The only problem with the smiley link, is that I would never know to click on it...so I guess it's great if you want to be sneaky...
Group--Sparky and I bounced another draft back and forth, and it feels like this is starting to come together. Updates to come eventually...
Physical Description of Carter:
Physically unimposing, Carter stands a hair's breadth over six foot with brown hair that is starting to have wisps of gray. Life has taken it's toll on him, though it's the memories of every step that haunt him more than the actions. Fairly lithe and agile appearing, his muscle mass is fairly standard for an athletic twenty-five year old. Small scars dot the agent's body from different laproscopic operations and several doses of gene therapy.
Generally wearing a heavy long coat over slacks and a dress-shirt, Carter has a northern European sense of style that blends in with most middle-class and upper-middle class businessmen in the Pacific Northwest or along the Eastern seaboard.
Full Version: Setup: Quixotic Restoration
Blitz--you liked the sniper from Bourne Identity? j/k
Sparks and I are still tweaking...but here's the general preview if someone wants to provide more feedback...
For reference Carter and April
---------------------------
I still ask myself if I'm ever going to get used to the face I see reflected in pools of water. The murky shaking surface of the puddles show me a downy coating of fur. I know that the fur is a process of gene therapy, and my altered cheekbones were the simple gift of a surgeon's knife. Still though, my eyes come through behind a mask of terror as I labor in the internment camps.
Something is going on here beneath the veneer of a simple racist response to the unknown. My superiors sent me in to the AGS two months after the beginnings of SURGE and after a brief altercation with Special Police, I was interred. Initial contact with some of the more charismatic prisoners has confirmed that a riot could be in the works. They tell me that all they need are weapons and they will be ready to move and strike back, though I know that it would only be an exercise in pro-active suicide.
Of course, the stream of events which always follow from people without guns revolting against the people with guns has never stopped me before. I need to know what is going on and the riot could serve as ample distraction.
Tonight I'm going to go into the health center. It's the only secure building that allows changelings access.
--------------------------
Figures drifted in and out of the room. Patients, doctors, nurses... The walls were butter-colored. When had she ever had butter? It was hard to keep track. And whispering, they all whispered. Together. Watching. Butter... on corn. Real, sweet corn.
Two figures emerged from the corn field, crouched low, looking up and down the long road that stretched miles in both directions. Cicadas creaked in the distance.
Uncle Creach had said the cicadas they could hear now had been asleep for seventeen years. Longer than April had been alive. Two said that was baloney. That they weren't asleep, they were busy eating all that time. For seventeen years. Two knew lots of cool stuff like that. They both agreed that cicadas must be very fat. Uncle Creach called Two a know-it-all and stormed out of Grandma E's kitchen. The two shrugged at each other over their lunch of grilled cheese and right-outta-the-field corn. April said that she'd read of ancient emperors that kept pet insects on strings and by the end of the week, April and Two had built a forbidden city out by the barn out of old palettes and tarps. Complete with a leashed cicada entourage. It had been fun. Until Uncle Creach - 'Uncle Creature' they called him - had discovered their fortress. He yelled at them, tore apart the fort, freed the bug entourage and sent Two home, ears burning with rage at the way he'd spoken to April, like she'd done something wrong. Like the two of them had been doing something wrong. He watched Creature drag the girl away by her arm still ranting about what good girls did and didn't do.
---------------------------
The moon had almost set before I rolled out of the rack I had been assigned to and crept across the camp. Photo-sensitive hairs woven amidst the soft coat of fur darkened and absorbed the light. I moved as a liquid shadow, threatening and terrifying to the broken victims on the internment camp. Approaching the gap between the huddled together barracks and the clinic, I drop down to a crouch.
The fresh dirt beneath by boots triggers a tumbling avalanche of memory from before the training.
I know from my records that I grew up along the Eastern seaboard, but these memories were always of somewhere else. A land of gentle hills, cornfields and insects calling in the night. A girl I should recognize, the smell of light dust and dirt near to my nose as I crawl over a gentle rise.
We are playing a grown-up game of cowboys and Indians…as grown up as you can be at age 10 with imaginary enemies and tractors as safehouses. We are playing Runners and Agents. Today the girl wanted to be runners and we were deep within the southwest fighting against the Evil Aztlaners.
And then it was gone. Without giving me any deeper clues into the childhood which was subsumed by the training, lost in the fog of antiquity so that I could exist until my death in perfect clarity. At nineteen, I joined up and never looked back. Now as I feel my memories in fractured clarity, I wonder whether I would make the same choice.
