Murder City
- Thread starter Gattletowne
- Start date
Gattletowne
The Crowned Light of Midday Night
The Setup
Black. Impenetrable darkness. Then awake and stimulated. Sore arm and lying on your back on something cold. But more or less alert. There's a CRT overhead. It's alternating colors at a rapid pace. Red, blue, yellow, green, white, purple, black, and then some weird symbol. Sequence is too fast to see what it is. Then it repeats. There's a voice. Feminine but artificial: Hello. You will be disoriented...
Every new blood starts the same: in a waking chamber wearing a neon yellow coverall and generic, black work boots. If you have a character who dies, the waking chamber sequence will be customized each time. Since we have multiple starters at launch, you will all share the same introductory sequence. You won't remember your name or your life. You recall, more or less, what you did for a living and why you have some skills, but you don't remember any faces or places or anything else. Your whole life is lost forever. Your individual waking chamber (which is a small, dark room with a coroner table in it that you're laying on and the CRT above) empties into a larger (but not much) foyer. That's when you all meet Sixty Six.
The Rules
We've gone over how this should go quite a bit in the OOC, but I'm going to list a few bullet points for the sake for reference.
•No killing without permission. I'm setting up a simple economy. That economy is controlled by me, so is the economy's primary resource, NG, and will be distributed by me. If you just kill stuff in your post for fun, that means you're getting free access to resources without any limitation, and the system breaks. That's one of the reasons I came up with the 6 Sides of Death System in the first place.
•No PvP. This isn't a combat RP. There is no system in place to facilitate PvP. The 6 Sides of Death mechanic is only a role-playing tool.
•Don't spam Murder Encounters. I've thought about how to limit this. It will go as follows. If you have back to back Murder Encounters, you begin a Murder Chain. For each (consecutive) ME you take after the first 2, you lose -1 to your 6 Sides roll. If you roll a 1 during a Murder Chain, you lose all NG and items acquired during those Encounters. If you're facing a Fortified opponent on a Murder Chain and you roll a 1, it's automatic death. Chains can be reset by a really good post in normal play, or two posts that you clearly put effort into. Small dialogue posts or a three sentence paragraph won't cut it. I'll keep track of this.
The reason I want to limit this is because killing someone takes a great deal of physical and mental energy. Clearly it is a way of life for many in Murder City, but I want the Encounters to be meaningful and interesting, rather than just a mechanic to be exploited for maximum gain.
•Good RP will be rewarded. If you perform well, it will manifest in beneficial ways. This doesn't mean you have to be a professional writer. It means that if you try and play your character in a way that enhances the story and overall entertainment value while balancing your advantages and flaws, then you will get good shit and your character will be more likely to survive and move toward the end game (if he or she wants to). If you're an ass or a troll, death will be your only prize.
•If you want something, ask. Be prepared to be told no, but if you can justify something you want your character to get, shoot me a PM. Don't be afraid to make suggestions of where you want this story to take you. Pitch me ideas for things you want to be involved in. Creative suggestions are always welcome.
Black. Impenetrable darkness. Then awake and stimulated. Sore arm and lying on your back on something cold. But more or less alert. There's a CRT overhead. It's alternating colors at a rapid pace. Red, blue, yellow, green, white, purple, black, and then some weird symbol. Sequence is too fast to see what it is. Then it repeats. There's a voice. Feminine but artificial: Hello. You will be disoriented...
Every new blood starts the same: in a waking chamber wearing a neon yellow coverall and generic, black work boots. If you have a character who dies, the waking chamber sequence will be customized each time. Since we have multiple starters at launch, you will all share the same introductory sequence. You won't remember your name or your life. You recall, more or less, what you did for a living and why you have some skills, but you don't remember any faces or places or anything else. Your whole life is lost forever. Your individual waking chamber (which is a small, dark room with a coroner table in it that you're laying on and the CRT above) empties into a larger (but not much) foyer. That's when you all meet Sixty Six.
The Rules
We've gone over how this should go quite a bit in the OOC, but I'm going to list a few bullet points for the sake for reference.
•No killing without permission. I'm setting up a simple economy. That economy is controlled by me, so is the economy's primary resource, NG, and will be distributed by me. If you just kill stuff in your post for fun, that means you're getting free access to resources without any limitation, and the system breaks. That's one of the reasons I came up with the 6 Sides of Death System in the first place.
•No PvP. This isn't a combat RP. There is no system in place to facilitate PvP. The 6 Sides of Death mechanic is only a role-playing tool.
•Don't spam Murder Encounters. I've thought about how to limit this. It will go as follows. If you have back to back Murder Encounters, you begin a Murder Chain. For each (consecutive) ME you take after the first 2, you lose -1 to your 6 Sides roll. If you roll a 1 during a Murder Chain, you lose all NG and items acquired during those Encounters. If you're facing a Fortified opponent on a Murder Chain and you roll a 1, it's automatic death. Chains can be reset by a really good post in normal play, or two posts that you clearly put effort into. Small dialogue posts or a three sentence paragraph won't cut it. I'll keep track of this.
The reason I want to limit this is because killing someone takes a great deal of physical and mental energy. Clearly it is a way of life for many in Murder City, but I want the Encounters to be meaningful and interesting, rather than just a mechanic to be exploited for maximum gain.
•Good RP will be rewarded. If you perform well, it will manifest in beneficial ways. This doesn't mean you have to be a professional writer. It means that if you try and play your character in a way that enhances the story and overall entertainment value while balancing your advantages and flaws, then you will get good shit and your character will be more likely to survive and move toward the end game (if he or she wants to). If you're an ass or a troll, death will be your only prize.
•If you want something, ask. Be prepared to be told no, but if you can justify something you want your character to get, shoot me a PM. Don't be afraid to make suggestions of where you want this story to take you. Pitch me ideas for things you want to be involved in. Creative suggestions are always welcome.
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Gattletowne
The Crowned Light of Midday Night
E-Low was nearby. The air was heavy with a citrus tinged skunk that clung to him like cologne. Sixty Six could taste it. He shook his head in annoyance. They shouldn't be here yet, he should be alone. Someone who knew things passed them along to E-Low and his Harvesters. Probably got a few fingers in return. Shit, Six thought, nothing can ever be easy.
He looked at the hand-drawn map he held. Right turn, corridor ends in a T, take the left. New bloods should be released in, he looked at his watch, 15 minutes.
The halogens overhead kept blinking on and off intermittently, and it was becoming bothersome. He wondered if they were that way on purpose to unsettle new bloods, or just to make it hard for him to blend into the shadows. Either way, he couldn't rely on easy tactics so he decided that the next best thing would be to get to the new bloods first.
Six heard boot scuffs down a hallway nearby. He smiled. Hackle stealth. Just because it's less noisy doesn't mean it's Soundless. He pulled out a glass sphere, smaller than a snow globe and stopped with wax on both poles. Colored powder rolled like sand in two separated chambers. He lobbed it underhanded toward the boot scuffs. Shattered glass.
He looked at the hand-drawn map he held. Right turn, corridor ends in a T, take the left. New bloods should be released in, he looked at his watch, 15 minutes.
The halogens overhead kept blinking on and off intermittently, and it was becoming bothersome. He wondered if they were that way on purpose to unsettle new bloods, or just to make it hard for him to blend into the shadows. Either way, he couldn't rely on easy tactics so he decided that the next best thing would be to get to the new bloods first.
Six heard boot scuffs down a hallway nearby. He smiled. Hackle stealth. Just because it's less noisy doesn't mean it's Soundless. He pulled out a glass sphere, smaller than a snow globe and stopped with wax on both poles. Colored powder rolled like sand in two separated chambers. He lobbed it underhanded toward the boot scuffs. Shattered glass.
