Murder City

Rouge

Her smile widened a little. "Rhymes, huh? You're like a poet, mister. That seems quite fun." she replied. She walked around the place, looking around for anything she could find. Something sharp or hard enough to knock someone out... something that can be used as a weapon. She had the notion that if she stayed here for longer, something will find her. Something unpleasant. But first... she glanced at the strange guy. He's thin, not enough muscles to really be a great ally. Of course her body is indeed small and weak as well, but she something tells her she can manage and this guy cannot. Maybe he's smart. Maybe he can be useful, for gathering supplies and small stuff. Maybe she can use his body as a shield if someone tries to attack them. Surely he won't mind?

She didn't like him. The way he smiled creep her out. There's something about him... She wished she'd gotten to meet someone who knew more about this Murder City. Someone useful. She looked around the place once more. Wrong and red. Really? "What do you mean by wrong? This place seems quite pleasant, I think." she replied. She found some broken glass, but touching it gave her finger a small wound. She didn't mind, but it would probably not be wise to ruin her hands when she needed to fight.

Huh?

She glanced at her finger again. It was the left hand ring finger. There she could faintly see a scar, as well as weird symbols that she didn't quite understand. Not to mention, it was glowing. Very faintly, it was glowing a luminescent blue. Weird.

For the moment, she let that go. She found a bloody chair, and without hesitation started hitting the wall with it. With effort, the chair broke, and she got herself a piece of wood with a couple of rusty nails hanging off it. She frowned. It felt unfamiliar in her hands. She wanted something to stab with. With consideration she eyed the broken piece of mirror again. She looked around. Finding a bloody piece of fabric that seemed from someone else's clothes, she wrapped the glass around it, and put it in her boots. It was rather uncomfortable having her feet press up next to a hard object, but at least she has the weapon she wanted. Though a knife would be better... she thought.

Realizing she had ignored the guy for a while in her concentration, she blushed a little in embarrassment. "I... I apologize. I'm just looking for a weapon. I'm worried someone will find us here. But I'll be good, I promise." she said. "Also.." she opened her left hand to face him, showing him her strange glowing finger. "Do you have this weird finger too? Am I the only one who can't remember stuff? How do we survive here? Where's the way out? The monitor in my room said some weird things, but this place really does seem dangerous..." she trailed off. "Ah, do you have a weapon yet? You'll need one. Do you want this?" she raised up the piece of wood she got, offering with a friendly smile. Suddenly she blinked, and looked down at the floor at the floor uneasily. "Ah, I'm sorry. I'm asking so many questions, it must be annoying. "
 
Rouge
"No need to say sorry, it's not a worry. But in case you didn't know it, hello, my name is Poet," he said.

He had been watching her with grim fascination. She wasn't a desert flower, this one. He had guessed right. A rose of beauty and a rose of thorns. She was already assessing, preparing. Very pragmatic, and very dangerous. He liked it better when they needed comfort, someone to dry the tears, a shoulder to lean on. But this would do. She would do nicely. But he needed the upper hand, needed to establish dominance before she became too much for him to manage.

"The exit to this room leads into gloom, but some things we'll need, our hunger to feed," he was getting tired of this, "are over here," he indicated with a finger. Poet moved in the direction he'd pointed slowly, hoping Rouge would follow. She was still assessing, looking for an advantage, but she wasn't treating as a threat at the moment. Perfect. She looked at him briefly and started to follow him while muttering a few things to herself.

He disappeared around a corner near the foyer exit, and his hand wrapped comfortably around the aluminum baseball bat he had stashed by the body who this ugly coverall had belonged to. He was still upset about that one. Caught him right at the base of the skull with the bat. He wanted one alive. Dead wasn't any fun. Rouge startled him out of his reverie as she rounded the corner. It almost made him miss as he swung hard, almost.
 
???

She opened her eyes.

An ethereal light shone down from above, a blazing ring like a halo of white fire, all consuming. It hummed softly, but in the emptiness, the sound was like a roar. Her eyes burned as tears began to form, but she couldn't look away. Shadows stirred at the edge of the light, warped and twisted and demonic in their cast. To turn from the light would only call the shadows closer.

"Dr. Alger," said a disembodied, feminine voice. "Number 327 is awake."

"Impossible," came the reply, and one of the shadows blocked out the light. It was a man. His face was obscured by a surgical mask, leaving only his eyes visible. "Shit. Okay, give her a second dose."

"But doctor, it might kill her. The likelihood is very high," the woman paused. "87% likely."

The shadows at the edge of the light wavered. "Does it matter? She's going to die anyway. They all are." Dr. Alger stared down, his gaze stony and cold. There was no humanity within it. "Give her the dose."




.

..

…



The girl finished the last line of her term paper at the last possible moment, uploading it to the school server with less than thirty seconds to spare. “Yes!” She pumped her fist in the air, and was promptly shushed by the librarian. God damn, she hated that librarian.

“Dude, you really need to get your shit done earlier,” teased her friend from the computer next to hers. She had been watching anime the whole time, which had done nothing but distract from the matter at hand. Fortunately, now that the paper was turned in, anime could become the matter at hand. As it should be.

“Shut up,” the girl said. “You’re just as bad.”

But the words rang false…



...The breath of life surged into the girl’s body, and her back arched as she gulped it in. Her eyes flew open, and her open palms and booted feet smacked against the cold metal beneath her…



...“We’ve got beer, beer, and oh, look. More beer.”

“Don’t tell me it’s Bud Light,” said the girl, exasperated.

“Fuck that. It’s Blue Moon,” the naked man did a trick and somehow opened the bottle with another bottle. He passed it to the girl, who took a long swallow.

Did they…?

“This was fun,” he said, now clothed as if the time in between had disappeared. “See you tomorrow?”

She didn’t remember what she’d said…



...A bulb flickered above the examination table as the computerized voice began to speak. The girl had heard this before somewhere. But where? This felt so familiar…



...Blood everywhere. The sound of footsteps walking away. The smell of slow death permeated the air. Movement was impossible. Thought was sluggish. Something terrible had happened. Hell, that son of a bitch, he did it. He really did it…



...She slid her legs off the table and looked around. Yep. This was the same thing over again. The voice from the monitor. The dark room. The coveralls. It was all the same, or similar enough to render the distinction pointless. For all intents and purposes, this was just like the last time.

The last time. Three simple words, but in context, insane. Not that Murder City had ever been sane.

She listened for a long moment, trying to decide if she was alone or if another group of Hackles had come looking for an easy mark. Nothing. Perhaps she was alone. That was good. It meant she'd have a chance to survive longer. She could find a weapon or food, maybe even a place to lay low and get her bearings. Maybe there was some other New Blood she could kill.

As the girl's thoughts turned in that macabre direction, she looked at her left hand, searching for the eldritch symbol that adorned her finger before. What she saw took a long moment to process, her senses clouded as they were by the rude awakening.

Her NG--along with her entire finger--was missing.

