolutely perfect. The initial horror elements (80% of humanity being “Weapons’d” by the trees) made the setting intriguing, but the more in-your-face elements do a great job of selling how alien the setting really is.

>Theories about Mack
Clearly is human, probably older given his love for an old pop song. That’s the best I’ve got though.

>>6411106
>How does she balance that edge to her performance with relatability? Has she ever found herself pulling back from the script, wanting to soften her character?
"You know, I think more so than pulling back, to get to the softness I have to lean in. It's there, definitely, but just, it's buried under this lifetime of chaos and trauma, way before the Bloom. It's only now, after leaving the Hangmen behind, after the end of the world, that she is achieving independence, and actual control over her life. Most of the others feel like they have less control than ever, they don't understand what's going on. I think that experience is softening her, really, being in this totally new kind of community, having friends, even, so unlike anything she's known, and it gives her this latitude to let her guard down sometimes without even noticing. She's maybe even cracking a bit, because all this breathing room means finally reckoning with the life she left behind, and having the space and choice to really reflect on that and be affected by it in ways she couldn't before. So that edge, I think it is something that as I play her, I am meeting head on and almost going through, like a battering ram, to get to the hurt girl on the inside, you know?"

>>6411106
>Oliver sections as drama sections, Roy sections as the mystery ones, and Magda sections as the action scenes.
Yaknow, that is a really succinct way to lay it out. Naturally kind of happens in playing to their strengths and weaknesses, and hopefully over time allows for the story to cover those different bases without it feeling tedious.
>>6411187
Thanks anon, appreciate the kind words. I do have a lot of spooky ideas and of course I am trying to pace myself and build the suspense up, which I think can feel extra challenging because of /qst/ moving slow, like, week in week out I want more and more to drop the Scary Stuff, yaknow, or even have new ideas entirely. Still, we'll get there!

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Scored one of these hardcover copies of this guide at the bookstore, my ex actually found it while poking around the used section and had the owner hold it, it's pretty cool!

On one hand, reading about Vanderbilt and his family feels like reading about the Egan dynasty from Severance LMFAO, but on the other, this thing has bits of lore the tour just couldn't manage.

Like, I didn't know Vanderbilt had 16th and 17th century katanas from a Japan trip, I think they're in storage or I just didn't notice them against all the other opulent bullshit?? Those are gonna make an appearance for sure.

>>6411801
>Tiger Widow with a katana
Oh, Mack's right fucked now.

>>6411106
>giant evil chameleon who kills people
Seems to have a goal. Need more info to figure out what that goal is though.

Afternoon my dear Bloomoids, I'm chipping away at our next update. Gonna be doing another Magda episode, but with some fresh color I hope. Cold Open coming in hot!

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<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

"Whatcha think coulda made someone do a thing like that?" Wonders Beau aloud. His voice is somber, and rather quiet. He's twenty two now, just barely a man, with a lean, lanky frame that doesn't betray the strength he's developed helping you survive this past year. Scraggly peach fuzz aspires to be a beard on his tan face, and he squints under his wife brimmed fishing hat. You couldn't be more proud of the adult he's becoming, and you couldn't wish more that he didn't have to see something like... This.

Your name is Jed Singer, and it's been 581 days since the forest took the world. You and your son, Beau Singer, were both miraculously spared what the two of you refer to as 'The Lure', that compelled your wife and other two sons to flee out of sight, along with most of your neighbors, and most of everybody as you've come to learn in your travels. You live out here in the middle jungle of what people used to call Alabama, just a half dozen miles outside of the largest community you know of, Fort Furnace - a ramshackle complex built around the ruins of the old Sloss Furnaces on the edge of Birmingham.

You're fur trappers, hunters, foragers, and scrappers. When you woke up, your hope was that you'd have snared enough small game to make some trades at The Fort. Your calendar is mostly tally marks on the wall of your hideaway and a pair of gear clocks you keep running, but it suggests that your boy's birthday is getting near. You want to try and get him something special this year.

"Ain't nothin' in this world warrants doin' a thing like that, son." You say gruffly. You comb dirt-caked fingers through your unkempt beard, and sigh. "Probably one of them Lone Wolves, listenin' to the woods, got a wrong idea in his ears. Couldn't've been more'n a day, don't look like no animals've got at him yet." You add, looking around you for signs of movement in the forest. The drone of insects and chorus of birds all around isn't enough to dispel the isolating sensation caused by this macabre scene.

>Cont'd

While checking your traps, the pair of you have come upon a body. A man probably close to your age, he looks middle-Eastern to you, Saudi or maybe Iranian, you think, based on your time in that part of the world back in the day. You aren't sure which reminds you more of the carnage in Fallujah, his complexion and facial features, or the brutality of what's been done to him independent of his ethnicity.

He's hanging by his feet from what you think is an ironwood tree of some kind. You aren't sure, you've mostly focused on learning about the plants that'll kill you, first. His head, upside down, is level with your own, and a second noose is affixed to his neck, and around a pair of cinder blocks on the other end, which dangle just a couple of feet above the forest floor. His olive skin is flush and bruised with the blood that's pooled behind it, just beginning to look like an abused gourd of some kind. Awful way to go. You hope his neck broke.

"Let's not linger. I got a bad feelin' here." You say, gripping the straps of your backpack and pulling them forward to re-settle it on your back.

Beau's attention has moved away from the cadaver and to the plants around him, off to the left. He moves further in, seemingly not hearing you.

You step forward. "Hey, you listenin' to me? Whoever it was could still be around, we oughta clear out, I ain't lookin' to spend no bullets on another one of them basket case's, ya hear?"

"I hear ya paw, but look here. See, it... I don't think it were just one fella. One trail of tracks, but see how tread it is?" Your son says stepping in even further and pointing between two trees.

Cautiously, you draw nearer, and start to notice the same. Moving single file to hide numbers. Hard not to leave a trace of passing in the dense brush and undergrowth. But a keen eye can tell when more than one pair of feet are blazing a trail. Squinting close, you suspect about ten. The realization freezes you, and when Beau looks over his shoulder at you for confirmation, you suspect he can see the anxiety roiling behind your eyes by how his lips tighten with worry. "Good eye, son. More reason to move on. This's just off our trappin' route. Whoever done this could be waitin' on us up a'ways. Oughta head home now, hunker down." You say firmly. The ones that end up on their own, and stay that way - the Lone Wolves as you've come to call them - well, they're dangerous. You've got an idea of what's in their heads. You got separated from Beau once, early on, for about half a day. You heard the wind whispering in your ear, right to the back of your mind. You've heard stories from folks at The Fort. But a group of ten people is way worse. That means they did this knowingly, intentionally, and probably have before. Definitely would again. And with odds of five to one, instead of one to two... They could pretty easily.

>Cont'd

"I hear ya... But, uh, ya see where they headed, right?" Beau replies quietly.

"You're hearin' but you ain't listenin', it don't..." You start to dismiss, but as you look out, and up, your voice trails off and gets lost between the leaves. You notice the angle of the sunlight.

The ones that did this look to be moving right for Fort Furnace.

You breathe in slow. You breathe out slower. You look past your bow and out into the dense green tangle of the unknown.

The Fort is maybe pushing four hundred people now. Tons of refugees from Birmingham and the area around it. The root-riddled rubble of the city itself has dozens of other, smaller groups all throughout, competing for scarce resources and territory, there could be a thousand people in the general area, maybe two. A crew of ten killers isn't likely to get very far if they can't mind their manners around there.