Derailing that entire line of thought, I creep closer to the clinic. With twenty steps I would be inside the clinic and living by my wits and senses.
---------------------------
A plume of dust in the distance. “The convoy is coming!” One of the figures pointed and gestured urgently to the other. They dived behind the cover of some roadside shrubs.
One of them, the girl, backed up onto her elbows and snuck a glance down the road. "Okay, Two. This is it. They're coming. You know what we have to do."
She grinned. She didn't know at all. But Two would. He always had the best ideas. He raised his head to peer out over the road for himself. She looked at him, at his clear brow, his fine features... intelligence alive in every gesture. The sun lit the fine hairs on his face and made his hair glow like a halo. She loved him. A wave of sadness swept over her. His brow creased and he opened his mouth.
"Shit," he said.
Scrambling backwards, "Come on!"
He was turning toward her, eyes bright. She schooled her face to smoothness, "What?" she asked.
"Come on!"
The door to the center opened and shut. Out in the general recovery room, patients groaned and turned in their cots. The ones who could make utterances or move, anyway. Patients tended patients under the watchful eyes of the doctors and nurses. All of them freaks of nature. None moreso than the doctors and nurses. April's head rolled toward the sound of the door. It was night outside. And dim in the room. She couldn't make out who had entered.
One of Them.
They were all Them.
Pretty much. She blinked and the image of the man doubled. Her vision was blurry. Good, but natural, unaugmented. In all the experiments and treatments and replacements, she'd never let Them touch her eyes. They had complied only because their data on optical enhancements was complete. Not because They felt any urge to honor her wishes. That and because if another bit of ware got shoe-horned into her, she'd die. Or worse, invalidate Their experiments. They needed her alive, to study the long term effects of the work they'd done. The sims simply didn't provide enough information. They needed a real, living subject. And a willing one. Truly willing. And now they'd abandoned her. Shuffled her off to Germany into a 'work camp' for freaks and misfits. There was no doubt in April's mind that she was still being watched. Observed. To see what their little automaton could do. She'd show them. Some time. When she could think straight. Right now she just wanted...
The woman's eyes fluttered as her head rolled away from the door. Her voice was quiet. Slurred, "Corn... "
---------------------------
The resounding echo of Mengele’s work carried beyond the shattered past and fully into the internment camp’s clinic. As I approached Unit 731, I heard the hiss and moan of ventilation systems and artificial lungs used when the patient could not afford implantation.
The patients were all changelings. Halfway through the room I came across her. A woman with shades of familiarity--all black polymers and resin stained steel. She was no one I recognized, but her drug addled senses carried a single word from my shattered memories. There was definitely something going on here.
---------------------------
April ran. Dodging back and forth between the tall corn plants. The blades rattled and rustled and she followed Two by sound as much as by sight. She called out, “Two, what is it?”
He yelled over his shoulder, panting out the words, “That was… the Connors’ …truck.”
“Shit,” she said and poured on some more speed.
The Connors were a favorite target. They owned then next farm over. April and Two would rush through their chores and meet where two small creeks fed into each other marking the edge of three properties. Grandma E’s, the Connors’ and… Two’s family, April guessed. She never was sure who owned that third plot. And Two never said one way or the other. Wouldn’t. He didn’t talk about his family much. Or his home. The fields on that side of the creek always lay fallow. Two made cracks about being a dirt farmer.
It remained a mystery, though it made sense to April that Two didn’t have a regular complement of farm chores – he almost always seemed to beat her to the creek. Thinking back she couldn’t be sure that she’d ever seen him walk across those empty fields to meet her. Or even to go home. For a while she entertained notions that he was a sprite or a brownie. Something fey and magical just for her.
But pretty quickly she caught on that he simply didn’t care to talk about it. Was uncomfortable for some reason. That was fine. Certainly April understood that, she was niece to The Creature, after all. So by mutual agreement, she never asked and he didn’t offer. And so, for her, he remained shrouded in mystery, her friend, the Puck.
Pranks were a favorite pastime. And the Connor farm, a favorite victim. The largest farm for miles, it had dozens of farm hands at any one time. More during the harvest. The dour, humorless workers just asked for it. Some took it better than others. Some… April and Two spent a lot their days fleeing across creeks and pastures, running pell-mell away angry, arm-waving farm hands. And quite a few times, feigning innocence when caught.