Frantically, she undid the buttons on her coveralls and pulled up her shirt, baring her chest. There it was: a smooth scar over her heart. She reached around, touching her back where she'd felt that spike of pain before the darkness. There was indeed a matching scar. No two ways about it. That had been a fatal injury. She had bled to death. She remembered bleeding to death.

A manic grin split the girl’s face as she brought her hand back around and stared through the new gap. She didn’t know much, but she knew this shouldn’t have happened. She should have disappeared, or gone to some other place. She hadn’t. Somehow, she remembered things. Somehow, she was here again. The implications were... fascinating. Truly fascinating...

The lights flickered and died, plunging the room into blackness as Vi made her way into Murder City for the second time.
 
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Sigil, Apollo, Sixty Six
Kook began to tell his stories about a life he never had in order to pass the time and get everyone's mind off the young girl who had refused the blindfold. Six had asked him once why he made up the nonsense about something he'd never remember. Kook had just shrugged and said it helped him not go crazy. He'd wanted something else besides this city in his head, even if it was made up.

"...and my daddy dropped that cherry bomb into the pond and BOOM! Every goddamned thing that was alive or dead floated right to the top like they were underwater balloons," Kook said chuckling.

"I like Sixty Six's story better. It's real. Not like your bullshit fantasies," Jess said as he rejoined the group.

"It's a barn burner, there's no doubt about that," Kook said ignoring the big man's insult, "and he hasn't told it sober in a good long time. I wouldn't mind it a bit."

"Pass," Six declined.

"Most men would boast about such a thing, but you act like you're ashamed. In a place like this. There's no room for shame. Your bullshit is worse than his," Jess pointed to Kook as he shook his head.

"I'm not ashamed of it. I don't want to be anyone's fucking symbol. Christ told me to do it. I did. Glad we're all still above ground. End of story."

"Yeah but sixty-six Hackles..."

"Kook, I swear to God..."

"Fine, fine. Your story, whatever," Kook said.

"Bullshit," Jess added.

"We're here," Six said as he began to loose the blindfolds.

Eyes freed, Sigil and Apollo saw it for the first time. An enormous gothic cathedral towered hundreds of feet into the air. It sat on a steel platform, like an oil rig in the ocean, supported beneath it by four monolithic steel I-beams in each of the four corners. In the center of the platform below the cathedral was an enormous steel, cylindrical column extending to the ground as did the I-beams. Hundreds of feet separated the base of the cathedral from the ground, and hung all around the I-beams in decoration were bodies. Corpses crucified in all manner of positions, hanging by chains, cable, and wire. All of them were pierced with metal spikes like you'd see on railway tracks. Mostly they were dead, those that were not wished they were.

"Welcome to Church," Sixty Six said.
 
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Kurtus
Kurtus scowled. He tossed the map onto the ground beside him. This damn place. He didn't recognize any of it, no flicker of memory told him where he was and he still had no way out. It had been about a day since he woke up, and he still didn't know where he was on the damned map. The city was so confusing with it's maze like twists and turns, its random structure. He gave a heavy sigh, looking over to the door across the room in which he sat. Checking yet again that the chair he'd jammed under the handle wasn't slipping. Kurtus had taken shelter in an old broken house for the time being. He hadn't slept, and he needed a nap. But that was dangerous. If the things he read in Tolly's journal were true, and it was looking to be the case, he had to be very careful in this hostile environment.

He swiped up the worn, leather bound book beside him and opened it again. The first few pages were notes and warnings. The simple basics of this place, probably written when he as a new blood as they were apparently called. Kurtus didn't understand why someone would keep a guide on their person at first. If bodies were currency, certainly it would be easier to leave everyone in the dark. To kill them off while they were blind. But as he read, the reason had soon become apparent. Tolly was forgetful, very much so it seemed, he had written several things in multiple places throughout the book. This thing was probably the only reason the man had made it as far as he did. And Kurtus knew he was lucky to come across such a guide. He understood a lot more than another 'day old' person would, and it was quite obvious that your survival chances grew exponentially with your time in the city. Knowing how things worked was vital.

He flipped through the pages, reviewing and memorizing, as if the journal before him was a highly classified mission briefing. And in a way, it was. A mission of survival. His finger traced down the page. It detailed something called the Codex. Tolly had never seen it, but apparently it was the key to this place.

The Codex
- What's it look like?
- Holds information that only the brew can decode.

Kurtus grunted. Was it cryptography? For some reason he thought he knew a thing or two about that subject. If he could get his hands on it, maybe he had a shot at reading it. Without the apparently hallucinogenic drug called the brew. He didn't fancy tripping out as he preferred to keep his wits about him. But the Codex. The Codex is the key. That was it, he had his mission, he would do whatever was necessary to obtain it and escape. Down at the bottom of the page, Kurtus found a note.

Hackles have the Codex?

Right, the Hackles. Of course those sadistic fucks would have it. It was just speculation from Tolly's part, but it was a start. A lead for him to follow. He flipped to the section about the Hackles, but there wasn't anything truly useful in the pages. The Alkies, however. There was a LOT of information about them. Tolly was a member it seemed. And they liked to trade; food, supplies, information, all of it. That was where he could learn more. It seemed he would be meeting up with Bloke again after all. St. Lucifer's was the place he mentioned wasn't it? It was in the center of the map, and good old Tolly had information on that place too.

St. Lucifer's is neutral ground during market - once a week.
Seems to be some kind of swap meet.

Kurtus's stomach growled. Shit. He hadn't slept or eaten in a day and needed food. That meant he needed to find a crate and a finger. In fact, he would probably need a few fingers if he was going to get any information out of people. Three days till market. Well, now two. But for the moment he needed rest, he could kill and eat later. Getting up, Kurtus checked the chair before walking over and tucking himself into a dark corner, out of sight. The only door was blocked and he should hear if anyone tried to break through the bars on the paneless windows. He was safe for the moment, time for some shut eye.
 
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Sigil, Apollo, Sixty Six
"We go up," Jess pointed toward the platform.

It was hard to make out at first in the dying light, but welded into the crook of the giant I-beam was a narrow ladder.

"Don't think about it, just do it. You know how ladders work. Close your eyes if you need to," Six said as he promptly began his ascent.

Sigil shrugged and began to climb without hesitation. Apollo visibly paled and swallowed hard, too hard. Kook slapped him solidly on the shoulder in encouragement.

"See you at the top," he said as he followed Sigil.

"Climb now," Jess said with a stoic glare that raised Apollo's hackles.

Apollo grudgingly moved with glacial clamber. Hand up. Then foot. Next rung. Hand, foot, up. Hand. Then. Foot. One more step, and another, and another. He knew Jess was lumbering close behind and would probably not hesitate to throw him off if he froze. Keep moving. Keep moving. And then with a heave he was laying, breathless, at the top, cold sweat leaking off him and making him shiver involuntary. He somehow had manged, through some impossible miracle, to keep his hat from falling off during the climb.

"See? Easy," Kook smiled as he walk up the steps that led into the interior of Church.

Sixty Six stopped just in front of the heavy, darkened metal door.

