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

File: hq720.jpg (43 KB, 686x386)

43 KB JPG

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.