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Gattletowne
The Crowned Light of Midday Night
Down the hall, white puffs of thick gas engulfed the corridor and sent the men near it into uncontrollable fits of coughing. His enemies temporarily incapacitated, Six sprinted the remaining distance to the waking chambers.
The corridor ended at a wall of the cream and turquoise tiles that covered the dilapidated hospital. Six took a small, black rectangle out of his pocket that was about the size of a cigarette lighter. He hovered it just above the tile of the dead end until a red LED began to blink in a regular rhythm somewhere near the center of the wall. He depressed the blinking indicator, and the loud servo whine of hydraulics and machinery cycled behind the wall that now split down the center and sank into the floor.
No one was in the foyer yet. He looked at his watch. 2 minutes. E-Low should still be gagging, puking, and blind for the moment. He doubted, though, he could get the new bloods out of here and to safety before sheer hate brought the Hackle lieutenant back to his senses.
Six took another object from his jacket pocket, neon orange and the size of a half-dollar, and stuck it to the wall inside the hidden doors. This time he depressed a blue LED that did not blink, but stayed lit. He found an interface panel inside the room. He tapped a few keys on the esoteric display, and the doors closed and locked. He really hoped that E-Low didn't bother with foyer keys.
Six took a seat on one of the cushioned benches that was typical for a waking chamber foyer to wait for the first blood brave enough to peek out of their personal cell.
The corridor ended at a wall of the cream and turquoise tiles that covered the dilapidated hospital. Six took a small, black rectangle out of his pocket that was about the size of a cigarette lighter. He hovered it just above the tile of the dead end until a red LED began to blink in a regular rhythm somewhere near the center of the wall. He depressed the blinking indicator, and the loud servo whine of hydraulics and machinery cycled behind the wall that now split down the center and sank into the floor.
No one was in the foyer yet. He looked at his watch. 2 minutes. E-Low should still be gagging, puking, and blind for the moment. He doubted, though, he could get the new bloods out of here and to safety before sheer hate brought the Hackle lieutenant back to his senses.
Six took another object from his jacket pocket, neon orange and the size of a half-dollar, and stuck it to the wall inside the hidden doors. This time he depressed a blue LED that did not blink, but stayed lit. He found an interface panel inside the room. He tapped a few keys on the esoteric display, and the doors closed and locked. He really hoped that E-Low didn't bother with foyer keys.
Six took a seat on one of the cushioned benches that was typical for a waking chamber foyer to wait for the first blood brave enough to peek out of their personal cell.
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Morph
Best Villain 2016*
Vi's mind was a blur as she rocked awake and dry heaved. GET THE FUCK AWAY, she thought as she thrashed against some imagined enemy. Spittle coursed down her chin as she sat up, breathing deeply to calm herself down.
This was nowhere she recognized. Nowhere she wanted to be.
Out of habit, she reached for the glasses she kept on her nightstand and grasped only empty air. She waggled her fingers. Where were they? She always kept them there so that she wouldn't lose them. She couldn't see without them after all.
Except she could.
Her head hurt. Had she even owned glasses? As quickly as the thought came, it fled, along with the concept of the nightstand, and the room that may have been hers. She didn't know anymore. All she knew was that this place was strange, and dangerous.
She sighed and stood up, the light flickering off her neon yellow coveralls. They were ugly as all hell. She looked like a... a...
"YOU WILL BE DISORIENTED..." said a voice from overhead.
Good morning, Friend Computer, she thought, and had no idea what that meant.
Something was wrong with her head. Very wrong. Everything was wrong.
She slid gingerly off the slab onto unsteady feet, the only sound her ragged breathing, unsteady footfalls, and the flick-flick-buzz of the lights overhead. Her legs felt week, unused, but she managed to stagger her way to the only door and went through it.
That was when she saw the man.
This was nowhere she recognized. Nowhere she wanted to be.
Out of habit, she reached for the glasses she kept on her nightstand and grasped only empty air. She waggled her fingers. Where were they? She always kept them there so that she wouldn't lose them. She couldn't see without them after all.
Except she could.
Her head hurt. Had she even owned glasses? As quickly as the thought came, it fled, along with the concept of the nightstand, and the room that may have been hers. She didn't know anymore. All she knew was that this place was strange, and dangerous.
She sighed and stood up, the light flickering off her neon yellow coveralls. They were ugly as all hell. She looked like a... a...
"YOU WILL BE DISORIENTED..." said a voice from overhead.
Good morning, Friend Computer, she thought, and had no idea what that meant.
Something was wrong with her head. Very wrong. Everything was wrong.
She slid gingerly off the slab onto unsteady feet, the only sound her ragged breathing, unsteady footfalls, and the flick-flick-buzz of the lights overhead. Her legs felt week, unused, but she managed to stagger her way to the only door and went through it.
That was when she saw the man.
SedentaryCobra
Outhouse Poet
He opened his eyes, and found himself staring at the tiled ceiling. He was vaguely aware of cold metal pressing against his back, and a tube TV flashing colors randomly in the otherwise unlit room, but he was deaf to it. He closed his eyes and searched his mind for the questions he had not yet fully formed yet. What he found in his mind was nothing at all, save a small bit of information tucked neatly in the corner.
"You were a seeker."
He smiled a wry grin to himself, the emotion never quite reaching his face to form an expression. It was nearly nothing, and left him with more far more half formed questions than he began with, but it brought him some measure of peace. He found something of it all rather comical, despite, or perhaps, because of, a lack of context. He opened his eyes, and faced back to the flashing monitor.
"Greetings, you will be disoriented." The robotic, vaguely feminine voice said through a blur of distorted images and colors.
Perhaps the monitor held some answers. Which question should be asked, though. He settled on the one that concerned him the most. "Did I find what I was seeking?" He asked the monitor. He waited, and received no response, not that he expected one. Perhaps not knowing the answer was for the better. But, he thought to himself, the time is now. He sat up, sliding off of the rusty coroner's table, and stood, slowly flexing and stretching as he examined his body. He reached up to look at his hands. Few small scars here and there, minor cuts, nothing unexpected. The yellow sleeve fell back, and he saw his forearm.
Scars ran over the surface, swirling and moving in intricate, uninterrupted patterns. He traced over the scar lines. Smooth and even. Reached under the collar of his shirt. More scarification there, too. He pulled up a pant leg. There, too, the designs swirled, down to his ankle. He rubbed his face. Clean of scars, save one running along his cheek, obviously from something else entirely. He rolled his head, cracking his neck, and let out a small sigh of relief. He rolled his pant leg and cuffs back down, concealing them. He closed his eyes, and whispered to himself.
"I know not my name. It is not important. Give a man an answer to his question, who are you. I am me, and you may call me... Sigil. Sigil shall be the sigil for me." This smile barely reached his face, the corner of his lips upturning ever so slightly. Sigil cleared his face, and turned to the door. He grasped the handle, and found it unlocked. He squinted against the bright lights flooding into his dark chamber, and walked out into the open room, and waited for his eyes to adjust. When they finally did, he saw a man sitting on the bench, confident and waiting, and a woman standing next to him from another chamber, unsteady and dazed.
Sigil turned to meet the man in the foyer, and bowed his head in greeting, and waited for the man to speak. He knew why he was here. Let him do the talking.
"You were a seeker."
He smiled a wry grin to himself, the emotion never quite reaching his face to form an expression. It was nearly nothing, and left him with more far more half formed questions than he began with, but it brought him some measure of peace. He found something of it all rather comical, despite, or perhaps, because of, a lack of context. He opened his eyes, and faced back to the flashing monitor.
"Greetings, you will be disoriented." The robotic, vaguely feminine voice said through a blur of distorted images and colors.