Today was shaping up to be one of those days. They had dusted off an old stand-by. Potato in the tail pipe. The ancient, care-worn, irritating lore passed down over decades. It only worked on some of the vehicles, though, the older ones. And it didn’t do any real harm. Just puzzled the driver until they walked around and saw the offending vegetable and inevitably chucked it at the nearest clump of laughing bushes. Today had been such a day. But Mr. Connor himself had gotten a good look at them. And the one time he’d caught them before, he’d packed them up in the truck and driven them straight to Grandma E’s, frog-marching them in the back door for the tongue-lashing of the century. Grandma E had looked very disappointed. That had been the worst bit.
For both of them.
---------------------------
The guards on duty near the clinic doors were more focused on external threats than internal ones, apparently not expecting any of the changeling experiments to be ambulatory, much less dangerous. Sneaking up behind a lone guard smoking, I grab him from behind and bash his head into the building repeatedly. The first blow stuns him and by the seventeenth even dental records would be unable to identify him.
I’m not sure why I did it, perhaps it was reflected brutality or perhaps deep-down a part of me enjoyed meaningless violence. That would be a question for later…I crouch down and scoop up the stun baton. Several guards later, I have a small stockpile of weapons and am waking leaders within the camp. Blood sticks down the fur in uncomfortable matted spots, congealing darkly along the grips of the implements of revolution.
They won’t survive against well-organized forces with guns, I admit silently to myself, but I still hand over the weapons and fan the flames of revolt until like wildfire, it streaks through the barrack. As they spill out of the building, others rise to the noise, many cringe and hide, but some rally to the call. Before we have gone past 100 meters, I am fading to the back of the group and heading to my own barracks. I wash my hands of the blood, scrubbing away the physical traces with clumps of fur. Below the surface, this would haunt me until I died, but the persona-fix didn’t care. It programmed revolution, and I excelled at violence.
---------------------------
Today they had been certain that they’d gotten away unspotted from the scene. It didn’t seem that way now. They broke out of the corn not far from the house. The truck was parked under the car port, April could hear the engine ticking as it cooled. They were too late. Grandma E wouldn’t get to hear their side. A part of April was glad, she hated lying to Grandma E. The back door swung open and Uncle Creach came stalking out. He glared at them both as he approached. They glared back, panting, catching their breath.
The Creature grabbed April by the arm and turned to walk her away. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she called.
Uncle Creach made a strange and disturbing face. It took April a while to realize her uncle was smiling. It was a nasty smile, “Go home, runt,” said Creach.
As if the man hadn’t spoken, Two said, “Yeah, see you tomorrow.”
He didn’t.
---------------------------
Rubbing the back of my head from where the support beam of the bunkbed had connected solidly with my skull, I am subsumed by memories.
A man and woman both in UCAS army uniforms stand on the platform wave at me as the train pulls away. I can feel the electromagnetic fields building up to propel the train at bullet speeds out of the station. They treated me as if I didn't know what was going on. I was being shipped away, they didn't want me anymore.
Flashes of other young boys, a camp of some sort. Each morning after breakfast I would leave, that's how I met her. An older woman was always there too, not asking questions as she hands me a warm spiced bread.
The girl was my first crush, I realize, but what happened to her? Did I kill her like so many others. Only her eyes are familiar, though with today's bio-tech that doesn't mean anything.
Nursing the bruise like a good broken-willed prisoner should, I lay there listening to the sounds of death and carnage. Soon I would move to make my escape, once the guards were fully engaged.
---------------------------
Creach dragged April into the kitchen, nodded his head at Mr. Connors. Grandma E was handing a box of jars and foil-wrapped bundles to the leathery old man. “Here, that’s the last of it. I do hope that helps, Brother.”
“It will, Sister Ellen. Thank you. Mrs. Connors sends her regards.”
April tugged against Creach’s grip on her, “Let go!” she barked. He held her a few moments just to show her he could and then let go of her arm.
“You forget what tonight is, girl?” April’s brow furrowed and then she remembered. She was going to The Hall tonight. They were inducting new members, and Uncle Creach was sponsoring her. April wondered why. Grandma E bustled about the kitchen, cleaning up after a day of baking for tonight’s gathering. She rarely went to The Hall, but her banana bread was famous. She smiled and patted April’s cheek, “Bet you’re excited. Getting inducted tonight. Here. Take this,” she put a slab of banana bread into April’s hand, “You should eat something. Who knows what silliness these roustabouts will have you doing before they let you eat.”