But... You have friends there. You visit weekly. Even if they don't get far, if they try anything at all. Whoever they are, you've got an ugly eye-full of what they're capable of.

Select One:

>You need to head to Fort Furnace in order to warn the community there about these dangerous people. A group of ten or so strangers won't be hard to single out, and you can get them out of the area before someone else is hurt. To avoid coming up right on their trail and possibly walking into an ambush, you'll use a shortcut through a copse of dangerous trees that most people avoid, slightly to the North. You have the equipment to get through safely as long as you're careful.
>You can't risk tangling with a group of people like this. You're taking Beau back to your dugout, it's well disguised underneath a broken down bus that's tipped on its side. You'll wait to give these strangers time to pass through, then head to The Fort carefully, the community will have to look after itself in the meantime.
>Write-in

>>6413850
If these folks are appearing, so unfamiliar and in a new area, and in Magda chapter... This is flashback. And these are dead men.

>You need to head to Fort Furnace in order to warn the community there about these dangerous people. A group of ten or so strangers won't be hard to single out, and you can get them out of the area before someone else is hurt. To avoid coming up right on their trail and possibly walking into an ambush, you'll use a shortcut through a copse of dangerous trees that most people avoid, slightly to the North. You have the equipment to get through safely as long as you're careful.

Good luck and godspeed, Alabamans.

>>6413850
>You can't risk tangling with a group of people like this. You're taking Beau back to your dugout, it's well disguised underneath a broken down bus that's tipped on its side. You'll wait to give these strangers time to pass through, then head to The Fort carefully, the community will have to look after itself in the meantime.
These guys are probably done for either way, but I ain't going anywhere near these monsters

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>>6413993
>This is flashback.
Yup
Quest started roughly 5 years and some change into the Bloom, whereas now we're at
>581 days
So closer to a year and a half
I rode by the Sloss furnaces once, I was doing LSD in a sleeper suite on the back of the crescent 19 Amtrak down to NOLA, long, long fucking ride. It reminded me of something from a Studio Ghibli movie. Thought that, like Biltmore, it'd be an interesting place after being swallowed by plants and confused people.
I want to lean on the pasts of some of these characters in my storytelling, but can't do it all with exposition.
It'll be helpful to show instead of tell, when it comes to the Hangmen of Eden.

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They have a big venue attached now for hosting events and doing tours, people throw weddings and stuff there. Plus, like the Biltmore, all that old mechanical stuff can be put back into service a lot easier than something like a data center, or an Apple store. Just takes time, tinkering, and elbow grease.

>>6413850
>You need to head to Fort Furnace in order to warn the community there about these dangerous people. A group of ten or so strangers won't be hard to single out, and you can get them out of the area before someone else is hurt. To avoid coming up right on their trail and possibly walking into an ambush, you'll use a shortcut through a copse of dangerous trees that most people avoid, slightly to the North. You have the equipment to get through safely as long as you're careful.

>>6413850
>You need to head to Fort Furnace in order to warn the community there about these dangerous people. A group of ten or so strangers won't be hard to single out, and you can get them out of the area before someone else is hurt. To avoid coming up right on their trail and possibly walking into an ambush, you'll use a shortcut through a copse of dangerous trees that most people avoid, slightly to the North. You have the equipment to get through safely as long as you're careful.

>>6413850
>You need to head to Fort Furnace in order to warn the community there about these dangerous people. A group of ten or so strangers won't be hard to single out, and you can get them out of the area before someone else is hurt. To avoid coming up right on their trail and possibly walking into an ambush, you'll use a shortcut through a copse of dangerous trees that most people avoid, slightly to the North. You have the equipment to get through safely as long as you're careful.

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You glance around for a minute, letting your shoulders slump with resignation. You'd have hoped the apocalypse wouldn't have so many moral dilemmas and tough calls, but it seems the TV shows all had that part right. What a fucking racket.

"Right... Well." You spit off to the side and sigh, dropping to a knee. "We follow their trail, might run into em'. We bend the creek, like they're gonna, it'll be bout' seven hours before we get in. So, we gotta head through the Devil's Salad Bowl." You go on.

Beau nods a couple of times, and takes off his backpack, then starts unrolling the sleeves of the denim button down he's wearing to cover his forearms. He doesn't say anything, though. You've only had to move through the Salad three times since all of this started, and after receiving a lot of warnings from some other locals. It's effective for escaping dangerous game, or the occasional crew of bandits, but only with the right equipment. You pull a pair of gallon Ziploc bags out, and toss one to your son. He starts pulling out heavy work gloves, and a rolled up canvas coverall you salvaged from a hardware store and spray painted with green and brown camouflage.

The Devil's Salad Bowl is an area of the forest near here that's about two miles in diameter at its widest, and maybe a mile at its shortest, on the far end, with a kidney sort of shape to its layout, based on the best mapping done so far. It gets its name from the curious density of plants that will ruin your whole month, assuming they don't kill you outright. People have painted thick red bands around trees near the border to help travellers or those less familiar with toxic flora. You can only identify a couple of the worst offenders, yourself - the dynamite tree, covered in recognizable spikes, and the gympie-gympie, which is a smaller sort of tree covered in fine little hairs that you're told will drive a man to suicide with disfiguring nerve damage. But that's two out of, reportedly, twelve genuinely dangerous plants that cover the whole area for whatever reason, not including more trivial hazards like poison ivy. You step into your own set of coveralls, and tuck the legs into your socks.

>Cont'd

Once the two of you have some protective layers on, you begin hiking off to the side, trying to be brisk, but looking all around for indications of being watched or followed. Your blood pressure is up and you've got jitters under your skin, unable to stop thinking about the potential danger, unable to put out of your mind the vision of that hanging cadaver.

"Stew for supper?" Beau suddenly asks, grabbing your attention.

You glance back over your shoulder momentarily, without slowing your pace, but look back ahead before you confirm. "Sure." A beat passes. "Maybe while we're in town we get somethin' for that. Think Cici would trade us some paprika for some of them huckleberries?"

"Oh, definitely, she been makin' shrubs with whatever berries she can get her paws on. They got sugar cane goin' in the greenhouse now, y'know. She was tellin' me she fixed up one of them old SodaStreams from back in the day, so if she can get some CO2, she can throw it all together and make berry sodas. Ain't that wild?" He answers.

You smile. That is pretty wild. "If we can get huckleberry soda in just a couple years of this mess, maybe we could get back where we got hospitals and football inside this decade." You say hopefully.

Beau snickers behind you. "Hell, I'd settle for golf, and I ain't even like golf."

"You'd've been a good golfer, son." You remark, stepping over the outstretched fingers of a particularly large root.

"Whysat?"

"You got a good eye, but mostly, you're patient. Y'know, first time I told your mama I loved her we was golfin'. Mini-golfin', anyways."

"That so? Where at? That spot out by the fireworks place on Westside?"

"Nah, back in North Carolina. I was still over at Fort Bragg, it was out by the highway. I'd drive by a couple times with my buddy, he said it'd be a good spot to take her on account of the cocktail specials they was runnin' on my off nights. Three dollars off tequila sunrise, your Mama's favorite, and dollar off Corona sunrise, my favorite."

"Which buddy? The NASA fella?"

"Yup, good ol' Henry, but that was a ways before he left the service. He had a girlfriend that had worked bar there, so he talked it up, heh, he knew if I was takin' your mama out I'd tip bigger to show off. Didn't know the one makin' our drinks was his girl until the next day, had a good laugh about it." You're soothed by the nostalgia.