Perhaps the monitor held some answers. Which question should be asked, though. He settled on the one that concerned him the most. "Did I find what I was seeking?" He asked the monitor. He waited, and received no response, not that he expected one. Perhaps not knowing the answer was for the better. But, he thought to himself, the time is now. He sat up, sliding off of the rusty coroner's table, and stood, slowly flexing and stretching as he examined his body. He reached up to look at his hands. Few small scars here and there, minor cuts, nothing unexpected. The yellow sleeve fell back, and he saw his forearm.
Scars ran over the surface, swirling and moving in intricate, uninterrupted patterns. He traced over the scar lines. Smooth and even. Reached under the collar of his shirt. More scarification there, too. He pulled up a pant leg. There, too, the designs swirled, down to his ankle. He rubbed his face. Clean of scars, save one running along his cheek, obviously from something else entirely. He rolled his head, cracking his neck, and let out a small sigh of relief. He rolled his pant leg and cuffs back down, concealing them. He closed his eyes, and whispered to himself.
"I know not my name. It is not important. Give a man an answer to his question, who are you. I am me, and you may call me... Sigil. Sigil shall be the sigil for me." This smile barely reached his face, the corner of his lips upturning ever so slightly. Sigil cleared his face, and turned to the door. He grasped the handle, and found it unlocked. He squinted against the bright lights flooding into his dark chamber, and walked out into the open room, and waited for his eyes to adjust. When they finally did, he saw a man sitting on the bench, confident and waiting, and a woman standing next to him from another chamber, unsteady and dazed.
Sigil turned to meet the man in the foyer, and bowed his head in greeting, and waited for the man to speak. He knew why he was here. Let him do the talking.
ArQane
With blood comes life, with life comes death.
She woke up with a start. Her head ached and she could barely make out the scenery around her. The room was barely lit and unfamiliar, sporting nothing but a small TV, hung up above her. Slightly aching, she brought herself up to a standing position, or at least, tried to. Her body seemed much less responsive than she had hoped. As she swayed, she clutched the table that she was resting on, and for the first time, started noticing things.
She had been lying on a coroner table, a trademark piece of equipment used by hospitals and surgeons abroad. She remembered exactly how unconscious bodies were supposed to be transported onto it, and how those bodies were supposed to be operated on. That was the most she could do, and her mind felt all fuzzy. Maybe she hit her head? She couldn't remember anything, even her own name. Most surely this was a hospital— but something was off. The room, the halls, everything was so quiet, it felt more like an abandoned mental asylum.
She narrowed her eyes as she stared down the hallway, and decided to call for help.
“Doctor?”
It came out more as a croak, but was only met by silence. Suddenly the screen behind her flickered to life, which made her jump. She squinted up at it, shielding her eyes from the startling bright light.
“Greetings,” a monotonous female voice came from the device, “you will be disoriented.”
Followed by a blinding flash of random colors. Ouch. As quickly as it came, the light from the TV blinked out and the room fell back to its usual ambience. Only this time, it appeared as if the room was randomly changing brightnesses. She shut her eyes together forcefully, and once she looked back up, everything has regained its focus.
Too many things to process at once. She was in a room. It's not a hospital, or at least certainly not a proper one. You will be disoriented? Why? She seemed to have lost her memory, and now this?
There is a doorway up ahead. She clambered out sluggishly and clutched the doorframe to support her weight.
There was figures… two men and a woman, just up ahead.
Doctors?
She had been lying on a coroner table, a trademark piece of equipment used by hospitals and surgeons abroad. She remembered exactly how unconscious bodies were supposed to be transported onto it, and how those bodies were supposed to be operated on. That was the most she could do, and her mind felt all fuzzy. Maybe she hit her head? She couldn't remember anything, even her own name. Most surely this was a hospital— but something was off. The room, the halls, everything was so quiet, it felt more like an abandoned mental asylum.
She narrowed her eyes as she stared down the hallway, and decided to call for help.
“Doctor?”
It came out more as a croak, but was only met by silence. Suddenly the screen behind her flickered to life, which made her jump. She squinted up at it, shielding her eyes from the startling bright light.
“Greetings,” a monotonous female voice came from the device, “you will be disoriented.”
Followed by a blinding flash of random colors. Ouch. As quickly as it came, the light from the TV blinked out and the room fell back to its usual ambience. Only this time, it appeared as if the room was randomly changing brightnesses. She shut her eyes together forcefully, and once she looked back up, everything has regained its focus.
Too many things to process at once. She was in a room. It's not a hospital, or at least certainly not a proper one. You will be disoriented? Why? She seemed to have lost her memory, and now this?
There is a doorway up ahead. She clambered out sluggishly and clutched the doorframe to support her weight.
There was figures… two men and a woman, just up ahead.
Doctors?
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_BB_
Resident Bard
His eyes snapped open. Lights flickered above him, colours illuminating his face for a brief moment before trading with another. His back was cold, and his muscles were chilled and sticky as though he had been there for a while. What trick was this? He didn't remember ever using these coloured lights. Shouldn't his assistant be on the slab, not him? What assistant? Why did he need assisting?
The questions circled and wove and slid from his grasp. Just the twitching of a muscle memory, some strange dream. There was one question that remained though, stuck in his head. Where was he? Used to tired and cramping muscles, he sat up and rolled his neck. His legs swung off a cold slab. The place was unfamiliar to him, strangely lit and oddly theatrical. It looked as though he could be a victim of some kind of accident or in an experiment. He tried to remember to see if he had ever signed up for anything like that. Anything that could possibly have put him where he was. But the space before waking up was curiously blank. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure he even knew his name.
A brief panic spiralled through him as he pushed his mind to recall details, any details, about his life, or his identity. He couldn’t remember his mother. As far as his mind could see, he had never had one. No father. No family, and only the dimmest awareness that he should have one.
A wild urge to flee struck him, and he gripped the edges of the slab to swing himself to the floor and towards the door. His hand swept something hard onto the floor, and his flight froze mid-step, his muscles couied to spring to nowhere in particular, the tense posture foreign to his limbs. His eyes zeroed in on the top hat on the floor. That top hat was his.
It had to be someone’s idea of a joke to leave it with him in his yellow coveralls. He approached the hat and flipped it into his hands. It spun and rolled onto his head with the ease of familiarity. This was who he was. It all came flooding back, shows, practising sleight of hand tricks over and over and over, taking bows with the spotlight blinding him to anything but the cheers of the audience. If he couldn’t remember which crowds, or which shows, or the bedroom he'd practised those tricks in, the hint of a memory was more than enough for him right now.
Posture straightening to an open-shouldered, high-headed stance, he turned back towards the door, finding his identity, whether it was newly formed and just awakening, or hints of some remembered life before this place. It didn't matter which.
He walked in on something of an impasse between a small crowd growing tense. "Have I interrupted?" he asked, hands clasped behind his back, rocking on the balls of his feet. His question was nearly a proclamation. The need for theatrics was apparently ingrained in him so deeply that even magic amnesia machines couldn't rid him of it.
The questions circled and wove and slid from his grasp. Just the twitching of a muscle memory, some strange dream. There was one question that remained though, stuck in his head. Where was he? Used to tired and cramping muscles, he sat up and rolled his neck. His legs swung off a cold slab. The place was unfamiliar to him, strangely lit and oddly theatrical. It looked as though he could be a victim of some kind of accident or in an experiment. He tried to remember to see if he had ever signed up for anything like that. Anything that could possibly have put him where he was. But the space before waking up was curiously blank. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure he even knew his name.
A brief panic spiralled through him as he pushed his mind to recall details, any details, about his life, or his identity. He couldn’t remember his mother. As far as his mind could see, he had never had one. No father. No family, and only the dimmest awareness that he should have one.