Mr. Connors’ leathery face broke into a grin, “I assure you, Sister, eating is the first order of business.”
Uncle Creach’s face split into that nasty grin again. Connors glared at Creach and the younger man’s face returned to its customary unpleasant expression. Grandma E seemed oblivious, but something seemed weird to April. Mr. Connors nodded his head to Grandma E and held the door open for April to lead the way out. On an impulse she hugged Grandma E, who hugged her back and petted her hair. “Don’t let Uncle Creach give you too hard a time.”
They trooped out the door. Grandma called, “You have fun!”
She didn’t.
For reference Carter and April
---------------------------
I still ask myself if I'm ever going to get used to the face I see reflected in pools of water. The murky shaking surface of the puddles show me a downy coating of fur. I know that the fur is a process of gene therapy, and my altered cheekbones were the simple gift of a surgeon's knife. Still though, my eyes come through behind a mask of terror as I labor in the internment camps.
Something is going on here beneath the veneer of a simple racist response to the unknown. My superiors sent me in to the AGS two months after the beginnings of SURGE and after a brief altercation with Special Police, I was interred. Initial contact with some of the more charismatic prisoners has confirmed that a riot could be in the works. They tell me that all they need are weapons and they will be ready to move and strike back, though I know that it would only be an exercise in pro-active suicide.
Of course, the stream of events which always follow from people without guns revolting against the people with guns has never stopped me before. I need to know what is going on and the riot could serve as ample distraction.
Tonight I'm going to go into the health center. It's the only secure building that allows changelings access.
--------------------------
Figures drifted in and out of the room. Patients, doctors, nurses... The walls were butter-colored. When had she ever had butter? It was hard to keep track. And whispering, they all whispered. Together. Watching. Butter... on corn. Real, sweet corn.
Two figures emerged from the corn field, crouched low, looking up and down the long road that stretched miles in both directions. Cicadas creaked in the distance.
Uncle Creach had said the cicadas they could hear now had been asleep for seventeen years. Longer than April had been alive. Two said that was baloney. That they weren't asleep, they were busy eating all that time. For seventeen years. Two knew lots of cool stuff like that. They both agreed that cicadas must be very fat. Uncle Creach called Two a know-it-all and stormed out of Grandma E's kitchen. The two shrugged at each other over their lunch of grilled cheese and right-outta-the-field corn. April said that she'd read of ancient emperors that kept pet insects on strings and by the end of the week, April and Two had built a forbidden city out by the barn out of old palettes and tarps. Complete with a leashed cicada entourage. It had been fun. Until Uncle Creach - 'Uncle Creature' they called him - had discovered their fortress. He yelled at them, tore apart the fort, freed the bug entourage and sent Two home, ears burning with rage at the way he'd spoken to April, like she'd done something wrong. Like the two of them had been doing something wrong. He watched Creature drag the girl away by her arm still ranting about what good girls did and didn't do.
---------------------------
The moon had almost set before I rolled out of the rack I had been assigned to and crept across the camp. Photo-sensitive hairs woven amidst the soft coat of fur darkened and absorbed the light. I moved as a liquid shadow, threatening and terrifying to the broken victims on the internment camp. Approaching the gap between the huddled together barracks and the clinic, I drop down to a crouch.
The fresh dirt beneath by boots triggers a tumbling avalanche of memory from before the training.
I know from my records that I grew up along the Eastern seaboard, but these memories were always of somewhere else. A land of gentle hills, cornfields and insects calling in the night. A girl I should recognize, the smell of light dust and dirt near to my nose as I crawl over a gentle rise.
We are playing a grown-up game of cowboys and Indians…as grown up as you can be at age 10 with imaginary enemies and tractors as safehouses. We are playing Runners and Agents. Today the girl wanted to be runners and we were deep within the southwest fighting against the Evil Aztlaners.
And then it was gone. Without giving me any deeper clues into the childhood which was subsumed by the training, lost in the fog of antiquity so that I could exist until my death in perfect clarity. At nineteen, I joined up and never looked back. Now as I feel my memories in fractured clarity, I wonder whether I would make the same choice.
Derailing that entire line of thought, I creep closer to the clinic. With twenty steps I would be inside the clinic and living by my wits and senses.