>Cont'd

At the same time, there's a pang of sorrow when you remember your wife. It isn't the biggest feeling in the room, anymore, when it shows up. But it's there. It still hurts. The abruptness, the lack of closure.

The last time you saw Evie, or either of your other boys, Rowan and Bradley, they were running off into the woods... They were like a family of deer, the way they deftly maneuvered over the undergrowth and debris, dodging around tree trunks until they were out of sight, and gone forever. You were face down in the mud, looking up through a veil of ferns, tearing them aside and clawing to get up, ankle sprained in your effort not fall too far behind. When you finally did get back to your feet, and hobbled ahead as fast as you could through the throbbing pain, their trails all just vanished right past the edge of where they last slipped from your view. It was as if they'd only remained on this Earth for as long as you could see them, once they started to run.

You and Beau don't talk about that first day anymore.

But you still talk about your wife, and his brothers, pang of sorrow and all. You figure it's the only way to keep them with you.

The pair of you keep chatting as you are for another mile or two, covering a range of topics from your time in the air force, to building a root cellar, to the goofy looking eyebrows on the main mushroom vendor at The Fort, and how he seems to be styling them with grease.

Eventually, though, you see bits of red in the distance, and make them out as the warning markers of the Salad's outer perimeter. You both slip on your ski masks, which are rather warm and stuffy, then draw the hoods of your coveralls over your heads.

Jed and Beau will now attempt to pass through the Devil's Salad Bowl in order to get to Fort Furnace quickly, saving on critically needed time, food, and energy. Having equipment to protect them from incidental contact poisoning will negate the worst of the penalties, but the foliage here is dangerous in more ways than one, and so there will be no positive modifier either.

>Roll 1d100, BO3

Rolled 77 (1d100)

>>6414257
Good luck flashback gang

Rolled 8 (1d100)

>>6414257

Rolled 5 (1d100)

>>6414257

>>6414301
>>6414315
>>6414334
Holy fuck this is something else.
I think QM’s interlude almost got cut early.

>>6414482
Yah I'm finally home to write but a sub-10 would've been a terribly graphic way to go. Narrow dodge!

Gonna be a longer one fellas, but it's coming along...

>>6414938
No worries, see you soon QM.

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You both pause once you're standing next to the first tree with a red band. It has a milky white sap leaking out in a couple of places on its grey-brown trunk. You don't know what it is, but you do know that sap that color is usually bad news - especially here. It doesn't rain anymore, but you've been told that just standing under some of these during a light shower can transfer toxic sap onto one's skin, and lead to an agonizing rash, or even death.

You meet your sons eyes, and exchange a wordless nod. Then you set off, side by side.

In some places, the bushes, vines, and trees are so tight together that you simply can't move through without squeezing through a curtain of leaves. Frequently you have to put your arms and gloved hands ahead of you to push through, as if feeling your way through a dense fog. You've both got long knives for clearing some brush, which is sometimes necessary, if done carefully. But here you risk contaminating the blades, or maybe flecks of sap splashing and getting into the eye holes of your masks. Even if not, you wouldn't want to leave such an obvious trail behind you with a dangerous element in the area, even in a place where few tread.

And few tread here indeed. Everyone knows about the Salad Bowl's peculiar proliferation of toxins. That's reason enough. But there are rumors, too - ones you don't believe, really - that wandering here too long can be dangerous for other reasons entirely. That you can get Lost. Certainly more than a few have wandered in and failed to return. But the bodies are generally recognizable, recovered with some effort. Some others though, have supposedly vanished altogether. No corpses. No tracks. No trace. A few of the vendors at The Fort have suggested that it's just like how so many went missing during the Bloom, or how some Lone Wolves are spared neuroses, compulsive habits, or homicidal urges, and instead go running off into the forest and disappear. A couple of merchants insisted that copses of poisonous trees are more likely to drive men mad, that the wind whispers louder between them, or that it's the trees themselves that do all that whispering... And toxic trees make for the most deranging kinds of whispers.

>Cont'd

Beau must be thinking about the same old stories, because he speaks up and asks a question that's been on your mind since you saw the first red band on the horizon.

"Hey... We ain't really talked on it, but, when that Flynn fella was sayin' all that stuff bout' the Deep Woods... You think that's real?"

You squint a bit, but keep moving. "Do you?" You respond, keeping your voice low.

He doesn't reply for almost half a minute. You begin to think that the silence is his answer, and it would be acceptable. But then he speaks back up. "Idunno. Can't be no less possible than the rest, right? I could smell the shine on him. Couldn't tell be lookin' in his eye. But his girls... His wives. The way they looked.... Idunno, hard for me to figure somethin' ain't real could put a fear like that in the back of a person's eye, y'know?"

You remember. The dark, glassy stare. Eyes that had seen horror. Flynn's an amputee, homeless even before the world went verdant, a fixture at the Birmingham bus depot, and the jailhouse too. His 'wives' were part of the street population too, and they must have linked up early on, cohabitating at the bus depot and using their survival skills from before to carve out a lives for themselves in the jungle. They distill moonshine and ferment toilet wine, and trade it for protection or food. A week ago you shared a dinner with them. The conversation shifted to the topic of the Devil's Salad Bowl, and a rather intoxicated Flynn had tales to tell.

He swore that the legends of the Deep Woods are all true. They've cropped up among survivors since the beginning, basically, you'd heard murmurs before. Flynn insisted that toxic groves like the Salad Bowl are one of the most reliable ways in. One just has to find the centermost point, and then begin walking out in a counterclockwise spiral. Each loop takes on deeper... And soon you find yourself surrounded by trees so massive, so dense, and so ancient, that the sunset light can't penetrate to the forest floor. Supposedly, in this hallowed darkness, one can come face to face with the things that pitch their wicked whispers on the breeze for the ears of the abandoned.

>Cont'd

"Well, the man was a crackpot bastard before any of this nonsense. I don't figure it's made him no less crazy livin' in the depot, drinkin' himself down to nothin'." You say. A beat passes "Look, son, far as I'm concerned, we got troubles enough without wonderin' bout no dark part of the forest full of giant bugs and chatterin' demons hidin' under shrubs."

Beau exhales sharply through his nostrils. "Right, right."

You push aside a veil of drooping, thin branches, and step through, keeping your hand out to have it held aside so your son can follow. Rounding an Elm that's being choked by an unfamiliar web of vines, you see one such present trouble: a sandbox tree that is at least three or four times it's naturally occurring size. You slow your steps, and gesture with a hand for Beau to move gently as well.

The trunk is covered entirely by thick, fat thorns, each larger than your fist, and running along the full width of the tree. Tripping or bumping up against it can cause big problems, the thorns easily puncture flesh, and these trees also possess a poisonous sap. But what's on your mind now is the fruit hanging high above like the sword of Damocles... In this endless midsummer dusk, fruit is always in the neighborhood of ripe, growing to full maturity quickly when a plant has been harvested. The fruit of the sandbox tree (sometimes called the dynamite tree) are not for eating or harvesting, however. The fruit of these trees tends to explode forcefully on contact with the ground. The spiky thorns on them are launched forcefully like shrapnel as a result. This can maim and kill even under normal circumstances. A specimen this size could drop a fruit large enough to shred a dozen men on impact.

The conversation is cut short by your mutual need to be fully attentive. Like mountaineers anticipating an avalanche, you both step delicately and cautiously around the tree, giving it a wide berth.