A wild urge to flee struck him, and he gripped the edges of the slab to swing himself to the floor and towards the door. His hand swept something hard onto the floor, and his flight froze mid-step, his muscles couied to spring to nowhere in particular, the tense posture foreign to his limbs. His eyes zeroed in on the top hat on the floor. That top hat was his.
It had to be someone’s idea of a joke to leave it with him in his yellow coveralls. He approached the hat and flipped it into his hands. It spun and rolled onto his head with the ease of familiarity. This was who he was. It all came flooding back, shows, practising sleight of hand tricks over and over and over, taking bows with the spotlight blinding him to anything but the cheers of the audience. If he couldn’t remember which crowds, or which shows, or the bedroom he'd practised those tricks in, the hint of a memory was more than enough for him right now.
Posture straightening to an open-shouldered, high-headed stance, he turned back towards the door, finding his identity, whether it was newly formed and just awakening, or hints of some remembered life before this place. It didn't matter which.
He walked in on something of an impasse between a small crowd growing tense. "Have I interrupted?" he asked, hands clasped behind his back, rocking on the balls of his feet. His question was nearly a proclamation. The need for theatrics was apparently ingrained in him so deeply that even magic amnesia machines couldn't rid him of it.
Gattletowne
The Crowned Light of Midday Night
Six took stock of the newly awakened and confused souls that meandered toward him. Was one of them wearing a top hat? Someone had a sense of humor.
"Have I interrupted?" Top Hat asked.
"Just in time. For both of us really. If I was just a few minutes slower, that gate over there would be open and my old friend E-Low would be happily turning you all into accessories right about now. But never mind that, and to be honest, never mind anything for now. Just make yourself comfortable in one of these cushiony seats. My friends will be along sooner or later to run the Hackles off, but until then it's going to be story time. I have a lot to tell you, and none of it's good. It's best to stay quiet and use your ears. It will likely keep you alive longer. We'll do a little Q&A at the end, but until then keep a closed mouth and an open mind."
As if to emphasize his point, he opened his jacket and slid a nickel plated .357 magnum from a holster with the practiced ease of someone who has spent considerable time with a firearm.
"Now this here isn't meant as an intimidation," Six raised his hands, gun still held, in a non-threatening manner, "it's just for my safety. This isn't the first time I've been a room like this with yellow jumpsuits like you. The stuff I have to tell you doesn't always go over well with people, and there's five of you...wait. Where's the other one?"
Sixty Six stood and walked to the last waking chamber and disappeared briefly before reemerging with his pistol casually pointed at someone.
"Come on come on, we don't have all day. I promise this nightmare will be over very soon."
Six was annoyed. Most of the new bloods were able bodied and, more or less, lucid. The fat, sobbing mess that groused toward him was fearful and reluctant to do much more than feel sorry for himself. He never understood why these people showed up from time to time. Cruelty. That's what it was.
He herded the man towards the others, who instantly backed away. The newcomer had shit himself and the smell wasn't pleasant.
"This is your first and most important lesson about your new life here. It's the hardest to get over. I don't know how much of that TV show you guys paid attention to when you woke up. I had to watch it again later after I left my waking chamber. But this place is called Murder City. It's meant to be taken literally."
Sixty Six spun his revolver with a flourish and holstered it like a spaghetti western gunslinger. He pulled a black hunting knife from its sheath at his belt. He moved toward the obese man now further separated from the others.
"Please forgive me in the next life," Six said as he surged forward with spectacular speed.
He died before the realization crossed his face. Six pulled the knife from his ribs and was cleaning it off on his felled corpse in such a fluid and practiced motion that it appeared as muscle memory.
"Welcome to Murder City, my friends. And don't worry after your own lives, yet anyway. What I've just done has two uses. It illustrates what this place is all about. Kill to live. And the other is that if you're weak, you're dead. Killing this man was a mercy to him. He never would have survived. The few like him that come through the waking chambers never do. Now have a seat my friends. After a little grisly business I still need to attend to, I have some things to tell you."
Six lifted the left arm of his fresh kill and isolated the ring finger...
Some time later...
"...And I'm with the Soundless. You can stay with us if you'd like. Our goal is to find a way out, and that requires people. If you want to seek out the other groups or go it alone, we'll escort you safely outside of our boarders with some clothes, provisions, and a few wet-work tools. Any questions?"
"Have I interrupted?" Top Hat asked.
"Just in time. For both of us really. If I was just a few minutes slower, that gate over there would be open and my old friend E-Low would be happily turning you all into accessories right about now. But never mind that, and to be honest, never mind anything for now. Just make yourself comfortable in one of these cushiony seats. My friends will be along sooner or later to run the Hackles off, but until then it's going to be story time. I have a lot to tell you, and none of it's good. It's best to stay quiet and use your ears. It will likely keep you alive longer. We'll do a little Q&A at the end, but until then keep a closed mouth and an open mind."
As if to emphasize his point, he opened his jacket and slid a nickel plated .357 magnum from a holster with the practiced ease of someone who has spent considerable time with a firearm.
"Now this here isn't meant as an intimidation," Six raised his hands, gun still held, in a non-threatening manner, "it's just for my safety. This isn't the first time I've been a room like this with yellow jumpsuits like you. The stuff I have to tell you doesn't always go over well with people, and there's five of you...wait. Where's the other one?"
Sixty Six stood and walked to the last waking chamber and disappeared briefly before reemerging with his pistol casually pointed at someone.
"Come on come on, we don't have all day. I promise this nightmare will be over very soon."
Six was annoyed. Most of the new bloods were able bodied and, more or less, lucid. The fat, sobbing mess that groused toward him was fearful and reluctant to do much more than feel sorry for himself. He never understood why these people showed up from time to time. Cruelty. That's what it was.
He herded the man towards the others, who instantly backed away. The newcomer had shit himself and the smell wasn't pleasant.
"This is your first and most important lesson about your new life here. It's the hardest to get over. I don't know how much of that TV show you guys paid attention to when you woke up. I had to watch it again later after I left my waking chamber. But this place is called Murder City. It's meant to be taken literally."
Sixty Six spun his revolver with a flourish and holstered it like a spaghetti western gunslinger. He pulled a black hunting knife from its sheath at his belt. He moved toward the obese man now further separated from the others.
"Please forgive me in the next life," Six said as he surged forward with spectacular speed.
He died before the realization crossed his face. Six pulled the knife from his ribs and was cleaning it off on his felled corpse in such a fluid and practiced motion that it appeared as muscle memory.
"Welcome to Murder City, my friends. And don't worry after your own lives, yet anyway. What I've just done has two uses. It illustrates what this place is all about. Kill to live. And the other is that if you're weak, you're dead. Killing this man was a mercy to him. He never would have survived. The few like him that come through the waking chambers never do. Now have a seat my friends. After a little grisly business I still need to attend to, I have some things to tell you."
Six lifted the left arm of his fresh kill and isolated the ring finger...
Some time later...
"...And I'm with the Soundless. You can stay with us if you'd like. Our goal is to find a way out, and that requires people. If you want to seek out the other groups or go it alone, we'll escort you safely outside of our boarders with some clothes, provisions, and a few wet-work tools. Any questions?"
Morph
Best Villain 2016*
That could have been me, Vi had thought as she'd watched the fat man die. Would she have been that scared if she hadn't been so disoriented?
All throughout Sixty Six's explanation, she snuck glances at the New Bloods. They see the same thing when they look at me. Someone fat and weak who can't survive here. They'll probably try to kill me the first chance they get. Especially the scarified man.
I don't want to die.
Sixty Six intimidated her. It was obvious to Vi that the third, unspoken reason for the murder had been to intimidate. He didn't want the New Bloods to see him as a target, which meant he was one. Potentially. But he was also something Vi recognized immediately: a thinker like her. Someone with a plan. Right now, her best chance to survive was to make herself part of that plan. Then, maybe, she could buy herself enough time to form her own.
