#something something sell your soul for an urn; crack | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rrrawrf-writes · 5 years

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@meridian-souls asked me for a remy thing so here we are :)))

tw: violence, death, blood, things happen to an eyeball, gore, frickin rembrandt

---

Michael never told anyone that Grant was dead.

Not even the guy who cremated bodies for Grant knew; Rembrandt had bundled Grant’s and Clarisse’s corpses both into the back of her car and driven them over, still stunned. He didn’t remember what excuse he’d given, or watching the bodies incinerate, but he’d returned with a single urn of ashes and shaking hands and no idea of what to do next.

No idea, until Michael numbly logged into his uncle’s computer a week later to look up a carpet cleaner (he couldn’t quite get the pinkish stain out of the carpet in Grant’s office), and saw a missed email asking nothing more than, Are you SURE you’re out of the game? Got a good one for you.

It had been sent the day before. Michael checked the email address against a small journal his uncle kept, scrolled through their message history, and then turned the computer off, stuffed the book back behind the shelves, and lied on top of his bedspread, staring at the ceiling, and thought.

The next morning, he wrote back.

Three days later, he picked up his uncle’s baseball bat. He put it back down.

Two nights after that, Michael sat on the side of the road, staring at an old mobile home across the street, curtains muffling the squares of light. He couldn’t believe a target worth so much money was living here. It was worse than his parents’ new home. Surely an old cape could afford something better.

Several hours crawled by before the lights turned off, well after midnight. Michael stood up and crossed the road, Grant’s bat in hand, and slunk around to the back of the… house. High fences separated it from the few neighbors scattered around, all residences just as old and creaky as this one. That would help keep anyone from noticing what was about to happen, at least, Michael thought.

There were five different deadbolts on the door. Michael knew how to pick them all open. He flinched at the long, drawn-out groan the back door made, and stopped, heart in his mouth.

He didn’t hear anything. Michael licked his lips, then slipped inside. He left the door open, figuring it would just be as loud swinging shut, and then stopped short, looking with dismay at the mess.

The back door opened into the kitchen, and every available flat surface was piled high with junk and dust. Michael’s skin crawled. How could anyone live like this?

It was even worse in the living room, as he moved as quietly as he possibly could throughout the house. He clutched the baseball bat in one hand, his knuckles turning white, and jumped at every tiny noise.

He was so worried about the way the wind sounded, whistling through the gap in a window, that he didn’t notice his target until he turned and came face-to-face with the old man.

“They’re sending children after me, now?” he asked with a sneer, and then his hand latched around Michael’s throat.

Strongarm had been a minor hero back in the day, but now he was stick-thin, his papery skin stretched tight over his bones and spotted with moles and liver spots and old scars. His shoulders were hunched and he probably weighed less than Michael - but it took no apparent effort for him to lift the teenager into the air with one hand.

He pulled the baseball bat out of Michael’s hand with just as little effort. “I suppose the boys at the gun store heard your voice crack and wouldn’t even sell you a pocketknife, would they?”

Michael tugged futilely at the hand around his neck. “Didn’t - Didn’t think anyone lived here -”

“Save it,” the old man snarled, tightening his grip. Michael choked, and his gaze drifted over Strongarm’s shoulder as he was lifted higher. At the far end of the living room, filled with books and trash and trinkets and trophies, he saw a glass case holding Strongarm’s old, armored uniform.

Armored uniform.

Super strength didn’t always mean super resilience. And sometimes superpowers faded with age.

Michael looked around as best as he could, desperate for anything, and then reached out, snagging a pen off the top of a pile of fifty-year-old newspapers on top of a box TV. Then he stabbed it into Strongarm’s left eye.

The old man shrieked in pain, and dropped Michael on top of a plastic tote. He stumbled back, still howling, and Michael tripped over a trash bag overflowing with cardboard cereal boxes before he found his baseball bat.