"Stay close. It's easy to get distracted in there. You'll have plenty of time to get drawn in later if it's your type of thing, but if you stray right now and don't meet the Man, he'll take it personally and throw you off the platform, literally. There's a place out back he's set aside for nothing else but tossing people he doesn't like into the Precipice. It's like a hobby for him, so he's always looking for an excuse to do it. Don't piss him off, answer him directly, and the more agreeable you are to the things he says, the better chance you stay breathing. His name is Christ. He thinks he's ironic with the cathedral, the crucified bodies, and the name. Just smile and nod, and you should be okay. Let's go," Six said as he pushed the doors open.

The sound was the first thing to make physical contact with their bodies. Driving bass, electronic bleats, and epileptic vollies of lights ranging from nearly black blues to liver blood maroons changing with machine gun rhythms and nuclear thrums. It was a succubus paradise. Naked bodies writhed around each other on the dance floor, and the smell of seminal fluid and vulvic secretions hung like a miasma that could be plucked from the air like a cherry blossom snowing from its tree. Dancers, male and female, twirled and writhed in cages chained above the dance floor, covered in exotic tattoos and piercings, altered by body mods both alluring and horrific, and performing all manner of sex acts on themselves with objects both mundane and fantastic. The demonic howl of dark desire made manifest in flesh was both awesome and terrible, beautiful and sadistic. It's perfume was almost too strong to resist. Then Sixty Six opened another chamber to another corridor, and the heat and spectacle was left behind. Jess and Kook were no longer with them. The hallway was bleak and dark, and compared to the furnace of the dance hall, it seemed unnaturally chilly.

He led them up a spiral of stairs which stopped at a stone landing and a heavy oak door adorned near the top with a square of stained glass. It was a simple golden cross bordered in azure. Next to the door was an old stone statue, blackened with age and six feet tall, of Jesus Christ. It was plain except for red painted lips and eyes outlined in black to mimic eye-liner. Six knocked three times. The door was opened by a young girl, bald, who was naked. She was covered in an elaborate red and white body tattoo. A thin, but muscled man stood with his back to them, he was also naked, and his long hair was white and tied into a braid that was banded nine times in gold. The Tree of Life was tattooed on his back with unearthly vivid color that had an almost faint luminescence.

"It's the bane of your enemies my lord," the girl said with a velvety voice that was half coy and half inviting.

"Six! Glad to have you back my son," the man said as he turned without modesty. His eyes were milky white with no iris. "You wanna fuck Treah?" He asked indicating his bald companion. She smiled seductively.

"Maybe later. I have the latest from the waking chambers. Two this time. One chose to solo, one died in the chamber, one died in-route."

"Why does that one have that hat? Are you trying to be funny?" The white-haired man asked Apollo.

"He came with it," Six answered quickly, "He came from the chamber with it on. You know how people latch on to things just out of the chamber."

"I guess. Anyway, I'm sure Sixty Six told the two of you that I'm Christ. Your Lord and Savior, and I sure as fuck ain't gonna die for you," he said smiling at his own humor. "I like to do these little on-boarding sessions personally, I think it sets a good example," Treah held a black leisure robe open for him made of a fine material. He slipped it on over his shoulders and tied it off in the front.

"Water, my lord?" she asked.

"No, I think I'll have the wine," Christ smiled, "Six?" He shook his head, declining alcohol.

"Anyway, the point is that all the bullshit Sixty Six told you to get you to come here was just that. Bullshit. But you're here now, so why not just do what we tell you? Learn all that sneaky Soundless shit if that's your bag, I could give two fucks. Just be a body when I need a body. If you step out of line just one little time, you become the decorations you saw coming in if you're lucky. But if you really piss me off, you're going to wish you were a Hackle fuck-toy. It'd be a better fate than what'll happen when I get ahold of ya. And just to illustrate the point," he made an exaggerated come here motion with his right index finger toward Treah. She came obediently hither. "Ready babe?" She nodded yes.

Christ made a fist and glared hatefully through it and at Treah. His eyes swam from milk into obsidian tar. The girl began to choke and bleed from her nose and ears. He raised his fist and was shaking with rage. Treah lifted into the air like she was levitating, her legs twitched and her arms seized. Her face was turning purple.

"Okay, you made your point, let her go," Six admonished.

"Why are you always such a goddamned bummer Six? We do this shit while we're fucking." Christ casually let go and Treah stumbled to the ground with a grunt. "Go get cleaned up."

"Yes my lord."

"So you see my point," He said to Apollo and Sigil, "is that nobody, and I mean nobody fucks with Jesus."
 
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Apollo

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit what kind of messed up den of inequity hellhole had Apollo walked himself into? This was some next level kinda shit.

Walking through the rickety city with the screams as a backdrop to their pleasant nightly stroll hadn’t exactly been comforting but safety in numbers had kicked in and at least Sixty Six still seemed to vaguely want to keep them alive. Unlike everyone else. Apollo had stopped planning for the future he probably didn't have and decided that the present was the best time to be living in while everyone was trying to kill him. By that standard every second he was still breathing was a fucking victory, a big old win for the underdog.

Seeing the buildings and the wall had been nice enough. It was a nice sort of aesthetic if you were into that creepy, desolate kinda stuff. The blindfold had made him somewhat dubious, but the prospect of being behind that wall and away from the murderers decked out in toe necklaces was far too alluring for him to argue. Apollo was willing to bet that they hadn’t put this much effort into not killing them for no reason. At the very least they had to be more civilised than these Hackles Six kept mentioning. If they were herding them to somewhere to kill them in a more convenient location then Apollo would kick himself in the afterlife, but he was focusing on making decisions that kept him living in the here and now, for this moment and the next. So he took the blindfold.

The whisper of the cloth against his skin felt oddly familiar. Either he did stage tricks like this or he was a bit kinkier than he remembered. Both being true was entirely likely. His hands twitched ever so slightly, the faintest memory of a moment coming to him as the next in a sequence after the blindfold went on, but there was nothing in his pockets to hold, nothing to palm or present. His hands grasped the empty air instead and he just did as he was told.

He didn’t want to end up like Vi, after all. He and Sigil were the only ones left now. God only knew what had happened to Trace.

He stepped carefully, his senses used to going without sight for a while, to trusting an assistant, though he didn’t even close to trust any of these people. He heard noises in the distance, the quiet of the world he now lived in pressing against his ears and whispering through his hair. By the time his blindfold came off, Jess was back with them and Vi was gone. Apollo didn’t ask.

He knew he should have been repulsed by the grisly decorations strung off the platform but the horror came later. First was an appreciation for the drama of it. For the theatrics, and the religious theme and symbolism. No point taking a theme if they weren't going to play it through. The bodies were all similarly displayed but unique in their grotesqueness. Some care had gone into scaring people away from here.