>Cont'd

The giant sandbox tree is probably the most drastically lethal on your particular path through the area. At least that you recognize. You treat just about everything here like a death trap waiting to go off. As a result, the tour from one side to the other spans the better part of an hour - a long time to be surrounded by so much danger on all sides. It feels even longer, though everything tends to drag between glances at your old Casio, with the current way of the world.

But it only feels that way, and when you see red stripes in the distance you know you've saved crucial time. Getting to the other side, you switch your field gloves out for nitrile ones from a pouch in your backpack, and Beau does the same. The procedure for packing back up your coveralls, masks, and other personal protection is as careful as the hike itself, but with good reason. Cross contamination from all of the toxins could still be a nightmare, or even kill someone.

When you're all ready to go again, you pat Beau on the back, eliciting a weak smile, and he pats a hand on your shoulder in turn. You pick the pace back up, and continue on to Fort Furnace.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Two more hours of steady trekking brings you finally to the outskirts of The Fort. You begin to detect the familiar scent of hot metal and steam. Passing by a familiar willow, you know the train tracks are just another two or three hundred yards, and your destination isn't far beyond. There are gnats and flies here in thick clouds, but nothing makes to bite or sting you at least. There are many places in the area thick with these sorts of pests, and while you still chafe at the biting of mosquitos or the like, you're rather numb to most of the rest. It's been months since you bothered swatting away at flitting swarms. Some land on your cheeks, lips, or beard, sure, but only briefly before zipping away and re-entering orbit around your head like so many satellites.

Gradually, more and more, you see glimmerings of green-yellow light, blinking pin pricks that lilt through the air and endure for only two seconds at a time before they fade back into nothing. There are dozens, then hundreds, stretching to the edge of your vision, some drawing near and circling your head like the other flying insects. The lightning bugs are one of the last landmarks before entering the territory of Fort Furnace, and so looking ahead you think you see where the ground begins sloping up towards the ruins of the train tracks.

>Cont'd

But you begin to notice something else. Something amiss.

The pattern-seeking brain that develops quickly in the jungle is always keen to reveal the out-of-place. You glean before Beau the straight lines on your periphery. Vines and branches cut abruptly in succession, terminating with a congruency that stands out readily to you even at some distance. It's off to the right... And then you see more to the left. You slow to half your speed, and place a hand out to brace your son's chest as he walks into it, and you both stop.

He doesn't ask you what's the matter, not wanting to make a sound if you're using your ears. He knows to trust and follow your lead out here, still. His breathing even quiets, and he slowly turns his head, craning his neck slightly to scan closely. He stops in some of the same areas as you.

None of the locals dispense with discretion to this degree anymore, not unless there's an emergency. People learned early on not to make themselves too easy to follow. You gesture for him to follow close, and move towards the nearest of these cuttings. Even just a few steps further allows you to see there are a lot of them. The path is actually the width of four people. In their wake, the ground and undergrowth are well-trodden, and freshly so by the bending and bruising of some low leaves. The slices are likely from broad machetes. You see plainly that they're made judiciously, accounting for the overall length of the plants and even avoiding ones you know to be prone to infection or weakness when cut. These people aren't from around here. You haven't seen anything quite like this in the area before - lacking in subtlety, and yet startlingly precise, and efficient. You strain your eyes, peering above and further off, and think you can make out another such column of movement. Plus the other two behind. Maybe more beyond on either side, even. The ones you see are all converging on your destination, and all head that way direction.

So you drop low, and quick, retracing your carefully placed steps to get back onto your own route, you have made sure to look closely for footfalls that are the least disruptive to the environment as the distance has closed on The Fort, as if rock-climbing and puzzling out handholds in advance.

>Cont'd

"Stay quiet. Eyes up." You whisper close to your son, and he nods. You both creep inwards through the twilight gloom of fireflies and dark anticipation. Getting close to the train tracks, you start to hear words spoken aloud. It's a lively settlement, and not unusual for the voices of traders and laborers carry a ways through the trees. But what you hear is more distinct, and carries a film of static and treble on it from whatever speaker is amplifying it - a bullhorn, you suspect. A male voice, adult, with a denser Southern drawl than yourself. You reach the rail, a rusty line blanketed in moss and a lattice of hungry roots. You hear other voices, other sounds, mingling with the electronic lecture. Women weeping. Men cursing. Children screaming.

You both creep up to a section of the chain link fence that is still held up by a mountain mahogany that's fused around it, while so much of the rest has been knocked over or cut free and salvaged entirely. You can see through a parting in the trees the red and green fingers of Fort Furnace stretching up above the canopy. All of the six smokestacks that still stand are wreathed with white jasmine and morning glories, and stand tall and thin like the obelisks of ancient Egyptian pharaohs against the orange sunset sky.

You're unable to discern precisely what it is the speaker with the bullhorn is saying, still, though it seems to be explained in a rather matter of fact manner. But you can see what's happening within the compound.

Someone has wound steel cable around the tops of two smokestacks, like a circus high wire. There are two chunks of metal aside one another near the middle, about the size of large apples, a few inches apart, big bolts or welded plates maybe, you can't tell. But you understand they've been affixed to the cable in order to keep the second cable - the one you see now has been run between them vertically, perpendicular to the ground and the 'high wire' - from sliding too far rightwards or leftwards. Just faintly the sound of a mechanical whir comes through from under the voice of the one with the bullhorn, and you watch in horror as the vertical cable becomes a triangle, pulling taut from the top and down to what's probably a motorized wench.

>Cont'd

The screaming from inside escalates sharply, harmonizing with angry shouts and arguing. As the cable is pulled, something new rises above the canopy.

A woman with a messy bun and a baggy t shirt.

For a moment it's almost like she is floating up above the forest, her silhouette dark against the perpetually setting sun's orange rays, and for half of a moment you're reminded of angels drifting skyward to heaven. But as she rises higher, you can see her legs kicking desperately. Her wrists are bound together behind her, and her ankles are bound too. She doesn't seem to be wearing shoes. She's flailing. She has a noose of steel cable around her neck, connected to the one being cranked up with a wench.

But she just keeps rising... And after a few feet of dead space, another human head, this time a man's, become's visible above the trees. He is likewise convulsing in pain, dancing on the air in search of some purchase. Another follows. When it comes to a stop the first victim is level with the apex of the smokestacks, and below the third you can see the upper half of a fourth. From here you can tell by the shape and the denim vest that you're looking at Cici.

Beau throws up.

You move to him abruptly and place a hand on his back, bringing him lower to the ground, trying to hush him as you look all around you, suddenly snapping to the present and ingesting how great the danger has become. You're definitely dealing with far more than ten people, or even fifty. They've taken The Fort. There must be hundreds. Too many to be discreet. Too many to care.

You can't stay here.

You need to get away from here now.

Letting out a low shakey breath, Beau looks up to you through teary red eyes, still collecting himself from the involuntary response.