---

Michael sat on the front porch, his leg bouncing up and down at a rapid pace as he pressed the flip cell phone to his ear. Blood spattered his slacks and shoes, and covered the baseball bat; he could just hear Grant’s sarcastic, ‘Good job, kid,’ in his ear, sneering at the horrible mess he’d made of everything.

“Coming,” the other voice on the phone said, as soon as the line picked up, and before Michael could say anything. He swallowed, closed the phone, and pressed his palms into his eyes. What was he doing? He’d nearly died in there.

But Grant had died, and even though he had a considerable amount of money, that wouldn’t last forever. Michael clenched his hands into fists to keep them from shaking, and by the time a sleek black two-door sports car pulled into the driveway, Michael had managed to stop his fretting.

He stood up, chin raised, as Grant’s - his - client stepped out of the car. McCarthy was the only name that had been given, and he eyed Michael with an arched eyebrow. “You’re not Grant.”

“I’m taking over for him,” Michael said. His voice cracked. He bit his tongue, then jerked his head towards the door. “You can see, I finished the job just as well.”

He shuffled aside on the tiny stoop to let McCarthy step inside. Scoffing, McCarthy stepped back out, and looked down his nose at Michael. “Grant’s not usually that clumsy, kid.”

Michael bristled, and tried not to show it. “Don’t call me kid. He’s dead, like you wanted.”

“He is, at that.” McCarthy crossed his arms over his chest. “So is Grant, isn’t he?”

Panic flared in Michael’s stomach. Some of it must have shown his face, because McCarthy was still disbelieving even when Michael said, “No - I told you. I’m taking over for him. He’s retired.”

“And teaching some twelve-year-old brat to take up the job?” McCarthy scoffed. “Don’t yank my chain.”

Michael bit his tongue. Grant never let clients talk to him like that. He spread his stance a little, crossing his arms over his chest. “Whatever you think doesn’t matter,” he said. “You hired me. I completed the job. Now, we’ve reached the part where you pay me.”

McCarthy eyed him, then bit out a laugh. “Yeah, sure, all right, kid. Here.” He pulled out his wallet, fishing out a few bills, and passed them over.

Michael didn’t even have to count them. “This isn’t what we agreed on.”

“No, it isn’t what Grant and I agreed on,” McCarthy sneered. “You don’t get to play under his name and expect me to follow his rules when he’s not here. That’s sloppy work in there. Have you even covered your trail? You’re a liability, kid, not a hitman. I wouldn’t have hired you to put down my neighbor’s cat.”

McCarthy brushed past him, his elbow snapping out and nearly forcing Michael off the doorstep entirely. Stepping down, McCarthy turned just slightly and added over his shoulder, “Go home, brat. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let your uncle’s ghost rest in peace and give this up, before you get hurt.”

Michael stared at his back, as McCarthy stepped away. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Grant might not have gotten the respect or the money he always wanted, but no client ever talked like that to him to his face.

And none of his clients ever shorted him.

‘Tried, once,’ Grant had told him, half-drunk and leaning back in his chair with a smirk. ‘Knew if I let him get away with it, then everyone else would try. So I didn’t let him walk away. Now, nobody turns their back on me.’

Michael picked up the baseball bat.

---

Unlike Strongarm, it only took one good hit to get McCarthy down. Michael dropped to one knee, rifling through the man’s pockets until he found his wallet, car keys, and cell phone. McCarthy wouldn’t be able to tell anyone else what happened if they tried to short Michael Rembrandt, but he also wouldn’t be able to tell the police that it was the sixteen-year-old nephew of a hitman who’d done him in. Michael figured that was more important.

He found the money McCarthy was supposed to give him under the front passenger seat. Grinning, Michael did a quick and dirty count, before stuffing the bag back underneath the seat, and sliding into the front seat of the car. He ran his hands over the steering wheel; this certainly beat taking a taxi to three miles away.

Shame he couldn’t keep it. Michael pulled out his uncle’s book of contacts; maybe he knew a chop shop, or something. He could dump the car there, get a bit of money back from that, too. He could even put some of it into his and his sister’s college funds - their parents had drained it to cover their debts.