The fear that began then to creep fingers up Apollo's spine was not that he would be strung up as one of them. He stared at them, at the dessicated corpses, at the viscera strewn artfully, at the gory eyeballs, never too much on one place, as though they'd been organised that way, and he knew how to improve the arrangement to bring more fear, to take people's hearts and squeeze them that bit tighter. He knew he could be good at this. The fear that wrapped its arms around his neck and whispered in his ear was that he could have a taste for this. Maybe he was here for something other than a stage mishap. Because right then, Apollo knew that he was good at this. All the world's a stage, after all.

"Could probably do with a few more ladies on the east side," he joked, but the back of his mind, the breath on his neck, told him he was right.

That dark fear clung to his spine, but he was almost relieved when Six presented them with a ladder. Real, physical fear took him over and that deeper terror, that hint of sweetness that touched him on seeing that display, that empty excitement that reached into him that had nohing to do with fear, faded into the background.

Real tangible fear of falling to his death from this fucking platform took him over and he focused on the climb, that need to survive the next moment becoming his primary motivation once more. Jess' breath on his back was warmer and far more immediate, and even the nagging fear that he might lose his hat became primary, though the thought of it hitting Jess in the face and the bewildered expression that would follow really got him through.

Making it to the top of the ladder was the biggest relief of his short time here. He hated heights more than he hated tv crime shows. The possibility of falling now left him and he was positively high on adrenaline and ready to face anything.

Or so he had thought.

The second they passed into the next room, his senses were drowned in information, in lights and flashes of images, of a pounding bass and the smell of sex. Everywhere he looked there were fingernails clawing down a naked back, sweat and cage bars flashing in the strobe, and staccato moans and screams mingling with the electronica. He knew he should be repulsed, but he simply wasn't. The depravity and the anarchy just felt right right, for this place, for this time. They made sense. And yes, he probably would partake. A world without law offered many opportunities, and the basest urges of society had found their home here. Who was he to argue with the natural order of things? A primal survival instinct was making him acutely aware of the possibilities that each grinding, sweating body presented him with.

He could justify wanting some of what was happening, of appreciating the sight rather than running from it. High on adrenaline and shock, he could say he was fucking horny and he understood how society had come so quickly to this. He could justify his acceptance of it.

But it was Christ that ruined him.

That new fear, so familiar now, walked fingers up his back as he was through the building to ornate cathedral doors with stained glass windows and statues. The decorations and additions were desecrations of what had once been beautiful, horror coming from what had once been sacred. Apollo had to remind himself not to love the symbolism in that. He could really see what Six meant when he said this Christ fella thought he was ironic. The made up statue was a perfect reflection of the pounding bodies a chamber away. He knew he should be terrified. Everything told him that this Christ was no-one to mess with, that in this new world, he was king, but Apollo could only find himself enjoying the show. Excitement began to pool in his stomach, the fingers of that faint fear coaxing it higher.

He didn't know what he had thought he would see when Sixty Six led him into that room, but he could barely stop his gaze from raking Christ up and down, the girl too, appreciative, but strangely not surprised. Maybe he was just in shock and hadn’t taken anything in yet. But no, he felt clear, and focused, aware of everything. Especially the man who called himself Christ. He was lean, with long white hair and vaguely luminescent tattoos. Eerie, but powerful. Exactly the right kind of image. Apollo inwardly approved of the construction. He was a performer, after all. He could appreciate a good performance when he saw it, and Christ was one heck of a performer.

Apollo took a moment to register that Treah, the girl, was lifting off the ground. Well, he noticed that quickly enough, but such things had been regular in his line of work, so much a part of his life to witness wonders daily that he was difficult to impress. The spectacle surprised him slightly, but what truly impressed him, what took him that moment longer, was the realisation that he didn't know how it was happening. His eyes knew exactly where to look. He knew every trick of the trade. He knew exactly how to make every element that Christ had put together to make that show. What he didn't know, was how Christ had done it. None of it was there. No wires, no stage blood, no contact. Just levitation, blood, and some crazy daddy issues.

As he watched the show, he did fear for his life. The message Christ was sending hit home. He was a magician. He had no defence for this kind of thing. Apollo enjoyed being fooled. If someone could manage it, he applauded them, and this man, if he was fooling him somehow, had done so flawlessly. An automatic, unwilling respect eked out of him for the man, and that freed Apollo of any fear. He might die here, but suddenly that didn't seem like so much of an issue. If he died because of some crazy supernatural shit he couldn't even see, it was hardly his own fault. Somehow this took responsibility for his own life so far out of his reach that Apollo ceased to fear for it.

Obviously, he would make his day to day decisions to stay alive, and he would run from a knife if it was thrown at him, but the tiny crack this submission of control left in his will was where that old fear flowed, and Apollo had a moment of clarity where he knew the dancehall and this compartment were different parts of the same organism. The anarchy hadn't merely come upon these people. It had consumed them. Each and every one of them represented the chaos around them, their bodies modified to reflect the madness inside, the vocal surrender to their primal desires ripping out of tortured souls set free. In this place.

He knew, he knew on an intellectual level, that he should be far more scared of this depravity, for this insane chaos than of the toe hoarders outside. In their violence, they were predictable, and that made them less dangerous. He knew that for his survival, he should take his chances with them. But he could find no desire in him to take that route. So he doffed his hat. He bowed to his new king, and told him, "Well I'm sold. I'll be a body for you and I'll do it gladly if it means I keep all my fingers."

It wasn't that he wasn't scared of the Soundless, of Christ, and the Church. Oh, he was scared. He was scared they'd gut him. He was scared Christ would squeeze his brains out of his nose, or throw him off a ladder. But what scared him most had nothing to do with what Christ could do to him. What scared him most was his sick appreciation for the show. The knowledge that he should feel repulsed, and how contrived that repulsion felt. How easy it was to find justifications. How that breath in his ear had an arm wrapped around his waist now, the excitement in his stomach reaching up to spread icy heat through his chest.

He walked among demons now. And more and more, though it sickened him to realise it, he was one of them.
 
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Kurtus
Kurtus stirred. He slowly began to awake to the surrounding darkness. Sitting himself up he twisted and stretched his sore muscles. He rubbed his eye and looked around the room. There was little light streaming in to illuminate the building's interior, but a glowing radiance allowed him to see details clearly. A green glowing. "HUH?!" Kurtus bolted upright, wide awake. He snatched up the ice hook by his side and jumped to his feet. There was something in the room that hadn't been there before. It was a standalone gym locker. Sitting right in the middle of the floor. The source of the green luminescence was a large glowing bar code that looked as if it was painted on the front.

Kurtus spun around the room, checking corners and noting possible exit routes. It seemed as if there was only one, and that was barred by the chair he had jammed under the door handle. The few windows still held their metal bars intact and there were no scratch marks on the rotting wooden floor. There would have been if anyone had entered from that point. What the hell? Kurtus was baffled. How could this have gotten here if the entire integrity of the one story building was still intact? Who had left it? He knew what it was, or assumed it's identity from his readings in Tolly's journal. But how had a damned supply crate gotten into the room in the first place?