Select One:

>Use one of the trails left by these marauders to get further away. The ground is well tread and vines have been cleared enough for a large group, so it will conceal your movement and allow much quicker traversal of the forest. You'll use it like an expressway to get as close to your dugout as you can, and then hunker down and hide for a week or two.
>Follow your own path back to the Devil's Salad Bowl and move for a spot as far from all the edges as you can. A group like this might have a solid supply of protective gear, but they're unlikely to have any reason to enter an area as dangerous as that. Seeing how surgical they were with which vines and branches they chose not to cut on their march, you're sure their forerunners will know better to barrel into a toxic grove like the Salad. You have enough food and water to survive for at least two days of hiding within.
>Write-in

>>6415254
>Follow your own path back to the Devil's Salad Bowl and move for a spot as far from all the edges as you can. A group like this might have a solid supply of protective gear, but they're unlikely to have any reason to enter an area as dangerous as that. Seeing how surgical they were with which vines and branches they chose not to cut on their march, you're sure their forerunners will know better to barrel into a toxic grove like the Salad. You have enough food and water to survive for at least two days of hiding within.
Ain't no way I'm treading the same paths as these monsters

>>6415254
>Follow your own path back to the Devil's Salad Bowl and move for a spot as far from all the edges as you can. A group like this might have a solid supply of protective gear, but they're unlikely to have any reason to enter an area as dangerous as that. Seeing how surgical they were with which vines and branches they chose not to cut on their march, you're sure their forerunners will know better to barrel into a toxic grove like the Salad. You have enough food and water to survive for at least two days of hiding within.
Our only advanatge against such a force is guerilla tactics and familiarity with the forest.

>>6415254
>Follow your own path back to the Devil's Salad Bowl and move for a spot as far from all the edges as you can. A group like this might have a solid supply of protective gear, but they're unlikely to have any reason to enter an area as dangerous as that. Seeing how surgical they were with which vines and branches they chose not to cut on their march, you're sure their forerunners will know better to barrel into a toxic grove like the Salad. You have enough food and water to survive for at least two days of hiding within.

>>6415254
>Use one of the trails left by these marauders to get further away. The ground is well tread and vines have been cleared enough for a large group, so it will conceal your movement and allow much quicker traversal of the forest. You'll use it like an expressway to get as close to your dugout as you can, and then hunker down and hide for a week or two.

>>6415254
>Follow your own path back to the Devil's Salad Bowl and move for a spot as far from all the edges as you can. A group like this might have a solid supply of protective gear, but they're unlikely to have any reason to enter an area as dangerous as that. Seeing how surgical they were with which vines and branches they chose not to cut on their march, you're sure their forerunners will know better to barrel into a toxic grove like the Salad. You have enough food and water to survive for at least two days of hiding within.

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"C'mon, get your kit back on quick, we're goin' back the way we come. We'll hide in the Salad Bowl til' we're out of supplies, maybe they'll be gone by then." You say in a hushed voice, looking past him to the direction of the sound of a panicking crowd. The speech has stopped, whatever it was about, and so have the movements of those being hung from the smokestacks. As you take a knee and put your backpack onto the ground, you notice the corpses start to descend... Probably in preparation for the next round of executions.

Beau copies your movements, unzipping his bag from a squatting position. "What if they dig in, decide they like the place, start patrollin' more?" He asks.

Your brow furrows. "If they was able to take the Fort, they gotta have at least a couple hundred people, but I bet more unless every one of em' is a fighter. Movin' that many people through the woods is hard, and seems to me they got it dialed in with procedure. Plus, a group that big and that mean, we'd have known about em' before now if they was from around here or even near here." You start to explain, putting nitrile gloves on first to carefully unfurl your coveralls once more. "My money's on them bein' from farther out. I think they're wanderers. Best move is to go where they won't risk the resources to search. Even if they got protective gear, they can only carry so much medicine, and so many wounded, if they do at all. If they got a group this big to travel, they must see people as an investment. If we bolt for our place we could end up leadin' em' there and get trapped."

Your son doesn't say anything, but you can tell your assessment makes sense to him, even if it's less than satisfying to accept the best move is to rush back into a lethal stretch of the forest and hide. He is quick and purposeful in getting back into his protective gear, all the same.

You zip up your coveralls and reach back into your bag, finally pulling out a leather chest holster with three straps to wrap around the left shoulder and under your arms. You slide your handgun snugly inside, a matte black M1911 with a worn, walnut grip. You put a couple of spare magazines into your pockets, as well. Beau notices, and pulls the pieces of his AR-7 rifle from his own backpack and quickly assembles it. You exchange a glance, telling one another with your eyes that you're ready to shoot, even if you hope badly it doesn't come to such a thing - you both assume rather safely that you're outgunned. His rifle is perfect for hunting small game and some birds, but at the end of the day it's a .22 caliber gun meant for surviving, not fighting. Your pistol is chambered in .45 ACP and packs plenty of punch, but it has a limited capacity and even more limited effective range... Still, they're the only firearms you possess any ammunition for at this point.

>Cont'd

You move a bit quicker this time as you return along the same path, trying to put as much distance between yourself and The Fort as you can before-

"RARRF GROWF-ARF RRRHRHR-RAWRF ARF GRARRF!"

You can just faintly hear it behind you, the growling and barking of hounds. No more than three or four. Too small for a pack of strays, and they tend to move more quietly until they start to close in, and surround their prey.

These are hunting dogs. Coming from the direction of The Fort.

You've probably already traveled a mile by now, maybe more. Which means they are gaining, and maybe on your trail already.

Turning around, you grab your son by the bicep, looking into his eyes through the holes in the ski masks.

"We gotta fuckin' book it. Mind your step, try to follow mine."

You give him a tug as you turn, and then let go, and break into as fast of a run as you can manage. It'll leave a more obvious trace of your passing, but if they aren't already in pursuit it's only a matter of time. Their hounds are in earshot, which means line of sight soon and scent sooner, again, if it isn't already being traced.

The only thing on Jed's mind now is making it to the borders of the Devil's Salad Bowl and relying on the plants to slow down and deter further pursuit enough that they can both hide inside, and escape later. But the marauders behind him and his son are trained trackers and pioneers, in the old sense of the term. The protective gear will allow much quicker traversal once inside the Salad, but is slightly restrictive, and running through the forest is challenging even under the best of circumstances. There will be a -20 penalty to escape, and difficulty is high.

>Roll 1d100-20, BO3

Rolled 21 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>6415971
Leave this to ME

Rolled 50 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>6415971
It's so over

Rolled 70 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>6415971

>>6416072
>50
Bye bye Jed.

Another long update guys, but I MAY have it out tonight because I am really grooving now, and when I grab a chance to write it is really flowing.

Ok yep that zipped by

I know this is 4CHAN! And so no one is going to be too perturbed by nasty language or threats, but it is a blue board - this next section is pretty intense, and the violence is pretty graphic as is some of the language. So, mind your own comfort levels and headspace!

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"RARRF GROWF-ARF RRRHRHR-RAWRF ARF GRARRF!"

"Whatcha got, girls, whatcha got? Got a runner? Goo-girl Josie, good good girl Bailey."

Eyes half-lidded in contentment, you smile to yourself, just a touch intoxicated by the thrill of the hunt, the adrenaline of your crusade, and the surety of your mission. The girls tugged you over to a fresh pile of vomit on the perimeter of this fragile little town, and now they're chomping at the bit to run down the weak-bellied worm that couldn't help but hurl at the sight of the Lord's judgment. To think there's someone trying to hide in the woods right now that could be so disgusted by righteous wrath, and yet presumably content day-in and day-out to abide by the miserable little Gomorrah that was made of the old Sloss Furnaces... Whoever they are, they're direly in need of the Bad News.

Your name is Magdalene Johanna Pickett, and it's been some many months since the verdant dawn of the Age of Revelation. Maybe a year? Two? You don't know or bother thinking about it. The Lord has brought a needed end to many things, including time and it's passage. There are no months, or years, anymore. There is only the singular glorious morning, unending and profound like the Garden itself.

You are the Second Sword of the Red Horse Regiment, sworn officer of the Gallow Knights of The Garden of Eden, scourge of the likewise-damned.