Grinning, Michael glanced at the bloody baseball bat in the seat next to him.

“Told you I could do it,” he said to his uncle, and drove off.

#iwrite #rembrandt #dark #violetvineyard #superpowerverse #tw violence #tw blood #tw eyeball things?#tw death #tw murder #tw rembrandt

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shawtygonemad · 5 years

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My Dog Eared Hero: Chapter 1

Hello all! Please read this cringey fanfiction I started to write when I was 11. I have tried my best to edit it, but I also don’t want to break my 11 year old self’s heart. Please read at your own risk.

Rated M for mature language and cringe.

***

Katara Higurashi is a twenty year old woman from America. Her mother, Suki Higurashi, was from Japan while her father Jordan Lawther was an American. They met when Suki was an exchange university student. They fell in love quickly their first year of school. A year into their relationship Suki fell pregnant with Katara. The couple was surprised, but thrilled nonetheless. However, tragedy fell eight months into the pregnancy - Jordan passed away suddenly. He was on his way home from work when his car slid on some black ice and rolled into a ditch.

Suki was devastated, but knew Jordan wanted her to have a happy life with their daughter. So Sukie decided to stay in America and raise Katara there. They of course visited her family in Japan as often as they could. Suki and Katara ended up living the life Jordan and Suki planned. She was a doctor and Katara had a great childhood.

A few months before Katara’s nursing school pinning Suki was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Barely a few months passed and she was gone two weeks after Katara’s twentieth birthday. It tore Katara to pieces. She ended up selling the house and everything in it. Her mother had planned on taking Katara to see the world after her pinning, so Katara decided to fulfill her mother’s wishes. Katara took the money she received when the house sold, and went road tripping around the country for a few months.

It took thousands of miles, 25 states, and a lot of soul searching for her to finally come to the fact that she needed to put her mother to rest. She had her cremated when she first passed, but couldn’t bring herself to say goodbye. Now she finally had to. She was going to take one last journey with her Mom to Japan. She was finally bringing her home to the Higurashi shrine.

Fourteen hours later she found herself walking up the steps to the shrine of her ancestors. Katara’s grandfather, aunt, and cousins Kagome and Sota lived here. By the time she reached the top she was winded. Katara had her backpack, luggage bag, and her mother’s urn.

It was quiet and no one was out and about which is weird since it was almost nine in the morning. Straight ahead of Katara was the sacred tree. It used to scare her as a child whenever she would visit. Something about it always made her skin crawl and her chest ache whenever she’d look at it. Even now, her chest felt a dull pain just glancing at it. To the left of her was the actual shrine and to the right of her was a pink house in which her relatives lived. As she approached she noticed her aunt at the kitchen window probably doing dishes. Her aunt glanced up and caught her eye. Within a second her aunt was gone and running out the front door to see her niece.

“Katara,” her aunt cried and she embraced her niece. “My sweet girl, are you doing alright?”

“Yeah, auntie. I’m fine,” Katara replied with a sad smile.

Auntie looked down at the urn in Katara’s arms and tears welled up in her eyes.

“Is that -” she began.

“Yeah, that’s mom.”

“Can I… can I hold her,” Auntie’s voice cracked which broke Katara’s heart.

“Of course,” Katara said as she passed her mother over to her sister.

“Let’s get her all set up and then we can go inside for some brunch. How does that sound?” Auntie sniffled.

Katara gave a sad smile, “That sounds great.”

Auntie and Katara took Suki’s urn and placed it in the family shrine. Auntie placed flowers in front of it while Katara laid down some treasured items that Suki loved. She also placed an old picture frame with a photo of her mother and father together.

“At least they’re together again,” Katara said softly.

“C’mon, let's get you inside and feed you something. You must be exhausted from traveling all day,” Auntie guided Katara into the house.

“I’m alright. I’m used to traveling so it doesn’t bother me much.”