Did someone leave it for me? As a possible trap? He wondered. But that didn't make any sense. If they had wanted to kill him he was clearly vulnerable. No, the crate was legit. How it wound up here was unclear, but whoever had left it for him, perhaps they were a friend. But why would anyone leave this for me? It was true, he had no allies. And the only person he had met wouldn't leave him a supply crate. Bloke didn't seem that generous.

"Hmm..." Kurtus hummed, approaching the locker. The journal said a finger was the only way to open it, an NG as they were called. Kurtus held up his own ring finger to the bar code. Nothing. That's because I'm still alive... Reaching down he tried the handle. It wouldn't budge. He rattled the locker and heard items bouncing around. Taking his ice hook, he tried prying the door open. He tried slamming the locker on the ground and busting the welds with force. Kurtus tried anything he could to get the damned thing open but it was all unsuccessful. "Arrghh!" he yelled and kicked the metal as hard as he could. He dented it, again, but that last kick wasn't an attempt to open it, it was done out of frustration. He needed an NG to open it, the book was right. Again.

Kurtus's stomach rumbled. He was getting really hungry, and there was bound to be food inside of that locker. That meant he needed an NG to eat, which meant he needed to find a victim. He huffed and dragged the locker into the corner, making sure to put the bar code side up against a wall. That way the glowing green light wouldn't give his prize away. Double checking his three possessions were with him, Kurtus gripped the ice hook and made his way outside. The hunt was on.
 
Murder in the Blue Morgue
The Symphony of Death played on in the city as light faded from the sky. Seconds murdered the minutes that murdered the hours that shot a hole in the heart of the coming day. And there, the fading beeps of the heart monitor diminished into the familiar monotone of finality. Flatline.

The odd sun that rose in the impossible city would never again shine its amber rays of warmth and comfort. The sun lay dead and obscene on the floor of the cosmic morgue. What awoke and rose above Murder City was neither comforting nor warm. It was cold, it was wrong, and it was...blue.

The deep sapphire sphere rose to its noon peak and remained still, solid, and immobile. And there it remained, murdering the day and swallowing the night with blue-black shadow. Until midnight.

To signify each new 24-hour cycle the sun changed for three minutes each night in repeated pattern. Red, blue, yellow, green, white, purple, black.
 
Vi [ME]

As a blue sun rose over Murder City, Vi came upon the scene of a murder.

She had walked down an alleyway, hoping to avoid crowds of people as she searched the city for the neutral zone Sixty Six had told her about. If she found it, she could probably figure some things out, and form a better plan to survive. Unfortunately, she'd failed to consider that walking was still tiring, and she was still out of shape, even in a mad murder dimension.

She'd been wondering whether or not her revival was a one time occurrence when she'd rounded a corner and seen a girl with a bloodied sickle. She was leaning against a stone wall, clutching her chest and taking gasping breaths. On the ground in front of her was the form of a much larger man. He was definitely dead, blood oozing from so many wounds that there probably wasn't any left in his body.

Vi stopped. Her instincts told her to run, but this was an opportunity to get two NGs, which would surely be useful down the line. Kneeling quietly, she picked up a rusty pipe that lay at the intersection of the wall and the floor. It scraped on stone as she stood.

"Who's there?" barked the woman. She swung the sickle about in odd motions that didn't look particularly threatening. It didn't take long for her to spot Vi. She sneered and leveled the sickle, which ironically aimed the blade away from her and thus lacked the desired effect. "Come on, try me," she dared. "I just killed him. Do you really think you stand a chance? I could kill you with my bare hands." Despite her brave words, the woman was unsteady on her feet. She had obviously expended most of her energy already. Maybe she'd even taken a blow to the head.

Vi scoffed, tightened her grip on the pipe, and strode confidently forward.

"Suit yourself," the woman said with false pity. "I'll just take your finger, too."

A memory flashed through Vi's mind, and she brought her left hand to her face. She stared through the gap where her finger used to be, eyes wild. "What finger?"

Vi got only a split second of satisfaction from the shock on the woman's face before the pipe came around. She could hear the skull crunch beneath the impact, which sent the sickle flying from her hands and her body sprawling to the ground like a ragdoll. Vi stood, waiting for the moment she'd always heard about when the weight of your first kill came down on you. Everyone always said how hard it was to take a human life, how you felt some connection to your victim as they died.

And Vi felt nothing.

She almost laughed. Everyone always said? She didn't even know who 'everyone' was anymore. She stood over someone she'd just killed, and instead of a moral dilemma or crisis of faith, she was noting that there was less blood than she expected. Oh well. Maybe she really did belong here, with the psychopaths.

Pulling her shirt over her nose to block out the smell, she squatted next to the woman's body and, with the sickle, began to saw away at her NG. The sickle wasn't doing very well against the bone, so she had to try several times to find a sweet spot. When at last she was rewarded with the snap of bone, the entire finger burst into green flame.

"Yow!" Vi stumbled backward as the corpse convulsed, letting out a dull moan and then falling still and silent. What the fuck was -- oh! She remembered Sixty Six explaining that removing the NG from a live person destroyed the finger and killed the victim. Vi supposed that the woman, while dying, hadn't quite passed on yet. She would have to remember to check from now on. Fortunately, she had another chance.

She crawled on her hands and knees to the dead man and touched her hand to his neck. She didn't recall how she knew to do this, but at this point, she didn't really care. It was a good thing she had, though, because he had a faint pulse. A few more cuts from the sickle fixed that quickly enough, and then his NG was in her palm.

This was really weird.

Putting the finger out of her mind, Vi scavenged around to see if they'd left any supplies. Aside from the sickle and the pipe, she now had a bottle of water and two granola bars. The woman's clothes--jeans and an oversized sweater that probably wouldn't be oversized on Vi--were also available, and whatever compunction Vi may have had about wearing a dead woman's clothes was overruled by her need to change out of the neon coveralls. They made her a target. She changed quickly in the alleyway, stuffing the bottle in one pocket and the snack bars in the other alongside the NG. She fed the pipe through a belt loop and sighed with relief when it stayed.

Satisfied, she once again began her trek in the direction she thought was north. It should be, unless the sun rose in the west in Murder City.

She wouldn't be particularly surprised if it did.
 
Rouge

Rouge opened her eyes. Blank. The first thing she noticed was how the place was unfamiliar. She is sitting on a chair, inside a room that looked like it had seen better days. It looked somewhat like someone’s house, which puzzled her. She was supposed to be in Murder City, right? What is she doing here? The walls on floor have certain unknown stains on them, and most of the furniture were looked broken down and unusable. Debris of glass, wood, and other stuff littered the floor. Dazed, she stared at the fading sunlight streaming through the windows, bathing the room in a pale blue glow. Strange. She thought the sun was supposed to be yellow. But Murder City has always been strange, she shouldn’t be surprised. How long was I asleep?

Her neck hurt. Her shoulders and arms too. It must have been in an awkward position in her sleep. Why would she sleep while sitting on this kind of chair, anyway? The floor would have been better...

Something is wrong.