Vi sat quietly and paid attention, her eyes narrow and her mouth pressed into a thin line, hoping the maelstrom of fear in her chest didn't break her facade of calm.
All throughout Sixty Six's explanation, she snuck glances at the New Bloods. They see the same thing when they look at me. Someone fat and weak who can't survive here. They'll probably try to kill me the first chance they get. Especially the scarified man.
I don't want to die.
Sixty Six intimidated her. It was obvious to Vi that the third, unspoken reason for the murder had been to intimidate. He didn't want the New Bloods to see him as a target, which meant he was one. Potentially. But he was also something Vi recognized immediately: a thinker like her. Someone with a plan. Right now, her best chance to survive was to make herself part of that plan. Then, maybe, she could buy herself enough time to form her own.
Vi sat quietly and paid attention, her eyes narrow and her mouth pressed into a thin line, hoping the maelstrom of fear in her chest didn't break her facade of calm.
ArQane
With blood comes life, with life comes death.
She didn't see the knife move. One moment the man was standing, and then the next, a body was lying on the floor. Perhaps her senses were unresponsive due to the absurdity of the situation at hand, but all she could hear was a faint ringing noise from her head. What she heard came in as garbled speech, and what she seen was blurry and abstract.
However, the trace of blood revitalized her a bit. It was recognizable, and oddly, it calmed her.
The man in front of her had a knife and a gun. He just killed a man, without even blinking. It all seemed to be an prank. A cruel, elaborate prank. "Murder City", he called it. Could it not have been more obvious?
"I'm Natalie Trace," she said, without hesitation. The truth was she did not remember her name, but if she appeared even slightly unconfident with herself, she would blow her cover. "I am the daughter of the Sheriff." Another lie.
"I'm not sure where you are going with this," she said, waving her hand in a circle, "but if you choose to continue, every one of you can be examined and punished accordingly."
She smiled. "Perhaps it's wisest if we drop the act. Where can I contact the police?"
However, the trace of blood revitalized her a bit. It was recognizable, and oddly, it calmed her.
The man in front of her had a knife and a gun. He just killed a man, without even blinking. It all seemed to be an prank. A cruel, elaborate prank. "Murder City", he called it. Could it not have been more obvious?
"I'm Natalie Trace," she said, without hesitation. The truth was she did not remember her name, but if she appeared even slightly unconfident with herself, she would blow her cover. "I am the daughter of the Sheriff." Another lie.
"I'm not sure where you are going with this," she said, waving her hand in a circle, "but if you choose to continue, every one of you can be examined and punished accordingly."
She smiled. "Perhaps it's wisest if we drop the act. Where can I contact the police?"
Gattletowne
The Crowned Light of Midday Night
"Some of you are more lucid than others I suppose, and a little anxiety is okay. But try and keep it together...what did you say? Natalie Trace? That was a quick pull. Your brain trying to grasp at anything it can to form whatever narrative it can smush together to make sense of the chaos. Perfectly normal," Six said without batting an eyelash. Dissent and denial was another unfortunate reality when opening a foyer. There was always one.
"Check the incision scar, left hand ring finger. Pretty much healed, right. Your personal NG. That's what you're worth, to most people here anyway. Scar like that takes two weeks or so to heal like so."
He took his most recent prize out of his pocket, still sticky with congealing blood, and tossed it to 'Natalie' who caught it out of the air.
"Look at it. The witchy symbols all over it. See how they vaguely glow with that turquoise luminescence? Explain that to your sheriff daddy that don't exist. Explain to yourselves why you don't even remember your name or where you went to school. You can come up with some vague conspiracy that involves me doing this to you, but to what end? Why didn't I cut your hearts out while you were clearly vulnerable to me as you lay unconscious? I make no bones about it, this is some kind of sick game that we've all been forced to play. I've been here three years now, and I haven't been let in on a damn thing. No note, no clue what to do other than that TV. Die. That's what the TV wants. The almighty Hand of Justice or whatever the fuck. You wake up in one of these chambers spread across the City, there's no way out, and survival depends on killing each other. New bloods arrive every two weeks, and bodies get dumped off the Precipice short a left ring finger. If you don't believe me, don't worry. You will find out soon."
As if on que, Six's orange device with the blue LED began to intermittently chime with a digital bleat.
"They're almost here. You'll see it for yourself. If any of you have doubts, they'll die like fat ass over here."
"Check the incision scar, left hand ring finger. Pretty much healed, right. Your personal NG. That's what you're worth, to most people here anyway. Scar like that takes two weeks or so to heal like so."
He took his most recent prize out of his pocket, still sticky with congealing blood, and tossed it to 'Natalie' who caught it out of the air.
"Look at it. The witchy symbols all over it. See how they vaguely glow with that turquoise luminescence? Explain that to your sheriff daddy that don't exist. Explain to yourselves why you don't even remember your name or where you went to school. You can come up with some vague conspiracy that involves me doing this to you, but to what end? Why didn't I cut your hearts out while you were clearly vulnerable to me as you lay unconscious? I make no bones about it, this is some kind of sick game that we've all been forced to play. I've been here three years now, and I haven't been let in on a damn thing. No note, no clue what to do other than that TV. Die. That's what the TV wants. The almighty Hand of Justice or whatever the fuck. You wake up in one of these chambers spread across the City, there's no way out, and survival depends on killing each other. New bloods arrive every two weeks, and bodies get dumped off the Precipice short a left ring finger. If you don't believe me, don't worry. You will find out soon."
As if on que, Six's orange device with the blue LED began to intermittently chime with a digital bleat.
"They're almost here. You'll see it for yourself. If any of you have doubts, they'll die like fat ass over here."
_BB_
Resident Bard
The novelty of the new situation vanished the second Six's knife slid into the fat man's ribs.
His mouth went bone dry. The blood pooling silently under the man shocked his mind to silence. There was nothing for him to think, nothing to say. He just stared at the blood, a kind of disbelief trying to convince him that the red stain slowly creeping towards his feet was not what it looked like. Stage blood. Fake. Just flour and red food colouring. But no trick he had ever performed had had blood that looked like this. This was blood just the same as what coursed through his body, pumping out faster from his heart and carting adrenaline through his veins, pounding in his ears. He watched as Six cut off the man's finger. No stage tricks. Just blood, bone, grisly, awful sounds, and a deafening silence from the shit-stained corpse on the floor.
That corpse could so easily have been him. Just one decision. One twist of fate, the decision that the top hat he wore was annoying, or that he was too noticeable, too weak, to survive here, and he would have been on the floor with a knife in his ribs and a hole in his hand. Of the people here, he had to be the weakest. There were two men who were almost double his height and/or width, and two women who seemed sly and clever enough to have done him in several times over. Then there was Six, with his quick hands, the ease and familiarity making the simple act of killing as ever day as any trick he had ever performed.
His mind whirred through everything he could possibly have done to end up here. Feeling a kind of manic panic riding the wave of adrenaline in his system, he forced himself to look at the blood and the corpse again, hoping against hope that it gave him a flash of memory, of insight, a remembered moment where he had the ability to perform such a heinous act, anything to tell him that he could do it again if he had to, because otherwise, he would die in this place. His empty mind came up blank. There was nothing. No names. No deaths. No past. And now it looked as though he had no future either.
One of the women seemed to have kept her mind more in order. Quick as a whip, she told them all who she was and how she was going to have them all arrested. But he suspected he'd been arrested before, and death and loss of limb, or at least phalange, scared him now far more than a jail cell. A jail cell sounded downright comfortable compared to this. Besides, this was no joke. No trick. He knew tricks, and this...this was real.