Once they were inside Katara sat at the table while auntie made her a plate of food.

“Where is everyone,” Katara finally asked.

“Well, Sota is at school. Your grandfather went to the marketplace, and Kagome -”

“I’m home!” They hear a young woman’s voice from the front door.

“Kagome, darling! Welcome home! You’re just in time. Katara just got in.”

“Katara? What are you doing here,” She excitedly greeted her older cousin by giving her a hug. “Wow, you seem so… different.”

Katara laughed, “That’s what happens when you’re no longer a sixteen year old.”

“But seriously, what are you doing here? It’s been awhile since you’ve came to visit,” Kagome asked.

“She doesn’t know?” Katara looked over at her aunt, confused.

“She hasn’t been home for me to tell,” Auntie began.

“It’s been six months! What do you mean she hasn’t been home?”

“What’s been six months?” Kagome asked, confused.

“Honey, sit down. I need to tell you something,” Auntie started to tell Kagome.

“I think I’m going to go up to Kagome’s room and unpack my things. I really don’t feel like sitting through another one of these conversations,” Katara said before getting up and heading upstairs.

Katara blew up the air mattress and began to unpack her little tote she bought for her mother’s celebration of life. Holy water, rose petals, heart felt relics, etc. As she began to unpack her clothes the window flew open and a man with long white hair and a red kimono was crouching on the window sill.

“Kagome, did you really have to run off like that-” he began before stopping once he sees Katara.

“What the fuck,” Katara said loudly. “Who the hell are you?”

“Who the hell am I? Who the hell are you? Where’s Kagome,” He asked before leaping further in the room.

That’s when Katara could get a better look at him. She saw dog ears attached to the top of his head, his eyes were golden, and his nails were long like claws.

“What are you, some sort of cosplayer,” Katara questioned.

The man held up his clawed hand and smirked at Katara. “Do these look fake to you?”

They most certainly did not. Katara paused a moment to take him in again. Everything looked so real. It was as if he came directly out of one of gramp’s crazy “evil creature” stories. If that was the case, then -

“Oh hell. You’re a… You’re a demon,” Katara concluded.

“Yeah, what gave it away,” the man said sarcastically and rolled his eyes.

Katara quickly grabbed her bottle of holy water and splashed it on the man. He hissed in pain and took a step back.

“Gah! What the heck is that stuff?!”

“Be gone, demon! I don’t know what you want with my cousin Kagome, but you can’t have her!” Katara said as she splashed him once more. Grandpa would have been proud.

“Stop that! What the hell are you talking about? Ugh, you’re just like that old man,” the demon said. He must be referring to gramps.

If gramps couldn’t kill him then Katara sure couldn’t. She quickly ran out of the bedroom door and slammed it behind her. She ran downstairs to find her aunt and Kagome gone. Oh God, that demon probably killed them! She ran out into the yard and straight for the shrine. Katara was going so fast that she almost ran head on into Kagome and Auntie.

“Woah, Katara, where are you going in such a hurry,” Kagome asked.

“We need to get somewhere sacred - now! It shouldn’t be able to get us there,” Katara quickly rambled and grabbed Auntie and Kagome’s arms and went into the building closest to them. It just so happened to be the bone eaters well.

The demon must have seen them go into the building and before following them.

“Kagome what the heck is going on,” it asked her cousin.

Katara took a step back closer to the well once the demon stepped inside the building with no problem.

“And who is that crazy woman throwing acid water at me!?”

“Acid water? Wait, what’s going on?” Kagome asked, confused.

“That demon pounced into your room and demanded to know where you were! So I of course threw holy water at it. I knew it would only stun him. I ran outside to find you and auntie. So I did what gramps would have done and entered someplace sacred in which no demons should ever be able to enter. I guess that didn’t turn out so well,” Katara explained.

“Ohh! Katara, this is InuYasha. Yes, he’s a half demon, but he’s a good one. We travel together,” Kagome said. “InuYasha, this is my older cousin Katara. She’s from America. She’s in town due to some… unfortunate circumstances that just happened.”