That was when Rouge realized she was bound. She couldn’t move her hands, which were tied up behind her and around the chair she was sitting on. A sudden sense of panic and bewilderment surfaced in her being as she tugged at it, realizing how tight the knots are. Her heart rate began to pick up. Calm down. She told herself, but it was no good, her heartbeat was thundering in her ears. She wanted to escape, she wanted to leave. Please, let me go. Please don’t touch me, please… Words started echoing in her head, memories she couldn’t quite decipher. It all came at once, disorienting her. She wanted to scream, but no sound would come out of her lips. The words were gathering into sentences, clearer now, the same male voice ringing again and again. The tone was kindly, the words endearing, but fear ran through her veins like blood. Pure, unadulterated horror.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

Sweet words from a rotten mouth.

“You are my greatest treasure…”

Please do not touch me.

“Everyone will love you.”

I swear, if you touch me one more time…

“You won’t disobey me, would you, my girl?”

… I’ll kill you.

***​

When the episode passed, she was grateful she didn’t scream.

Screaming would’ve fucked up her chances of escaping. The first time looked around, she was so disoriented that she didn’t saw him. There, at the corner, leaning on the wall, was Poet. He looked so peaceful. So vulnerable. In that moment she realized what has happened. Back then outside the waking chamber, following him, rounding up a corner, only to be hit by something hard at the back of her head. There he was, smiling eagerly as if he’d gotten a prized cattle, looking down on her as she fell down and lost consciousness. She noted that he was no longer wearing the yellow coveralls and boots. Instead, he was garbed in black. His current attire suited him better, but it also did good on making Rouge realize something.

“I am brand new, just like you.” He had said.

LIAR.

Rouge hated liars.

With a soft curse under her breath, she tugged at her restraints. It was tight, yes, but something tells her it wasn’t her first time being bound like this. The bonds don’t feel rough like a rope would. It felt more like… cable wires? Her expression lightened as she realized it indeed cable wires. And for all the stroke of luck she had, Poet didn’t tie her feet. Nor did he search her. There on her right boot she can still feel the hard object pressing against her foot, the piece of glass she had covered with a cloth and hid earlier.

Who knew it could come in handy? The only problem was getting it to her hands.

She didn’t want to wake him, so she knew she had to do this as silent as possible. Finding an old, broken down sofa, she smiled and shuffled closer. One look and she understood why Poet would rather sleep on the floor: the sofa reeked with the combination of blood, mold, and possibly other bodily fluids, not to mention that the springs are poking through. To Rogue, however, it would serve its purpose. Taking her boot off, she used her feet to empty it out on the sofa in front of her, being careful to make sure it doesn’t fall through the holes. Then she shuffled again and turned around, letting her weight unbalance the chair so it toppled, the top rail of the chair hitting the back pillows of the sofa with a soft thud. Rouge glanced at Poet. He’s still asleep. Good. She touched around the sofa, feeling for the piece of glass she had dumped there earlier. Slowly but surely, she began sawing on the cable wires, her eyes focused solely on Poet and on any twitch or stir he make in his sleep.

The work was tedious, but it was worth it. In a few minutes, she was free. Her hands were scratched several times by the glass, and her wrists had become sore from all the sawing, but she was free. Standing up and massaging her sore wrists, she stared at Poet once again, gauging what is the best course of action to partake next. Her blue eyes gazed at his sleeping figure, glinting with cold blood lust, imagining what it would feel like to paint him red. Oh, for tying her up, she would not make it an easy death for him. She would make him scream. Maybe take out an eye or two, or gut him right in front of his face. Yes… desire and malice made her lick her lips and smile. It was almost arousing to imagine, stabbing him in his throat, making the skin break, blood spraying down on her as she watched life drain out of his eyes. A sliver of pleasure ran down her spine. Yes... she has done that before. She has done that a million times. Something at the back of her head told her it is wrong to enjoy the image, but who cares? Everyone here is a sinner anyway. Everyone here is just a demon… dressed in human skin.

If that’s the case, then she will just be the angel of death, who will bring forth the hand of justice.

She grasped the piece of glass on her hand, walking softly, closer.

“I am brand new, just like you.”

LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LIAR.

The floor felt cold on her now bare feet. Poet slept soundly, oblivious of the fate he was now resigned to.

"Liars go to hell." she murmured.

I’ll take you there.
 
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Sigil

Christ living in the desecrated house of God. How wonderfully ironic indeed. Even from outside the cathedral, he could already hear the distractions sounding from within. The blaring music did precious little to hide the intermittent cry between its lulls. Through the heavy metal doors, Sigil watched the base urges take over for the patrons within. It was one method to control the masses. A base one, with too much chaos for Sigil's liking, but effective enough for those that live in the shadow of death. As for the man pulling the strings, Sigil found himself mixed with equal parts caution and respect for the man who called himself Christ.

Sigil watched the multicolored lights play over his palm as Christ finished speaking. He had taken enough effort to mark his territory, that was sure. He made his domain in this place, showing it off to all, and placing himself above the earth. This was a man who desired control above all else. And once he had it, he wanted to make sure people knew it. A conqueror at heart, Christ seemed. As Christ began to choke Treah, Sigil began to smile wryly. It gave him no small amusement to think that such a man, in such a realm, was in possession of some kind of mystical power. Sigil knew, though, that the power didn't get him, and keep him where he is now. That was accomplished b the man, and would have been done without it. As for whether or not the magic was truly real, Sigil held no doubt. This place had brought enough logic defying surprises that had to be taken at face value. This was only another.

To be a body in the service of Christ. It would serve well enough for now. A banner made good armor, and Sigil would be foolish not to take the offer, even if there was an alternative that didn't involve his death. A verse came to him, as he prepared to respond. It fit well enough. And perhaps Christ would even recognize it.

"If we live, we live for the Lord; and if we die, we die for the Lord. So, whether we live or die, we belong to the lord."
 
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Sigil, Apollo, Sixty Six
"That's what I like to hear!" Christ said with excitement.

"I get a lot of groveling and begging, and that can be useful, don't get me wrong, but I don't get very many smarties, except on rare and special days. And today I get two for one. Is it my birthday today Tre?"

"No, my lord. It hasn't been a year yet since the last time you declared it Christmas."

"Well it feels like my birthday. I get a pithy Biblical passage and a man that wants to keep all his fingers! Ha! What a fucking pair you are. And that goddamned hat," Christ wagged a finger at Apollo, "you better keep it you silly fuck. I want to see you in it every time you set foot in Church. Otherwise, you might offend my delicate sensibilities.

"And you, you serious sonofabitch," he said pointing to Sigil, "you look like you could put out a puppy's eyes while slitting Grandma's throat. I don't know why, but I like you two. Who are they Six?"

"The one with the hat calls himself Apollo. The other one is Sigil."

"Apollo and Sigil. I won't forget it. I have high expectations for the two of you. As a matter of fact, I want you two to work together for the moment, like partners. Six'll come along with. He's my right hand man, my harvester, my Mister Magnum. We don't get many of those, around here. The only thing Rodrigo couldn't make for me was those fucking hand cannons and their slugs. He could make sound systems, music, lights, and even drugs. Never the fucking guns," Christ said as he momentarily lapsed into internal thoughts.