---------------------------
A plume of dust in the distance. “The convoy is coming!” One of the figures pointed and gestured urgently to the other. They dived behind the cover of some roadside shrubs.
One of them, the girl, backed up onto her elbows and snuck a glance down the road. "Okay, Two. This is it. They're coming. You know what we have to do."
She grinned. She didn't know at all. But Two would. He always had the best ideas. He raised his head to peer out over the road for himself. She looked at him, at his clear brow, his fine features... intelligence alive in every gesture. The sun lit the fine hairs on his face and made his hair glow like a halo. She loved him. A wave of sadness swept over her. His brow creased and he opened his mouth.
"Shit," he said.
Scrambling backwards, "Come on!"
He was turning toward her, eyes bright. She schooled her face to smoothness, "What?" she asked.
"Come on!"
The door to the center opened and shut. Out in the general recovery room, patients groaned and turned in their cots. The ones who could make utterances or move, anyway. Patients tended patients under the watchful eyes of the doctors and nurses. All of them freaks of nature. None moreso than the doctors and nurses. April's head rolled toward the sound of the door. It was night outside. And dim in the room. She couldn't make out who had entered.
One of Them.
They were all Them.
Pretty much. She blinked and the image of the man doubled. Her vision was blurry. Good, but natural, unaugmented. In all the experiments and treatments and replacements, she'd never let Them touch her eyes. They had complied only because their data on optical enhancements was complete. Not because They felt any urge to honor her wishes. That and because if another bit of ware got shoe-horned into her, she'd die. Or worse, invalidate Their experiments. They needed her alive, to study the long term effects of the work they'd done. The sims simply didn't provide enough information. They needed a real, living subject. And a willing one. Truly willing. And now they'd abandoned her. Shuffled her off to Germany into a 'work camp' for freaks and misfits. There was no doubt in April's mind that she was still being watched. Observed. To see what their little automaton could do. She'd show them. Some time. When she could think straight. Right now she just wanted...
The woman's eyes fluttered as her head rolled away from the door. Her voice was quiet. Slurred, "Corn... "
---------------------------
The resounding echo of Mengele’s work carried beyond the shattered past and fully into the internment camp’s clinic. As I approached Unit 731, I heard the hiss and moan of ventilation systems and artificial lungs used when the patient could not afford implantation.
The patients were all changelings. Halfway through the room I came across her. A woman with shades of familiarity--all black polymers and resin stained steel. She was no one I recognized, but her drug addled senses carried a single word from my shattered memories. There was definitely something going on here.
---------------------------
April ran. Dodging back and forth between the tall corn plants. The blades rattled and rustled and she followed Two by sound as much as by sight. She called out, “Two, what is it?”
He yelled over his shoulder, panting out the words, “That was… the Connors’ …truck.”
“Shit,” she said and poured on some more speed.
The Connors were a favorite target. They owned then next farm over. April and Two would rush through their chores and meet where two small creeks fed into each other marking the edge of three properties. Grandma E’s, the Connors’ and… Two’s family, April guessed. She never was sure who owned that third plot. And Two never said one way or the other. Wouldn’t. He didn’t talk about his family much. Or his home. The fields on that side of the creek always lay fallow. Two made cracks about being a dirt farmer.
It remained a mystery, though it made sense to April that Two didn’t have a regular complement of farm chores – he almost always seemed to beat her to the creek. Thinking back she couldn’t be sure that she’d ever seen him walk across those empty fields to meet her. Or even to go home. For a while she entertained notions that he was a sprite or a brownie. Something fey and magical just for her.
But pretty quickly she caught on that he simply didn’t care to talk about it. Was uncomfortable for some reason. That was fine. Certainly April understood that, she was niece to The Creature, after all. So by mutual agreement, she never asked and he didn’t offer. And so, for her, he remained shrouded in mystery, her friend, the Puck.
Pranks were a favorite pastime. And the Connor farm, a favorite victim. The largest farm for miles, it had dozens of farm hands at any one time. More during the harvest. The dour, humorless workers just asked for it. Some took it better than others. Some… April and Two spent a lot their days fleeing across creeks and pastures, running pell-mell away angry, arm-waving farm hands. And quite a few times, feigning innocence when caught.