“What do you mean that you’re traveling around with a demon - excuse me - half demon?”

“It’s a long story -” Kagome began.

“How is gramps not losing his goddamn mind over this?!” Katara exclaimed.

“He’s still not very happy about it,” auntie lighted touched on the matter.

“Why are you even allowing this to happen. For one, she is only fifteen years old,” Katara accused her aunt.

“Darling, it’s a long story,” Auntie started.

Katara took another step back exasperated. Her calves were practically touching the well. “What is wrong with you people?! If one more person tells me it's a “long story” I might just lose it.”

“And you’re not already,” the demon, InuYasha, sarcastically asked.

“Katara, just calm down-” Kagome started as she approached Katara like a wild animal.

“No! I will not calm down. You are all crazy for even trusting a de- ah!” Katara was cut off by tripped over the back to the well and losing her balance. She fell backwards and down into the well.

#inuyasha #inuyasha fanfiction #inuyasha fanfic #inuyashaxoc #oc #anime #romance #adventure #cringe

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sylvan-library-blog · 7 years

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Old Ruststein

By @kytheon-hero-of-akros, @magus-of-the-color-pie

Damn my accursed curiosity and that accursed man. Why can’t I have a bit of peace? I just had to open that urn, and now I’m being haunted. Avacyn bless that I can find the guy who owned it again. He better know how to banish the spirit or I’ll come back to haunt him.

It is foolish to travel just before sundown but there’s no time to wait. Night falls like a rock from the cliffs I skirt. Something’s following me. I need to go faster. It could be the spirit, a vampire, a demon, or any of the other plethora of things that make my hair stand on end. The bare trees swing in the mild wind, constantly causing monsters to appear at the corner of my eye, which disappear just as quickly. I sense a sudden drop in temperature; curse this blasted land. The evils of the Geier Reach surpass my imagination. Danger lurks behind every corner. Faster. I crack the whip. Doesn’t seem like she needs much encouragement.

James Paick, “Harrowing Journey”

As we gallop through the darkening shadow of the mountains into the thick clinging fog, the silhouette of a stationary carriage appears. It’s that damned man again! I’ve got him now! Somehow he knew to be here. He stands by the carriage, as if waiting for me. I approach it, keeping an eye on him. He looks exactly how I remembered; he’s tall, square-shouldered and in a black leather duster that makes his crimson red shirt that much brighter in comparison. His hair is short, greasy, and jet black, which is... confusing, given his wispy white beard. He opens the door and invites me in with a sweeping hand and a tight grin on his wrinkly face. I pull up beside him and consider, his two eyes, one brown, one glass, magically enchanted I presume from its light glow, silently scanning me. Should I meet with him again so readily? He’s the one who put my life in danger, after all. But I need his help if I am to escape the spirit. He again gestures for me to enter and I slide in, the carriage’s floor creaking with every step. The inside is well lit, even though I fail to spot any light sources. It's also surprisingly large, though it feels crowded from the artifacts littering the floor and walls in a seemingly random mess. I spot a few blades of varying length and hilt, some stacked boxes on the floor, what looks suspiciously like a demon’s horns, a glittering symbol of Avacyn placed on an ordinary-looking bottle, and dozens of other oddities. There’s a vague sense of agelessness, like he’s been dealing in procurement for thousands of years.

“I … I’m being haunted. An urn. I picked it up from you awhile back. You r-remember it, don’t you?”

“Take a seat, lad,” he returned, gesturing to a small wicker chair propped up against the wall, “I don't do business standing up. It's bad luck, you know?”

I oblige, sitting on the little chair with a thump. Rutstein scoots an ornate armchair in front of me and sits down with a satisfied sigh.

“I never had the nerve to open that bottle,” he chuckles. “I’ll bet you’re wishing right now you hadn’t been so curious yourself.”