"Anyway, that's neither here nor there. You don't know anything thing about that and I'm sure you want to get on with your day. Six will take care of you and make sure you know how to be useful. Maybe you get to be great friends and he'll tell you about how he killed a whole fuck-ton of my former brothers in blood and gore. Or maybe he'll just kill your ass because he's not nearly as nice a guy as he likes to pretend. Either way I trust him. Even though he knows I know he really wants me dead because he's still sore I put his old boss in the Dead Book. In some ways that creates the closest of bonds. Hate. The glue that keeps us honest. One last thing before you get to go play in the dark. Stay away from the Cliffs. I'll have Six show you what I mean. If I catch you near that no-no spot, you're dead. Without hesitation. No sorries, no whoops I didn't know, no second chance. Am I clear? Now get the fuck outta here."
 
Kurtus - Day 1 [M.E.]
Dim blue light shown directly downwards from the heavens onto the somber city as Kurtus made his way between the twisting allies. He kept careful track of the turns he made, so as to not lose the crate he left back at the abandoned home. Peeking around a corner, he slipped into another back ally, stepping over a dead body as he did so. He stopped for a moment, turning to look at the dead woman below him. Her body was fresh, and blood was still oozing from where her left ring finger had been. She had been a new blood, as could be easily seen from her yellow attire. There's someone near. he reminded himself internally, switching his attention away from the body.

Kurtus slowed his pace, taking a more cautious approach as his eyes scanned the area. He walked down the narrow ally and turned into another before he heard something. It was whimpering. A quiet muffled sobbing mixed with pained breaths. He neared the noise as quietly as he could, but he was no soundless. His heavy steps alerted his victim, and the sound suddenly stopped. They were in a nook along the wall, and as he slowly rounded the corner, ice hook in hand, Kurtus found himself staring at another yellow suit. It was another woman, and she was bleeding from a large wound in her abdomen.

"Please.." she begged, backing up to the faded brick behind her. She was crying. Kurtus looked to the wound she was clutching with her left hand. It was bad, and he knew she was either with the other woman and escaped, or she had killed her. Kurtus knew what he had to do, but the wounded dove made him hesitate with her pleas and vulnerability. And then suddenly she lunged at him, some sort of sharp object in her right hand. Kurtus reacted and spun away from her, but the tip of what looked like broken metal caught his left cheek and tore into the skin.

"Gahh!" he yelled, his hand went up and came back red. "Damn wench!" he yelled. Whatever glimmer of humanity he had felt for the girl was instantly gone, and he took off after the woman who had begun running from him. She didn't get far with the injury, and when he caught up Kurtus tackled her to the ground with a thud. Wasting no time, he brought the ice hook down and buried the tip into the back of her skull with a crunch. Blood sprayed up onto his face and the body under him went still. He removed the hook and wiped the red droplets off of his face, then cleaned the hook on his victims yellow jumpsuit.

After thoroughly searching her, Kurtus found that she hadn't been the one to kill the other woman. There was no other NG on her, let alone anything else other than a sharp, rusted and broken metal piece she'd used to slice him. Damn. He thought, This shit had better not get infected. His hand pressed against his face for a moment before the soldier continued. Grabbing the limp left wrist, he held the woman's ring finger and twisted it in one swift motion. A pop followed and Kurtus bent it around to be sure it was fully dislocated from the hand. The fact he knew how to do that so efficiently made him wonder if it was a common thing in his previous life. Now that he thought about it, Kurtus knew a good deal of ways to make somebody suffer.

Turning his mind back to the task, he took the metal shard and pressed it through the finger's skin. The dull edge made it difficult but eventually it was severed, and the man stood holding his prize. The key to the locker he so desperately needed open. Looking at the metal fragment, he lifted one of his jacket pockets and stowed it away. It was too small and dull to be used properly as a weapon, and the edges all around were somewhat sharp. Using it as a balde would probably only succeed in slicing his hand up; not a very practical choice while he had the ice hook. It was, however, a much better tool for removing fingers than his fighting weapon was. And who knew? Maybe it would be something that saved him if the hook was lost.

Kurtus looked up at the glowing globe above him. It's stillness and blue light cast a eerie shadows down on the city around him. He had just made his first kill. But Kurtus wasn't astounded, or surprised, or appalled. It was something he was clearly familiar and comfortable with. An activity he preformed before he was ever thrown into this hell pit. Slipping the digit into a secure pocket, his eye scanned the shadows ahead of him as Kurtus made his way back down the route he came.
 
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Natalie Trace
Natalie felt like she hadn't eaten for days. Clutching her stomach with her hand, she staggered through the undergrowth. She felt strange, as if something was calling her towards it. As she walked, she felt as if her legs were shackled to weights, and soon she found herself crawling on the ground. The attraction was getting more intense.

Is this how people feel when they die? Natalie thought. It hurt a lot, and she was depending on her instincts to help her survive. The crawling got slower, as did her breathing. Soon, she would have no energy in her body anymore, and eventually will be paralyzed and left to die. That's how the body fails from malnutrition. Natalie eventually found herself crawling through a broken wall next to a old iron gate. The walls had vegetation in the cracks of the stone, and foliage hung down from the gate. She entered what looked to be an abandoned courtyard, and in the center of the floor, covered in undergrowth, lied a crate. A supply crate.

Natalie managed to muster enough strength to get up and run next to it. It took some time attempting to yank it out of the bushes, but Natalie went too far to give up. If finding the knife was a huge deal, she could not express how happy she was to see the box. Eagerly, she pressed the finger's symbol to the reciever on the crate. Both of them glowed brightly, and the box clicked open. The finger disintegrated in her had.

She first pulled out a three fragments, including what seemed like a long, curved blade. She tossed them aside and desperately drew out the second item. A pouch, filled with pitch black seeds. As much as she was dying of hunger, she refrained from eating them. There was a good chance that these could be toxic or sedative, granted that they came from a crate that contained "Murder City" contents. Perhaps, if nothing else was available, she will resort to that option. She then pulled out a water skin, heavy with liquid. Holding it tightly in her hand, she looked expectantly in the bag. There was nothing else in there. No food.

Natalie felt the urge to cry again. Was she going to die of hunger, right after she had her first success in killing? Was that man's death all for nothing, because of her selfish desire to survive? No. Get yourself together, Natalie. You didn't come this far to just give up like that. The water should be enough to restore some energy, and then I can continue looking for food. Perhaps she was just reassuring herself, but she was thin on options.

She uncapped the water skin, and instantly her nose was hit by a combination of ginger and cinnamon. The smell itself was enough to make her mouth water, and she shook it experimentally in her hand. The skin was full of the liquid. Could it be possible that it had qualities of replenishing hunger?

She lifted the skin above her mouth and drank its contents in a couple of large gulps. It sent a fiery warm sensation down her throat as it filled her stomach. Natalie dropped the pouch to her knees and looked at her hands. She felt... powerful. A superhuman powerful. She got up and smiled. This-- This is great.