Today was shaping up to be one of those days. They had dusted off an old stand-by. Potato in the tail pipe. The ancient, care-worn, irritating lore passed down over decades. It only worked on some of the vehicles, though, the older ones. And it didn’t do any real harm. Just puzzled the driver until they walked around and saw the offending vegetable and inevitably chucked it at the nearest clump of laughing bushes. Today had been such a day. But Mr. Connor himself had gotten a good look at them. And the one time he’d caught them before, he’d packed them up in the truck and driven them straight to Grandma E’s, frog-marching them in the back door for the tongue-lashing of the century. Grandma E had looked very disappointed. That had been the worst bit.
For both of them.
---------------------------
The guards on duty near the clinic doors were more focused on external threats than internal ones, apparently not expecting any of the changeling experiments to be ambulatory, much less dangerous. Sneaking up behind a lone guard smoking, I grab him from behind and bash his head into the building repeatedly. The first blow stuns him and by the seventeenth even dental records would be unable to identify him.
I’m not sure why I did it, perhaps it was reflected brutality or perhaps deep-down a part of me enjoyed meaningless violence. That would be a question for later…I crouch down and scoop up the stun baton. Several guards later, I have a small stockpile of weapons and am waking leaders within the camp. Blood sticks down the fur in uncomfortable matted spots, congealing darkly along the grips of the implements of revolution.
They won’t survive against well-organized forces with guns, I admit silently to myself, but I still hand over the weapons and fan the flames of revolt until like wildfire, it streaks through the barrack. As they spill out of the building, others rise to the noise, many cringe and hide, but some rally to the call. Before we have gone past 100 meters, I am fading to the back of the group and heading to my own barracks. I wash my hands of the blood, scrubbing away the physical traces with clumps of fur. Below the surface, this would haunt me until I died, but the persona-fix didn’t care. It programmed revolution, and I excelled at violence.
---------------------------
Today they had been certain that they’d gotten away unspotted from the scene. It didn’t seem that way now. They broke out of the corn not far from the house. The truck was parked under the car port, April could hear the engine ticking as it cooled. They were too late. Grandma E wouldn’t get to hear their side. A part of April was glad, she hated lying to Grandma E. The back door swung open and Uncle Creach came stalking out. He glared at them both as he approached. They glared back, panting, catching their breath.
The Creature grabbed April by the arm and turned to walk her away. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she called.
Uncle Creach made a strange and disturbing face. It took April a while to realize her uncle was smiling. It was a nasty smile, “Go home, runt,” said Creach.
As if the man hadn’t spoken, Two said, “Yeah, see you tomorrow.”
He didn’t.
---------------------------
Rubbing the back of my head from where the support beam of the bunkbed had connected solidly with my skull, I am subsumed by memories.
A man and woman both in UCAS army uniforms stand on the platform wave at me as the train pulls away. I can feel the electromagnetic fields building up to propel the train at bullet speeds out of the station. They treated me as if I didn't know what was going on. I was being shipped away, they didn't want me anymore.
Flashes of other young boys, a camp of some sort. Each morning after breakfast I would leave, that's how I met her. An older woman was always there too, not asking questions as she hands me a warm spiced bread.
The girl was my first crush, I realize, but what happened to her? Did I kill her like so many others. Only her eyes are familiar, though with today's bio-tech that doesn't mean anything.
Nursing the bruise like a good broken-willed prisoner should, I lay there listening to the sounds of death and carnage. Soon I would move to make my escape, once the guards were fully engaged.
---------------------------
Creach dragged April into the kitchen, nodded his head at Mr. Connors. Grandma E was handing a box of jars and foil-wrapped bundles to the leathery old man. “Here, that’s the last of it. I do hope that helps, Brother.”
“It will, Sister Ellen. Thank you. Mrs. Connors sends her regards.”
April tugged against Creach’s grip on her, “Let go!” she barked. He held her a few moments just to show her he could and then let go of her arm.
“You forget what tonight is, girl?” April’s brow furrowed and then she remembered. She was going to The Hall tonight. They were inducting new members, and Uncle Creach was sponsoring her. April wondered why. Grandma E bustled about the kitchen, cleaning up after a day of baking for tonight’s gathering. She rarely went to The Hall, but her banana bread was famous. She smiled and patted April’s cheek, “Bet you’re excited. Getting inducted tonight. Here. Take this,” she put a slab of banana bread into April’s hand, “You should eat something. Who knows what silliness these roustabouts will have you doing before they let you eat.”
Mr. Connors’ leathery face broke into a grin, “I assure you, Sister, eating is the first order of business.”