Igor Kieryluk, “Niblis of the Urn”

Wait, he thinks this is my fault? How could it be my fault? He sold it to me. He didn’t even warn me of the danger! I want to get angry, to shout at him, but I can’t. I need his help. With a deep breath, I ask.

"Do you have anything to get rid of it? Or to... ward it off?"

Rutstein gestures to the multitude of battered objects on shelves around the carriage as he says, “If you’re looking for a solution at a bargain, you’re in luck. Old Rutstein never turns away a customer, especially not when they’re in such a troubling situation.” There’s that grin. While I can’t be sure of his intentions, I suppose they can’t be worse than the geist’s. He reaches for a silver censer and holds it in front of me, the carriage’s dim light glimmering off its side.

“I’m not a cleric,” I say defensively.

Old Rutstein lets out a snicker. “You need not worry about that, my boy! This isn’t just any old censer.”

I stare at him, puzzled.

“Alright, then, let Old Rutstein tell you how he came across this beauty,” he whispers as he leans forward, setting the censer on the ground. “I come into this town at nightfall, was somewhere near Gavony, you see, small town, just a few houses and a church and whatnot, selling some real goodies. Avacynian collars, holy scrolls, blades of blessed silver, you name it. There’s this small group that walks towards my carriage as the bells ring, signaling the end of the service in the town’s chapel. Everyone knows Avacyn is out there protecting us, but there are always those people that want some more… consistent means of defense, you know? They gather round, asking protection from the fiends of the night. Soon as I’m done cutting a deal with the last fella, I notice this rumbling noise coming from just west of the town, where there’s this sort of pass, you see? Sure enough, I see a mass of red coming right in from there. Ah, those cursed devils! They’re fast, you know. Out of nowhere they’re in town and setting fires all over the place, people are shrieking, there’s a ton of black smoke, really just a terrible situation,” he recounts in his gravelly voice, an expression of sincere grief painted on his face.

“A small group of cathars gathers in front of the church, together with some volunteers and most of my clients. The priest is with them too. The imps are wily though. Their fires light a tall building ahead of them, which falls into the street. Chaos erupts as the cathars are separated from one another. The soldiers on my side of the blaze form a ring around the families fleeing the discord. I toss an extra fine axe or two to the civilians brave enough to wield them, but I wasn’t gonna get into that mess. Then the devils go for the priest. He wards them off with his censer, this censer,” he adds, pointing to it, “but I can tell it’s not enough. He drops to his knees and prays as the bastards surround him.

Then, with this beautiful light, a flight of angels, probably Gisela’s, garbed with gleaming battle armor and with fiery blades of justice, come out of nowhere to lay waste to the monsters. One swoops down into the square between the priest and devils. She batters the advancing fiends despite their tricks. Her bravery inspires the cathars and the civilians into action, who fight back again!” Rutstein narrates, his voice rising with passion. If he weren’t a merchant, I’d say he’d have a career in storytelling. “The priest and I get to evacuating the defenseless, just in case. Within a few minutes, all those critters were gone. So naturally, I walk around to check out the wreckage. The priest’s censer is buried in a mass of burnt red limbs and heads. The burns are not from the fire, though. It was the censer’s holy magic that kept him safe, you see. I figured he wouldn’t mind if I took a small souvenir from the battle, so here it is,” he finishes with a broad smile, tapping the censer with his left index. A hollow, yet calming sound echoes faintly through the carriage.

Christine Choi, “True-Faith Censer”

“Will it protect me from the geist?”

“If it can handle a bunch o’ devils, it can ward off your little issue. But what happens when you run out of holy water? Maybe,” he says, holding his left index up as he reaches for something behind his armchair with his right, “a good geist to fight a bad one, eh?” he suggest, pulling out a modest-looking sword. “There is a rich history in a blade like this.”