Six threw the severed finger at the women, Natalie. It glowed vaguely, and he stared down at the same incision made on his own finger. He had no memory of it being made, though it must have hurt. That finger was worth more than his life now. He had to know how to protect himself to get through this. He flexed his fingers, delicately muscled and finely tuned from all the sleight of his craft. That was all he had now. All he could do in a fight was throw a pigeon at someone's face and run, but he doubted he would even find a pigeon here. He wondered vaguely if that was an appropriate question to ask.
He wondered too whether his craft, his only weapon should or could remain a secret. He wasn't sure that he was capable of pretending he was nothing. This was all he had left, and the only way he had of making anyone even slightly wary of him. He was no threat physically. If someone decided to knife him and he said pick a card, he was dead, but if he made sure everyone knew that he could have them wrapped around his NG anytime he wanted, that was a different kind of caution. One far less familiar in this place, by the sounds of it. That was his safety rope. Besides, his top hat probably gave him away.
Failing that, his plan B had to be surrounding himself with people who could keep him alive if he got into a real fight. And right now, he'd rather have everyone in this room on his side, but if he had to pick one, it would probably be Six. He had come here to collect them for a reason. He was right. If he wanted to kill them, he could have. Instead, he was offering them something. For whatever reason, they weren't dead, and he was sure that Six was responsible for that. And he probably wanted to keep them that way.
So, he made a quick decision. He was a magician. Even at his best, he needed people to make his tricks work. Performing magic on your own simply did not work. He needed a crowd around, and he was going to find one with Six. He moved closer to him, his stomach clenching at the ominous warning of the imminent battle. Stage training kicked in, and he sank into the comfortable feeling of a performance, the iron clad sense of control and personality that came with it. He could do no wrong here. He could make every mistake under the sun, but as long as his audience thought it was ok, he was still a success. It was a good safety net, knowing you could make mistakes and get away with it if you had to. Like knowing how to fall properly so you didn't break anything too vital. Besides, when you had no particular aim bar staying alive, it was pretty hard to screw up short of dying.
"Well if your sheriff father could come examine me, Miss Trace, I would love to know my name if he finds out. Until then," He spun his hat off his head with quick fingers and gave a small bow to the ladies. "I'm Apollo, and I'm sticking with this murderer over here. Finding a way out sounds wonderful to me." He didn't know where the name came from. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it felt right, funny even, but he had no notion of why. An old stage name? The name of some friend he would never remember? No matter. It was his now.
He nodded at the gentlemen who looked as though they could snap him in half, and put his hat back on with ease. The hat truly helped cement his role. He silently thanked whoever had left it to him.
"Anything we can do to help, friendly neighbourhood murder guide?" he asked.
His mouth went bone dry. The blood pooling silently under the man shocked his mind to silence. There was nothing for him to think, nothing to say. He just stared at the blood, a kind of disbelief trying to convince him that the red stain slowly creeping towards his feet was not what it looked like. Stage blood. Fake. Just flour and red food colouring. But no trick he had ever performed had had blood that looked like this. This was blood just the same as what coursed through his body, pumping out faster from his heart and carting adrenaline through his veins, pounding in his ears. He watched as Six cut off the man's finger. No stage tricks. Just blood, bone, grisly, awful sounds, and a deafening silence from the shit-stained corpse on the floor.
That corpse could so easily have been him. Just one decision. One twist of fate, the decision that the top hat he wore was annoying, or that he was too noticeable, too weak, to survive here, and he would have been on the floor with a knife in his ribs and a hole in his hand. Of the people here, he had to be the weakest. There were two men who were almost double his height and/or width, and two women who seemed sly and clever enough to have done him in several times over. Then there was Six, with his quick hands, the ease and familiarity making the simple act of killing as ever day as any trick he had ever performed.
His mind whirred through everything he could possibly have done to end up here. Feeling a kind of manic panic riding the wave of adrenaline in his system, he forced himself to look at the blood and the corpse again, hoping against hope that it gave him a flash of memory, of insight, a remembered moment where he had the ability to perform such a heinous act, anything to tell him that he could do it again if he had to, because otherwise, he would die in this place. His empty mind came up blank. There was nothing. No names. No deaths. No past. And now it looked as though he had no future either.
One of the women seemed to have kept her mind more in order. Quick as a whip, she told them all who she was and how she was going to have them all arrested. But he suspected he'd been arrested before, and death and loss of limb, or at least phalange, scared him now far more than a jail cell. A jail cell sounded downright comfortable compared to this. Besides, this was no joke. No trick. He knew tricks, and this...this was real.
Six threw the severed finger at the women, Natalie. It glowed vaguely, and he stared down at the same incision made on his own finger. He had no memory of it being made, though it must have hurt. That finger was worth more than his life now. He had to know how to protect himself to get through this. He flexed his fingers, delicately muscled and finely tuned from all the sleight of his craft. That was all he had now. All he could do in a fight was throw a pigeon at someone's face and run, but he doubted he would even find a pigeon here. He wondered vaguely if that was an appropriate question to ask.
He wondered too whether his craft, his only weapon should or could remain a secret. He wasn't sure that he was capable of pretending he was nothing. This was all he had left, and the only way he had of making anyone even slightly wary of him. He was no threat physically. If someone decided to knife him and he said pick a card, he was dead, but if he made sure everyone knew that he could have them wrapped around his NG anytime he wanted, that was a different kind of caution. One far less familiar in this place, by the sounds of it. That was his safety rope. Besides, his top hat probably gave him away.
Failing that, his plan B had to be surrounding himself with people who could keep him alive if he got into a real fight. And right now, he'd rather have everyone in this room on his side, but if he had to pick one, it would probably be Six. He had come here to collect them for a reason. He was right. If he wanted to kill them, he could have. Instead, he was offering them something. For whatever reason, they weren't dead, and he was sure that Six was responsible for that. And he probably wanted to keep them that way.
So, he made a quick decision. He was a magician. Even at his best, he needed people to make his tricks work. Performing magic on your own simply did not work. He needed a crowd around, and he was going to find one with Six. He moved closer to him, his stomach clenching at the ominous warning of the imminent battle. Stage training kicked in, and he sank into the comfortable feeling of a performance, the iron clad sense of control and personality that came with it. He could do no wrong here. He could make every mistake under the sun, but as long as his audience thought it was ok, he was still a success. It was a good safety net, knowing you could make mistakes and get away with it if you had to. Like knowing how to fall properly so you didn't break anything too vital. Besides, when you had no particular aim bar staying alive, it was pretty hard to screw up short of dying.
"Well if your sheriff father could come examine me, Miss Trace, I would love to know my name if he finds out. Until then," He spun his hat off his head with quick fingers and gave a small bow to the ladies. "I'm Apollo, and I'm sticking with this murderer over here. Finding a way out sounds wonderful to me." He didn't know where the name came from. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it felt right, funny even, but he had no notion of why. An old stage name? The name of some friend he would never remember? No matter. It was his now.
He nodded at the gentlemen who looked as though they could snap him in half, and put his hat back on with ease. The hat truly helped cement his role. He silently thanked whoever had left it to him.
"Anything we can do to help, friendly neighbourhood murder guide?" he asked.
ArQane
With blood comes life, with life comes death.
The bluntness of the killer threw Natalie back. The threat didn't even faze him, nor did he seem like he was lying.
Was it possible that they were here to murder each other? Natalie had examined the finger that was passed to her. Two things became clear. The finger was clearly real, and the markings the man described was the exact same as the one that she found, bizarrely, on her own ring finger.
And he also knew... Her memory was lost-- as the same with the other 'newcomers' around her. The others seemed to be taking it extremely well. Too well.
Apollo, the name that man with the top hat claimed, offered to join the murderer. True, it might have been safer that way, but Natalie couldn't wrap her head around it. Following someone who just gutted a man before her eyes?