Uncle Creach’s face split into that nasty grin again. Connors glared at Creach and the younger man’s face returned to its customary unpleasant expression. Grandma E seemed oblivious, but something seemed weird to April. Mr. Connors nodded his head to Grandma E and held the door open for April to lead the way out. On an impulse she hugged Grandma E, who hugged her back and petted her hair. “Don’t let Uncle Creach give you too hard a time.”
They trooped out the door. Grandma called, “You have fun!”
She didn’t.
Wow...nice post, guys. I'm feeling pretty much outdone here, between Winter, Buddha, Blitz, and you two :/
Somebody needs to put up another cheesy 6 line post like mine and make me feel better =D
Somebody needs to put up another cheesy 6 line post like mine and make me feel better =D
Totally voting you off at the next tribal council Fenris 
Seriously..not your fault. I originally thought we were just doing a single paragraph to cover each year but everyone went and got all creatively crazy and went to town *giggles*
Seriously..not your fault. I originally thought we were just doing a single paragraph to cover each year but everyone went and got all creatively crazy and went to town *giggles*
Hey Everyone,
Quick FYI - My girlfriend's mom was killed in a car accident this past Wednesday, Oct. 18. I've been with her and her family from the hospital and onward, hence my absence, and I will probably be staying with her until sometime next week. I will try to get back and catch up ASAP. Thanks for your patience!
Quick FYI - My girlfriend's mom was killed in a car accident this past Wednesday, Oct. 18. I've been with her and her family from the hospital and onward, hence my absence, and I will probably be staying with her until sometime next week. I will try to get back and catch up ASAP. Thanks for your patience!
OMG..how dreadful. Take all the time you need, and pass my condolences to her and her family.
/agreed. Take all the time you need, we'll still be here when you get back!
Please take care of yourselves and we'll see when you get back.
My condolences to you and your girlfriend. Take care of things on your end, we will still be here when you come back.
We'll be thinking about you, WR.
Hey Everyone, I'm back, I just wanted to know where we're at on this. Are we officially on Year 3 yet?
Should probably start on it...I don't remember seeing Whizbang or Grendel post year 2 yet though.
Wouldn't hurt anything to get year three rolling though.
Haven't heard anything from Grendel since the very first post, so I'm going to assume he's AWOL.
Haven't heard anything from Grendel since the very first post, so I'm going to assume he's AWOL.
So is this thing officially dead or in some kind of deep coma?
Deep coma with thready vitals, I'd say. It could be resuscitated, though chances are it would be a fight.
What's the will to live level of our participants?
1-10, I'm rated at 8.2.
What's the will to live level of our participants?
1-10, I'm rated at 8.2.
8 for me. What exactly are we waiting on? And who's been AWOL that we're waiting on? Has anyone been able to get in touch with them?
Whizbang and Grendel both need a Year 2. Grendel is alive, per all reports from GenCon So Cal, though I'm not sure of his current digital awareness now that the event is over.
Generally, the twins kick us off with each new year and we post accordingly. IIRC, it is Blitz's turn for a twin post.
Generally, the twins kick us off with each new year and we post accordingly. IIRC, it is Blitz's turn for a twin post.
Don't rush to judgment until all the facts are in.
Was there something wrong with my report that you are in fact alive?
I think he was commenting on my AWOL comment 
ahh. got it.
Sorry Grendel, I was just using Fenris's terminology, so if you're going to kill someone in an insanely evil fit of range over the (probably incorrect) use of the term 'AWOL', kill Fenris, not me. 
Here. Interest level - I'm not sure if the scale is Like-Love or Dislike-Love, but 7.5 seems about right. 
So now that Grendel's posted, we're waiting on Whizbang's villian post for year 2 and Blitz's twin post for year 3, but we can start posting year 3 once Blitz's goes up, correct?
Winter--That's correct.
Sparky--It was on a scale of "Fading into Oblivion" to "Will to Live Rating 4 and an Insistent DocWagon team"
Sparky--It was on a scale of "Fading into Oblivion" to "Will to Live Rating 4 and an Insistent DocWagon team"
Given that there has been another 30 day passage without any activity, I'm going to request that this thread be put down. Maybe we can pick it back up later when everyone has more time.
Agreed.
Say good night Gracie.
Say good night Gracie.
Good night gracie.
Sigh, and I had such high hopes for this thread and its premise…
Many of us did, it just seems that real life reared its ugly head for a few people and led us softly into the good night.
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