Sometimes your unholy order is referred to more simply as The Hangmen of Eden.

"I think we got two, lookit how them two prints don't match on the left side every so often." Says your companion, Amon. He's six and a half feet tall, with a broad, muscular physique like a linebacker, though he only ever played football on the compound growing up, he'd have easily gone pro. He's your cousin, the third son of your uncle, and among the meaner of his brood.

Like yourself, he is wearing a Rhodesian camo BDU shirt, matching fatigue pants, black leather belt and boots, and has two red cloth bands wrapped around his biceps marking his station as a fellow Red Horse officer. His armbands feature a single, thick black line in the middle, however, while yours have two thin ones, to signal that he is the First Sword and you the Second respectively. Also like you, he has two vicious dogs at the end of taut chains held tight in his left fist, and a machete in the other hand. Your girls are a pair of German shepherds, while he is led by a massive kangal and a frothing malinois.

>Cont'd

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Amon's toothy grin is framed by his goattee, and his bald, jar-shaped head turns to you as the hounds hasten you both along to your quarry. "If it's one of em', I say we just let th'dogs chow down. If it's two, we oughta drag one back for paw. Could be townies, but I reckon they just as liable ta' be from one a' th'camps in them ruins, or fringes, like them whores at th'depot an' that shriveled cripple. Might know where more of em's hidin'."

"Sure thing." You agree. There's little need for more converts; nearly a hundred from the community you just captured have given themselves to the pursuit of the Lord. But more camps also means more food, medicine, weapons, and tools. It also means more of Heaven's Rejects delivered weeping to the lake of fire where they belong. "When we get back I'ma fix up somethin' ta eat, squirrel stew with some a' them cardamoms an' green bell peppers from that caravan you said you like. Want in? I got plenty." You offer.

This elicits an even wider grin, and he bobs his head in agreement. "Damn right motherfucker! Y'know I think I still got some cornbread mix in my footlocker, too, I'll bring a box an' get some bakin' while you dress th'varmint, eh?" He says in turn.

You'll have to make sure that dumbass slave girl sets the stove and oven up properly this time, you think, though you wouldn't mind watching her squirm while you sizzle another one of her fingers over the fire like you did that time you caught her peeking at you in the bath through the flaps of your tent. Maybe it's time to send her on to Hell, let the Devil take care of the rest, and take a new servant from the fresh crop of conscripts. Surely the people living between a bunch of giant furnaces know their way around a cast iron oven, right? You sigh dreamily, shifting your thoughts to the wonderful meal ahead of you. "Sounds fuckin' perfect ta' me, big guy. If we got cornbread on deck y'know we gotta invite Jackson an' Esther, though, they'd never letcha hear th'end of it if ya cracked open one a' them boxes without sayin'." You say.

Your cousin chuckles, nodding along. "I can live with that."

Even in your Damnation you feel blessed by the Lord to be able to share this day with so much of your family, forever. While you pray thanks for those the Lord took under his wing and into his heart, whisking them away, calling them to find their way to heaven in the depths of his Garden, you have to admit you sometimes wonder if they look down on you all with a touch of jealousy. No more government, no more Jew-rat elite manipulators, no more faggot corporations shoveling chemicals down everyone's throats... You and your kin crusading across the most beautiful, bountiful Garden in history, delivering punishment to all the other damned souls down here until your uncle finally finds the Tree...

>Cont'd

A short while passes by, it seems, and something's gotten right into the dogs. You're nearly in a jog now with how they're yanking on the chains, growling and snarling for red meat. You and Amon trundle ahead, eyes sharp and scanning the green static for-

"Leven'uh'clock, got eyes on two of em'." You say, pointing, both of your hounds already scrambling against the roots and dirt to rush the poor bastards.

Two figures in full camouflage jumpsuits of some kind, with black gloves and black ski masks on their heads, the latter half concealed by hoods attached to their outfits. One's got a rifle or carbine of some kind, and both have hefty hiking backpacks. Beyond them a ways you see faint flecks of color peeking through here and there, traces of orange or red maybe, possibly markers for a trail or another settlement.

Amon raises his machete and swings down, letting go so that it buries itself upright in the dirt. He smiles wide, dropping to a knee and reeling in the dogs, which are by now positively rabid. "Aright guys, go on n' git em', go git em'!" He says as their collars are simultaneously unfastened.

The malinois, Azrael, rockets ahead, disappearing beneath the brush and ferns like a torpedo beneath the waves. Sandlot is the name of his Kangal, great big beast that it is, and she gallops right through all those plants without a fraction of a care, coming up behind the other hunter like a juggernaut with drool dripping from thick jowls.

You keep Bailey and Josie close, and continue at the pace you were as you close in, with Amon remaining by your side as he coils the chain leashes up in his hands, having tucked the machete into its sheath along his right hip. "Hehehe-hoo-whee! GIT EM' BABY, SHRED THAT SUCKER!" He shouts with wicked glee.

This causes the two to slow a touch, turning, they hear and see you both now. They start trying to move faster. The one with the rifle is just ahead. The other glances over his shoulder twice, and then he pulls free a handgun from in front of him, his chest.

He points it in your general direction and screams. "RUN BOY AN' DONTCHU FUCKIN' STOP RUNNIN TIL' YER CLEAR! GO! RUN LIKE HELL!"

BANG-BANG! BANG!

He squeezes off three rounds.

"SHIT!" You cut left and brace your back against a tree for cover.

>Cont'd

You peek out, and see that the one with the rifle, the lankier of the two, is doing as instructed and sprinting off ahead. Amon is staying low and to the side but continues to advance as the dogs get the home stretch.

BANG! BANG-BANG!

"AIIIEEEE-AIOW-OWHHHhh!"

You see the ripple in the leaves tumble to a stop as that last bullet finds its mark, and brings Azrael careening to a whimpering stop. Grizzly keeps barreling ahead.

"SONUVA-MOTHERFUCKER! MOTHERFUCKGER I'MA FUGKIN' MURDER ALL YA'LL! MOTHERFUCKER YER DEAD! Y'HEAR-ME-YER-FUCKIN-DEAD!" Amon erupts into a full throated scream, and jumps up into a full throttle sprint, just as much a juggernaut as his remaining hound.

BANG!-Clik

Another miss, and an empty magazine.

"GRAWRRARFH!"

Grizz leaps forward and latches onto the shooter, biting onto the right bicep and causing the pistol to clatter to the forest floor.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Your name is Jed Singer, and you know that this is the end.

Not terribly different from how it started.

"AAAUGHHHAAAARR-RUN BEAU, JUS' KEEP RUNNIN'! AAAAAHHHG AH FUCK, FUCK!" You shout.

You're on the ground, on your back, peering up through low ferns and slithering vines, watching as your son sprints deeper into the forest. This time, from your vantage, he's upside down, racing across the ceiling of your perspective.

But, as tragedy repeats itself, there is a deviation.

Beau does what his brothers could not. He does what Evangeline couldn't do.

He looks back, over his shoulder, into your eyes one last time.

Face obscured by the ski mask, you still thank God for that final look into his eyes. It's a look that says, 'I love you more than anything, dad.' And one that contains uncountable goodbyes, and an infinity of thanks, and a bottomless ocean of hope.

He's strong, smart, and has a good idea... He's patient, and he's kind. You face what's next with pride, and with some small scrap of... Peace.