She wanted to laugh it off, but had a nagging feeling that this man was not lying to her. All the puzzle pieces from whenst she first woke up now fit perfectly with one another. And yet...
"I'm leaving," she said. "Stay safe, will you?"
The last part was hollow and out of politeness. 'Safe' was likely not even in their vocabulary anymore, if she had been told the truth.
It appeared that the murderer was being followed, and by how he portrayed it, men that were many folds worse than him. Joining up with him could just be digging up her own grave, not to mention that the dangers of being in a group could hold. Deep down, Natalie wanted to cry. The weak falls to the strong, and she knew that she was among the prey. The men around her looked strong, some dangerous. Would every day force her to fight and kill someone like that? Could she even do that?
She offered the finger back toward the killer. As she did, she focused on the bloody stump where it was separated from the hand. Death was something she saw often. Patients dying of disease, dying of wounds... The required removal of limbs and other parts of the body. Bandaging bloody stumps and stitching up deep gashes...
Could taking a life be so much different from saving one?
Was it possible that they were here to murder each other? Natalie had examined the finger that was passed to her. Two things became clear. The finger was clearly real, and the markings the man described was the exact same as the one that she found, bizarrely, on her own ring finger.
And he also knew... Her memory was lost-- as the same with the other 'newcomers' around her. The others seemed to be taking it extremely well. Too well.
Apollo, the name that man with the top hat claimed, offered to join the murderer. True, it might have been safer that way, but Natalie couldn't wrap her head around it. Following someone who just gutted a man before her eyes?
She wanted to laugh it off, but had a nagging feeling that this man was not lying to her. All the puzzle pieces from whenst she first woke up now fit perfectly with one another. And yet...
"I'm leaving," she said. "Stay safe, will you?"
The last part was hollow and out of politeness. 'Safe' was likely not even in their vocabulary anymore, if she had been told the truth.
It appeared that the murderer was being followed, and by how he portrayed it, men that were many folds worse than him. Joining up with him could just be digging up her own grave, not to mention that the dangers of being in a group could hold. Deep down, Natalie wanted to cry. The weak falls to the strong, and she knew that she was among the prey. The men around her looked strong, some dangerous. Would every day force her to fight and kill someone like that? Could she even do that?
She offered the finger back toward the killer. As she did, she focused on the bloody stump where it was separated from the hand. Death was something she saw often. Patients dying of disease, dying of wounds... The required removal of limbs and other parts of the body. Bandaging bloody stumps and stitching up deep gashes...
Could taking a life be so much different from saving one?
Gattletowne
The Crowned Light of Midday Night
"The first thing you have to get through your head is that we're all killers. Once you make peace with that, this place ain't so bad," Six said to them.
_BB_
Resident Bard
Not quite understanding why Natalie had given the finger back, Apollo was briefly tempted to try and pickpocket Six for the prize, but he didn't quite yet. Save that particular skill for later. Natalie took on the look of a frightened rabbit for a moment, and backed away from the group, wishing them all farewell. "I doubt that staying safe is much of a possibility given the apparent crime rates, but I thank you for your optimism," he shot back quickly. She might try and kill him later, but at least she meant well for now.
The other woman silently moved to join him and Six. It was Six's next words that confused Apollo the most.
Apollo's eyebrows shot up. "I'm a killer?" He glanced around at the others. Did he mean that they were all going to have to kill to survive, or had they all killed to get put here in the first place? He guessed it made little practical difference in the end, but he was more than curious about that tidbit from his past. His company looked more than capable but he was a little surprised at his past self if that was what Six was saying.
The other woman silently moved to join him and Six. It was Six's next words that confused Apollo the most.
Apollo's eyebrows shot up. "I'm a killer?" He glanced around at the others. Did he mean that they were all going to have to kill to survive, or had they all killed to get put here in the first place? He guessed it made little practical difference in the end, but he was more than curious about that tidbit from his past. His company looked more than capable but he was a little surprised at his past self if that was what Six was saying.
SedentaryCobra
Outhouse Poet
Sigil watched through it all impassively. The spat of Natalie and Sixty Six, the death of the fat man, he looked on with his listlessy with his stony grey eyes, almost as if the events taking place were natural. It had to be assumed what he was saying was true. There was no flaw in any of what he said, not that he could prove. Only one thing didn't add up in all of this. Sigil frowned ever slightly, and thought over all he had said. Your finger is money. It's the driving force of this world, if it was to be believed, and from what Six said, and what Sigil saw, there was no reason not to. Anything anyone does here is in the pursuit of these fingers. The men that were coming, their screaming could be heard a ways off, echoing far down the halls, were intent on killing them and taking their fingers. That was their reason. The only reason these soundless would take on men is for manpower to get more bones under their control. They must need men, for more killers, or more soldiers. Sigil could work with that. He wasn't a fighter, but it would keep him alive, at least for a while. If they wanted him dead for his finger, he would never have woken up. They could be trusted, for a little while.
One part, however, didn't make sense. Clothes, food, and weapons and tools. Those couldn't be cheap, not by a long shot. It would hurt if a man just walked out with them, giving nothing in return. It's murder city, not murder charity, after all. Sigil gave a flickering smirk. And if a man given tools just turned joined an enemy just after leaving, or decided to fight the soundless? That could be even worse. He thought it out, as far as he could, what may happen next.
They would be led to their base, where they would be at their mercy, and given an option.
'You join, or walk away with some stuff to get you going.' Their greeter would say.
'Sure, we'll join you.' Most would respond. Why not? The soundless, surely, must be good. They've been good thus far, helpful, friendly folk. Good first impressions.
'Great, right this way.' A man would say. Those joining would be taken away.
'Of course, follow me, and we'll give you your things and send you off.'
Then, they would be taken to a separate room, and killed. Perhaps it would be something elaborate, lock them in a sealed chamber until they suffocate, or perhaps simply a firing squad.
Either way, why waste the resources giving them equipment that could be better kept for themselves? It was only common sense. Besides, the people they kill were walking money. And they needed it to survive, themselves.
As for the others? Natalie would be killed, most likely. Most likely, she wouldn't be able to fend off the hackles herself. The top hat could posture well, at least. His breathing when the man was killed, that gave him away. His eyes as he watched the event, they lingered too long, too wide. He was perturbed, that was for sure. All of them were, save perhaps their greeter. As for the other girl, she was thinking ahead, sizing up her chances of those around her. She was in shock, but not so far as to be making decisions too hastily. He gave another faint smile as they made eye contact after she saw the scars peeking out from beneath his clothes. Fear, perhaps? Her gaze lingered too long, and broke too quickly. He was fairly sure. Why, he didn't know, he was five seven, and scarcely over a hundred. Perhaps the overalls hid it better than he thought. For the last man, their guide, he was harder to read. He was comfortable in his situation to be sure. He knew what he was doing, and executed it perfectly.
Sigil would go with the Soundless, for now at least. They could help him survive, at least for now. They were preferable to the men screaming for their guts down the hall, at least. Crazed beasts could be useful tools in the future, but were dangerous without a bat to beat them into submission. For now, he would side with the Soundless. Perhaps they would give him that bat.
Sigil nodded in respectful agreeance to Sixty-Six's offer, and strode forward to him. He stuck out a bony hand for a handshake.
"Sigil."
One part, however, didn't make sense. Clothes, food, and weapons and tools. Those couldn't be cheap, not by a long shot. It would hurt if a man just walked out with them, giving nothing in return. It's murder city, not murder charity, after all. Sigil gave a flickering smirk. And if a man given tools just turned joined an enemy just after leaving, or decided to fight the soundless? That could be even worse. He thought it out, as far as he could, what may happen next.
They would be led to their base, where they would be at their mercy, and given an option.
'You join, or walk away with some stuff to get you going.' Their greeter would say.