She stood on her feet in ease. The feeling was amazing. She physically felt like moving was effortless, and that her entire body was weightless. It was godly.

Until it hit. Natalie felt the accelerating pulse of her heart suddenly crash. Yes, some drugs had effects like these. When they boost all the body's functions to impossible, unnatural levels, but the body would fail to cope after the effects of the drugs wore off. She rasped for breath, but nothing was coming in. Her body was unresponsive to her commands, and her eyes widened.

She couldn't breathe.

Her vision wavered.

How could I be so stupid?

She had been careful with the seeds, but was too quick in overlooking the water due to her sinking desperation, and its pleasant aroma that lured her to drinking it.

Poison.

It was poison.
 
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Vi opened her eyes.

She felt sluggish and sore, but she supposed that's what happened when you slept in a crawlspace. She'd never been particularly comfortable in her body, either. The bright side of all this was that she'd be getting plenty of exercise and a diet. When she'd first arrived here, she hadn't been worried about that sort of thing. She'd assumed she would die quickly and her concerns about long-term survival would be irrelevant.

She still wasn't sure if she'd come back to life a second time, but it was safe to assume. Her resurrection didn't feel like a one-off thing, and her nerd instinct agreed. Above all else, she had learned to trust her nerd instinct.

She gazed out through a small hole in the wall and saw that no one was there. That was good to know. If every building in Murder City were occupied, there would literally be nowhere to hide.

[[More coming later. I have to go to work.]]
 
Kurtus -Day 1
Kurtus slammed open the door to the building he had left previously. He strode quickly over to where he'd placed the locker against the wall and pulled it to the ground. His stomach growled at the thought of food, and he fumbled with the woman's severed ring finger. Getting a hold of the bloody stump, he pulled it from his pocket and wasted no time placing the symbol against the bar code. A flash of green light and then the finger crumbled into ash, falling onto the metal locker door as the bar code faded from existence. Is that it? he wondered, Only one way to find out. Reaching down, he pulled on the locker's latch to find that it moved easily instead of holding firm like before. The door swung open.

Inside, 3 items stared back at him. A facial respirator was the first thing that caught Kurtus's attention. He pulled it out and set it to the side. The second thing that stood out was bright purple. It was a palm-sized plastic bag filled with a strange a purple powder. It was only half full, and crisp, black numbers were stamped on the outside. 626. What the hell is this? Kurtus had no idea, he would figure it out later. Placing the bag next to the mask, his eyes fell on the thing he needed most. Food. A 2 pound block of colby cheese lay inside of the locker.

"Hmph." he grunted. A block of cheese wasn't much of a meal. In fact, it was little more than a snack to the large man, but it was all he had. And it's not like there was anyone around to complain to. Taking it out of the supply crate, Kurtus tore the wrapping open and took a bite. Filling his stomach felt good, even if it was with shitty colby cheese. Once he got down to half of the block, Kurtus stopped. He wanted more, but he had to savor it. This was the only food he had available. And so the cheese was rewrapped, and placed into a chest pocket. He retrieved the powdered substance from the floor and stowed it away before hanging the gas mask around his neck. Standing up he stretched and took a step towards the door that had been left open. But when his foot accidentally kicked the locker, he heard the clink of metal. There was something else in there.

Bending over and squinting in the dim lighting, Kurtus could just make out the shape of a small metal object. He recognized it instantly. A bullet. It was a .375 magnum round, ammo that fit the same gun he'd seen Bloke carry. He plucked the item from the locker and did a final check to make sure nothing was left behind in it. The bullet went in a pocket and then he pulled out Tolly's old journal. The bullet was mentioned in here, if he could only find it... Here we go.

Under an entry about currency, there was a note at the bottom with a crude sketch of the .375 round.

Bullets - premium currency.
They are extremely rare, the magnums themselves are even harder to find.
Drawing included. Memorize picture.
If I see one, I need to grab it.

So it appeared the locker was a worthwhile find. Although it seemed to have actually found him. Now Kurtus had some leverage, something to barter with at market in two days time. That was good. Outside the small building, the light flashed through various colors, in a pattern Kurtus recognized. It was what he had seen when he awoke on the table. That meant another day had past. Market was 24 hours away now. He needed to survive until then, and find his way to the place it was held. St. Lucifer's. That might prove to be a difficult task considering the fact that he still had no idea where he was on the damned map. Stowing the leather book away and pulling out the parchment, Kurtus walked out the door. He only had 24 hours to find market, and he wanted time to scope the place out before hand. Entering blindly was not ideal. Too risky. The clock was ticking... Time to go.
 
Sigil, Apollo, Sixty Six - Day Zero
"I'll show them the cliffs so they know to stay away, but I'd like make a request to not babysit them. My team and I could be more useful elsewhere," Sixty-Six injected. Christ turned and stared hard and silent at Six for a few moments, who avoided eye contact and adjusted the mask on his face.

"See, that is why I like you Six. You have enough balls to challenge me in front of the new guys, I must admit, that takes a lot considering what you know I've done." Christ shamelessly reached down and scratched his bare crotch while thinking "You've been good to me Six, very good. And if any other damned idiot had the shit for brains to challenge me right here, well. You all have seen what I can do." Christ glared at Sigil and Apollo to drive his point home. "So be it, Six doesn't want you bastards. It's not like I really care." Christ shrugged and then made a shooing motion with his hand, "Just get the fuck outta here, Treah and I have some business to attend to."

With that Sixty-Six turned and walked out the door. He lead Sigil and Apollo through the steamy main room and through a couple of corridors until they arrived at a balcony. The height of the church gave quite a spectacular view over the dark and sprawling city to the left. Skyscrapers dotted the area and broken storefronts and houses filled the space in between.

"Those are the cliffs," Sixty-Six stated, pointing down and to the right.

There, the random jumble of houses and other short buildings thinned out slightly before plummeting down the cliff face. The buildings themselves seemed to actually be built into the sheer, 60 degree incline before stopping at the even steeper angles. Some stood up straight, as if built on level ground with large steel beams embedded into the rock to hold them true. Others were actually tilted, some at almost 45 degree angles, and appeared as if they were sliding down the rock face. All over, a patchwork of random and unstable looking catwalks ran across, up and down the cliff, connecting all of the buildings there. Few of the bridges actually had railings, and the ones that did looked rusted and bent out of shape. The church itself was quite close to the cliffs, and the overlooking balcony gave a good view of the utter blackness that lied beyond and below the edge of the city.

"Trust me, it's a hazard to even go poking your nose around there, and not because Christ will gut you if he finds out. My advice, don't even go past the Church, that way it doesn't even look like you're trying to make your way to the cliffs. He only allows a select few in that area, so even if you see someone else there, it doesn't mean you're allowed as well." Six turned towards the two new bloods, brushing his long brown bangs away from his face. "If you two don't need anything else, I'll be off. I suggest you both get some sleep, any bed or couch is available to anyone, although I wouldn't take any in the main room. They tend to be well used, and well stained."
 
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