>Cont'd

The pain rippling across your arm and shoulder is indescribable, making another primal scream explode out of your lungs. "AHHHGAAAARRRRRRRGODDAMMIT FUCK!" You fumble on the ground with your left hand, adrenaline starting to soak through the veneer of paralyzing pain, and into your heart. You find a palm-sized rock, not ideal, but don't hesitate to slam it into the head of the dog that's got you pinned. You bash him a couple of times, but the behemoth just snarls and clamps down harder. The fucker is actually gonna snap the bone if it keeps up, you're sure. You wind your arm back to bash his head again and-

"DUMBMUTHERFUCKER-YER-DEAD!" Shouts the larger of your two pursuers as he bursts into proximity at high speed, kicking your hand so hard that you can hear your wrist snap, and the stone arcs off into the distance like a football. "THINK YER GUNNA FUCK UP MY DOGS!? FUCK YOU SHITHEAD! FUCK YOU!" He kicks your head next, and all the sounds of the world coalesce into a muted throbbing, and ringing.

He stomps on your chest, and your stomach, expelling the air from you and crunching ribs. He keeps a foot on your chest and reaches down to grip your ski mask, and rips it off roughly, simply causing it to tear and fray in the back. "DOWN GRIZZ, SIT!" He shouts, staring down at you with blazing murder in his eyes.

The dog obeys, letting go and sitting in place just next to you, growling.

But the man doesn't relent. If anything, he's only beginning. He takes a fistful of your beard hair in his left hand and uses it to drag you halfway up, and punches you repeatedly in the face with his right hand. You lose a tooth. You lose another. Orbital fracture. You lose another tooth. Broken cheekbone.

He lets go of your beard and you thud backwards to the ground. He kicks you across the mouth, and you think you lose another couple of teeth, you can feel at least three in your mouth still, mingling with the blood like croutons in a bowl of soup. You know that the kick broke your jaw, however, probably a clean snap based on the horrifying agony of it, and the way you bite into your tongue.

You begin to sob, but your face and mouth are too mangled to scream anymore.

>Cont'd

The marauder reaches down with both hands then and grabs the collar area of your coveralls, and drags you fully up to your feet. You're too weak to stand on them, now, but he holds you up and slams your back against a tree. Heaping spoonfuls of blood and spit are dripping out across your bottom lip, getting onto his wrists and hands and the forest floor. It reminds you of the chocolate fountain from your wedding, the steady, viscous way it drips. You feel four teeth slide out along with the blood and tumble down. More than you thought were still in there, since you knew a couple went flying out from the force of the strikes.

"You stupid slack-jawed sodomite shit-head, you ain't gotta clue the world a' hurt you got comin'. That was MY DOG you fuckin' shit!" The man informs you, the temperature of his rage dropping now, becoming ice cold with calculated malice. He's talking low, but not whispering. "Only bit a' luck you got is I had my fill a' pussy back at yer shit-hole town or I'd rape yer faggot ass against this tree. But I'ma save that for yer boy when I get ahold of him. I'ma drag him back here beggin' an' screamin' to watch you danglin' from the branches an' bleedin' while I-"

You manage to spit a fat glob of thick blood at him, covering his nose, mouth, and cheeks. You grin a half-toothless grin.

His nostrils flare, and he head-butts you. Your septum is 'deviated'. He head-butts you again. Ok, now your nose is really fucking broken. He brings a knee up into your crotch. You don't know exactly what that ruptured, but if there was even a chance you'd ever use your dick again, you're pretty certain that's gone now.

"Look." You hear a woman's voice from beyond your assailant. It's murky, difficult to see, but she's nearer now, with another pair of dogs, though they've calmed. You crumple to the ground when the man lets go of you. She's pointing in the direction that Beau ran, though he's gone by now.

There's a pause. "What? Th'faggot'll hit tha creek an' we'll catch up." The man says gruffly. He turns back to look down at you and kicks your ribcage, breaking another.

She sighs. "No, retard, look, them red bands. That's that poison patch the sand-nigger was talkin' bout'. That's why they got all that shit on em'." She says.

You feel a hand wrap around your ankle, and jerk you sidelong as you're roughly dragged along the ground.

>Cont'd

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"nnnmmmnmmuhnnnnggg..." Moans the poor, miserable bastard in front of you.

Your name is Magdalene Johanna Pickett, and if you still believed in nonsense like 'hours', you'd say close to half of one has passed since you and your cousin ran down this man.

He wants to scream, and sob - like he was earlier - but he can't. Too much swelling, too little strength.

Amon stripped him of all that protective clothing, and used Azrael's leash to hang him by his ankles against a manchineel tree, letting his bare back rub against the bark, and the toxic sap. He used the gloves and his machete to gather up a bunch of stinging nettles - gympie-gympie you think it's also called - and rubbed the shit all over the man's face as blood pooled around his skull. Worse, he sharpened a long, thin rhododendron branch and wound it all around with more stinging nettles. He shoved that down the man's rectum.

That was the last thing that made him scream loudly.

Now as the rashes spread across him, and in him, he's fading in and out of consciousness, experiencing agony that may actually be challenging for even the Devil himself to duplicate in Hell. His face looks like one big, red, bumpy overripe raspberry now. It disgusts you.

But you stare at it anyways.

Amon is sitting next to you on a large rock. His head is in his hands and he is crying quietly, tears occasionally falling down onto the body of his dead malinois, which is laid at his feet.

You're feeling more or less numb to it all. Tired and annoyed more than anything. But you stare into the face of this sinner and meditate on the vastness of the harm that was imparted onto him by your cousin's doing. A few yards off to the right you can see another manchineel with a thick, crimson band of paint wrapped around the trunk. Beyond there will only be more of these kinds of plants, and worse ones.

>Cont'd

"Well, we got two choices." You finally say, speaking in an even, neutral tone.

Your fellow knight wipes his eyes with his sleeve and inhales, collecting himself easily. "Whassat then?" He replies, sadness still lingering at the back of his throat. He turns from you to settle his gaze on the hanging man.

Your nose scrunches a bit. "Yer too damn big ta' squeeze inta them coveralls. Tha dogs ain't got no way ta be covered." You pause, as if swishing the idea around in your mouth like whiskey for a moment. "I could kit up an' go on in after th'kid, though. Either that, or we head on back to camp now, call it done. He won't care bout' one kid runnin' off, happens plenty. Bigger fish ta fry round here." You go on, referring to your uncle, who is the High Crusader of The Gallow Knights of The Garden of Eden.

Amon exhales a frustrated sort of sigh through his nose. The remaining dogs are all laying out nearby, panting lazily with the warm dawn light washing over them through the canopy.

"S'pose we head back. If that rag-head weren't full a' shit when he said there was a national guard group holed up round' here, they got grenades an' gas an' all that, they're organized... What if that kid knows em', what if they run a ambush on us." He finally says, and pauses, sighing again. He shrugs. "We might not lose, but could be a nasty hit. He might not get his britches twisted bout' one kid run off, but the troops, the weapons - s'why he had us patrollin' fer stragglers n' runaways anyhow, r'member? Dunno if I wanna be the one's gotta explain us leavin' with the kid in the wind on account a' that." Another pause, longer now.

Your cousin pats a hand on your shoulder. "But, s'dangerous goin' alone. Demons everywhere lookin' fer an ear ta bend. That ain't't sayin' nothin' bout' th'damn plants in there, neither. So... Seein' as you'd be the one goin' in, I'll back you up, whatever you choose. I'm First Sword, so I'll take the fall if papa ain't pleased."