'Sure, we'll join you.' Most would respond. Why not? The soundless, surely, must be good. They've been good thus far, helpful, friendly folk. Good first impressions.
'Great, right this way.' A man would say. Those joining would be taken away.
'Of course, follow me, and we'll give you your things and send you off.'
Then, they would be taken to a separate room, and killed. Perhaps it would be something elaborate, lock them in a sealed chamber until they suffocate, or perhaps simply a firing squad.
Either way, why waste the resources giving them equipment that could be better kept for themselves? It was only common sense. Besides, the people they kill were walking money. And they needed it to survive, themselves.
As for the others? Natalie would be killed, most likely. Most likely, she wouldn't be able to fend off the hackles herself. The top hat could posture well, at least. His breathing when the man was killed, that gave him away. His eyes as he watched the event, they lingered too long, too wide. He was perturbed, that was for sure. All of them were, save perhaps their greeter. As for the other girl, she was thinking ahead, sizing up her chances of those around her. She was in shock, but not so far as to be making decisions too hastily. He gave another faint smile as they made eye contact after she saw the scars peeking out from beneath his clothes. Fear, perhaps? Her gaze lingered too long, and broke too quickly. He was fairly sure. Why, he didn't know, he was five seven, and scarcely over a hundred. Perhaps the overalls hid it better than he thought. For the last man, their guide, he was harder to read. He was comfortable in his situation to be sure. He knew what he was doing, and executed it perfectly.
Sigil would go with the Soundless, for now at least. They could help him survive, at least for now. They were preferable to the men screaming for their guts down the hall, at least. Crazed beasts could be useful tools in the future, but were dangerous without a bat to beat them into submission. For now, he would side with the Soundless. Perhaps they would give him that bat.
Sigil nodded in respectful agreeance to Sixty-Six's offer, and strode forward to him. He stuck out a bony hand for a handshake.
"Sigil."
Gattletowne
The Crowned Light of Midday Night
Sixty Six took the bony hand and shook it. Strong grasp, confidence faintly glimmering behind cold eyes. He'll make it, Six thought. Hell they all might, or one of them might kill him at some point. That was for another day. This was now, he was in control of the situation.
"Sigil," Six said as he let go of the smaller man's hand.
He looked to the performer who took Apollo as a name.
"I have no idea if any of us were in the Old Life. The way you twirl that hat of yours makes me think you might have been a magician. Maybe Natalie was a housewife in the Hills, maybe Sigil here was an investment banker. I don't know. Maybe we were all horrible criminals. What I do know is that if you want to continue your life, then you'll be a killer. There's no way around it. But don't think it isn't inside each of you. I've seen women smaller than the two of you, crying every day for a month, become the most vicious and hardened killers. There's only one real decision to be made here. It simplifies things. Decide if you want to live or die. If you choose the former, get used the idea of being a killer. Visualize it, accept it, roll it around your tongue. You don't have to be a wanton destroyer of all living things, but sooner or later someone is going to want your finger or you're going to be hungry and desperate and there's a supply chest and a warm body nearby. No one escapes the reaper, no matter the side you fall on.
"And Trace, this is the only time I'll warn you, the rest is up to you. Free will and all that. We're still in here because we're behind enemy lines. This chamber happens to be in Hackle territory. They don't listen to reason, and you're female. You won't be killed right away if they catch you. They'll rape you until you're catatonic, and then they'll torture you to death in the most brutal and inhuman way possible. But you might be able to evade them and make your own way. It has been done. So you've been warned."
"Sigil," Six said as he let go of the smaller man's hand.
He looked to the performer who took Apollo as a name.
"I have no idea if any of us were in the Old Life. The way you twirl that hat of yours makes me think you might have been a magician. Maybe Natalie was a housewife in the Hills, maybe Sigil here was an investment banker. I don't know. Maybe we were all horrible criminals. What I do know is that if you want to continue your life, then you'll be a killer. There's no way around it. But don't think it isn't inside each of you. I've seen women smaller than the two of you, crying every day for a month, become the most vicious and hardened killers. There's only one real decision to be made here. It simplifies things. Decide if you want to live or die. If you choose the former, get used the idea of being a killer. Visualize it, accept it, roll it around your tongue. You don't have to be a wanton destroyer of all living things, but sooner or later someone is going to want your finger or you're going to be hungry and desperate and there's a supply chest and a warm body nearby. No one escapes the reaper, no matter the side you fall on.
"And Trace, this is the only time I'll warn you, the rest is up to you. Free will and all that. We're still in here because we're behind enemy lines. This chamber happens to be in Hackle territory. They don't listen to reason, and you're female. You won't be killed right away if they catch you. They'll rape you until you're catatonic, and then they'll torture you to death in the most brutal and inhuman way possible. But you might be able to evade them and make your own way. It has been done. So you've been warned."
ArQane
With blood comes life, with life comes death.
Evasion sounded like a good plan, and perhaps, so was her decision to break off from the group. If they were currently inside hostile territory, only one of the newcomers is needed to jeopardize the rest. Personally, she was less than inclined to trust anything on them.
Sigil had a shifty gaze; it was intimidating, and seemed to be calculating without stop. Sixty-Six? Well, she wasn't sure if sticking around him for too long was safe. Sooner or later she'd be put on the slaughter list, killed out of mercy just like the sorry corpse before her. Apollo seemed polite, at the least, but she felt like there was something missing to him. A magician with a trick up his sleeve. There was a burly man who resembled none other than a criminal. The girl seemed, perhaps, the most welcoming, if anything.
Twice Natalie thought of suiciding. Once thinking of slitting her Ulnar artery, and the other forcing Sixty-Six to kill her. She was scared of dying, but the Hackles seemed a lot worse.
What Sixty-Six said was soothing. She had the potential to kill. There was no law... No penalty for murder. Only benefits.
Blood pumps from the heart with the aid of the largest artery in the body. The aorta. The smallest of holes can cause the buildup of pressure to cause the blood to explode out of the puncture. The result is death.
A blunt hit right under the head at the cervical vertebrae causes the snapping of bones inside the neck. The result is death.
Lethal proportions of toxins can be fatal or disabling, and can even be hidden in food. If the quantity is calculated, it would surely result in death.
Natalie was not sure how she knew all of this, but it was the one thing she remembered, from the so called "Old Life". She is already trained to kill, and she knew what had killed people in her experiences, and in Murder City, that's all it takes to survive.
Sigil had a shifty gaze; it was intimidating, and seemed to be calculating without stop. Sixty-Six? Well, she wasn't sure if sticking around him for too long was safe. Sooner or later she'd be put on the slaughter list, killed out of mercy just like the sorry corpse before her. Apollo seemed polite, at the least, but she felt like there was something missing to him. A magician with a trick up his sleeve. There was a burly man who resembled none other than a criminal. The girl seemed, perhaps, the most welcoming, if anything.
Twice Natalie thought of suiciding. Once thinking of slitting her Ulnar artery, and the other forcing Sixty-Six to kill her. She was scared of dying, but the Hackles seemed a lot worse.
What Sixty-Six said was soothing. She had the potential to kill. There was no law... No penalty for murder. Only benefits.
Blood pumps from the heart with the aid of the largest artery in the body. The aorta. The smallest of holes can cause the buildup of pressure to cause the blood to explode out of the puncture. The result is death.
A blunt hit right under the head at the cervical vertebrae causes the snapping of bones inside the neck. The result is death.
Lethal proportions of toxins can be fatal or disabling, and can even be hidden in food. If the quantity is calculated, it would surely result in death.
Natalie was not sure how she knew all of this, but it was the one thing she remembered, from the so called "Old Life". She is already trained to kill, and she knew what had killed people in her experiences, and in Murder City, that's all it takes to survive.
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