Your brow furrows as you continue to stare into the face of the man against the tree. His ragged, wheezing breaths have grown weaker and weaker. Smaller.

They finally come to a stop, and a dry, choking rattle escapes his swollen, blister-covered lips.

Select One:

>Enter the Devil's Salad Bowl alone to pursue the kid. He might know where that national guard group is, or whether it's even real, or where other supplies and people are.
>It isn't worth the risk. The kid is alone, anyways, so the forest will take him. You'll report back to your uncle and hope he's in an understanding mood after a long day of hanging the damned.
>Write-in

>>6416323
>Enter the Devil's Salad Bowl alone to pursue the kid. He might know where that national guard group is, or whether it's even real, or where other supplies and people are.
Poor kid. I really don't want to get this guy raped to death with nettles or whatever... but a hunt through the salad bowl is the more interesting scene, if we approach it as directors. :( Alas. Maybe this is Magda's "come to Jesus" moment or, uh, whatever the reverse of that is?

>>6416351
I do think being sodomized by a gympie-gympie wrapped spike is probably one of the ugliest things I have ever described happening to someone in anything I've written, honestly.

50 was actually the DT for at least Beau to escape Magda and Amon, but for both of them to have gotten clear would've required a nat 100 due to the penalty. Still, 1 point away from both of them being in this situation, so that's kind of nice! The flashback is winding down at this point, and though I'll say whether Magda goes to talk to her uncle or explores the Salad Bowl alone is one of the more consequential decisions of the quest thus far, not that there's a wrong way to go, but it'll ripple forward.

>>6416316
Who is Grizzley? I thought the dogs were Azarael, Sandlot, Bailey and Josie

>>6416323
>Enter the Devil's Salad Bowl alone to pursue the kid. He might know where that national guard group is, or whether it's even real, or where other supplies and people are.

>>6416481
So sorry, I was debating between Grizzly and Sandlot but ultimately landed on Sandlot! Good catch!

>>6416323
>Enter the Devil's Salad Bowl alone to pursue the kid. He might know where that national guard group is, or whether it's even real, or where other supplies and people are.

BURN THEM ALL THE LORD WILL KNOW HIS OWN

I am chippin' away at the update, but a heads up:

Headed out of town for a couple days around the holiday, tryna prep everything, and I work every weekend (though as some of y'all know from other quests, I find time to write on the clock many days). So! I am gonna try and keep averaging a post a day or so, but if I get caught up and a couple days pass, don't sweat.

>>6416711
Standing by. Enjoy the weekend, and don't stress it. IRL comes first.

Inexplicably have 5G while hiking on the top of a mountain and two bars, just wrote all night around the fire.

Gonna try and upload a FAT update.

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You spit off to the side, and stand up.

Really you aren't sure why you wasted time considering a world where your uncle would be patient, or understanding, or forgiving after learning you didn't make more of an effort to pursue this kid. You are all the Unforgiven, after all. That's why the Lord left you behind on this Earth.

"Aright, I'ma suit up an' look for him. But only for a short while." You say to Amon, but your gaze is settled back on the disfigured face of the hanging man. "Neither of us needs ta be sep'rate too long." You add. Isolation is, of course, the surest way to attract the attention of a Demon. Still, abandoned by God though you may be, like the rest of your people you believe that their whispers can be kept at bay with sufficient will. But only for so long. You'll move quickly and search well, but you know better than to push the envelope.

Amon nods. "Ok. I'll stay here, see if he comes back for his daddy. Be careful in there. I still wanna make that cornbread later." He says with a smirk. There is a touch of worry in his eyes, though.

You choose not to see that as you step into the coveralls, however, and begin adding layers to cover any exposed skin you can.

Sandlot flops on his side, and your shepherds both nestle their faces between their front paws, laying flat. You glance to Azrael's carcass, then look up to your cousin. "I'll try an' be quick enough we can get her back fresh. Sorry she's gone, Amon, but at least we can do dog steaks with tha stew." You offer in a kind tone.

He tightens his lips, and nods along, sighing. "Yeah... Yeah that sounds good ta me. I love ya. Be back soon."

Once you're fully covered, with a machete in your right hand and a Glock 17 in your left, you turn to him one last time. "Hang tight. No matter whatcha hear." You say. If he hears the voices and heads back without you to be around the others, you'll have an even longer walk alone. You'll need him here. "An' wish me some luck."

He nods.

With that, you do an about face, and step past the red-banded tree, into the toxic grove...

>Cont'd

For a time, you have an easy enough task in tracing the boy's path. His placement isn't terrible, but occasionally he makes a step that leaves some slightly obvious mark, at least for someone trained as a tracker over many years before the Dawn. Moss twisted off a rock here, snapped branch there.

There are fewer birds here, and the gaps between their chittering are longer. No signs of large mammals, save for the one you're following. It's unusually quiet. Even the clouds of buzzing gnats have cleared out entirely, leaving the air dead and empty in this part of the woods.

You don't wear a watch; they don't really work anymore, just spinning their hands in a world that stays frozen and preserved in the amber of morning sunshine. So you don't notice as the hike stretches on, and on. Not at first, anyways. It's around the time that you notice the barest tells of a path intersecting with the one you're already following that you realize you've been out here for a while.

So you begin re-tracing your own steps, and keep a brisk pace.

Who can say how long... Ten minutes, twenty... Maybe half as long as you've been in this poison patch before you... Wait, that can't be right.

You're back at that intersection, but from the direction of the trail that intersected the original one. That doesn't... And why did it intersect anyways, why is the kid looping his route? Wouldn't he want to get to the other side and back to wherever he lives?

How long have you been out here?

You pull out your compass. North is the direction of that village, so Amon is on that side of this grove. You just need to get out and follow the edge of it, using the marked trees, and you'll run into him.

So you start walking North.

And you continue.

>Cont'd

Your mind wanders as the minutes while away. You find yourself thinking of how you'll explain this later. You think of how to maybe pitch it, and wonder if there'd be any interest in bringing back a proper search party with the necessary protective gear. Likely not. Unless that kid really is connected to some larger group, he probably won't make it alone. If the forest doesn't take him, he'll have to rely on the charity of strangers and without much in the way of bargaining power.

You wonder what he would have had for his... Lunch? Breakfast? Whatever meal comes next for those minding clocks. You wonder if his mother would have been there, if she's waiting for him and the man you assume was his father. Likely not.

You wonder about your own children, as you do most days. They were taken by the government during an investigation into the compound, and your church. Visions reel at the front of your mind. A sting at the pizzeria during one of your rare 'field trips' into the Babylon of pre-Revelation America. A pair of handcuffs biting into your wrists as both your little girls' cried on the other side of a tinted window in the back of a cruiser. Your husband's nose bleeding after he tried to get past the agents.

Those two sweet, innocent girls of yours, prisoners of a profane society. You know in your heart they were among the elect, that they heard the Call of the Lord Christ in their souls and were drawn through the Garden and into His Kingdom... You kno-

"You don't know anything of the sort. You don't even know how for how long you have wandered, silly girl..."

The strange voice interrupts your thinking, it's a shrill, quiet, rattling thing, a tone so hushed it nears a hiss... A whisper from just over your shoulder, right into your ear. It freezes you in your tracks and you whip around with killing instinct, blade held aloft and handgun leveled for shooting.

But there is no one behind you, or anyone else around.

And you're facing an acacia tree with a distinctive red band painted around the trunk, like those marking the borders of this grove... But it bore no such marking when you stepped past it just moments ago. Slowly, you approach, glancing left and right.

>Cont'd