Volkan Baga, “Neglected Heirloom”

“Now you see, I’m on the way to Stensia from Kessig, traveling down Getander Pass. I may be protected, but I’m no fool—Ashmouth is home to the most powerful demons in the four provinces. Naturally some desperate souls have met their end here, and it seems one lurks now. I hear the ghostly screams before I see anything, and I know I’m in for a surprise.”

His gestures have gotten wider, faster. Whether for the thrill of danger or for his captive audience, I can’t tell. He continues his story: “I hear the carriage before it rounds the corner. Its master is pushing it to the limit. No doubt why; a chilling wail demanding a sacrifice of blood pierces my ears. The ice blue geist, larger than a horse and quicker than one, too, is gaining on the carriage. Wisps of the lost soul overtake the car, which stops unnaturally quickly, horse frozen in place,” he whispers, gazing into my eyes.

“The man inside the carriage bursts out and runs around the bend without another glance back. Shrieking all the louder, the geist descends upon him. Then, the unexpected! A brilliant blue ray comes from the carriage, then the flash of steel. A flaming sword just dives straight at the spirit through the air, smelling blood. Well, spirits don’t have any blood, but, well, you get what I mean. It pierces right through the geist’s chest,” he says through clenched teeth, driving his arm forward like a spear. “A terrible, terrible screech comes from where the spirit’s head should be. It falls from the sky, hood burning, lantern extinguished. The duel is over, lad. The geist is vanquished and the blade falls to the ground, abandoned, yes, but triumphant. And beautiful. Naturally, I approach it. There’s no proof it was ever on fire. But I know that the geist that possessed it remains inside. Perhaps it can save more than one life, I consider. The owner ain’t coming back, it seems, so I claim it as my own,” he finishes with a satisfied grin.

Volkan Baga, “Ashmouth Blade”

“Well, um, that’s quite the story. So… you would be willing to give the sword to me?”

“Well sure! For a price, of course. What better to protect you from geists than another geist, right?” he asks, leaning forward and patting me on the shoulder.

I can think of a few things, but this seems like a fair option. More like my only option at the moment, really. With a guardian blade and a censer to defend me from evil, it appears I will be safe.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, sir,” I say, reaching towards my pocket.

“Now now, hold on just a second, lad,” he objects with a firm hand on my arm. “Have you considered the possibility of getting lost? I have other wares that can prevent you from such a misfortune befalling you,” he suggests.

“I- I think I’m safe now, and it’s the same road back, so-”

“Ah, but the evils of this land can play very nasty tricks on you, lad. You never know when someone might cast some magic on you, make you think you’re going in the right direction, and then bam! You just became some vampire’s dinner course,” he says with a sad shake of his head. “And plus!” he continues, lifting his head up with newfound joy, “I’ve got a special discount on purchases of three items or more going, this week!”

I look at him, unsure. “I don’t really know how useful-”

“Allow me to convince you of your … necessity,” He insists, pulling out a small, silver amulet from one of his many pockets.

“So I’m riding down Briarbridge, that road in Kessig that’s always filled with bloody vampires, right? And ahead of me there is another carriage stopped at the side, so I ride up to it to see what's going on. Well, seems like it someone’s unlucky day! There’s a dark red stain right in front of the horses, but no corpse to be found. Obviously one of those bloodsuckers’ work. More could be around. This one passenger needs a direction, and they know it. Leaning outside the carriage, they gaze further into the forest, then back at the road behind, then into the forest. This one’s indecisive. Can’t blame him, though! Choosing to go deeper into Kessig could mean being dessert, or it could be salvation. The wrong decision is death. No decision is death.”

A cold shiver runs along my spine. Vampires- I’ve had a few run-ins with them. I got out alive. Many others died… or worse. Rutstein quietly observes me for a few moments, then continues. “The passenger turns and notices me. We share a look of understanding—neither of us want to meet the vampires. When the moment ends they return to fretting about the situation. They curse and locate an amulet from their bag. With a shout of, “May angels watch us from the skies!” they toss it from the carriage and wait for a feeling of holy guidance. It takes them back the way they came. The correct choice. I watch them go, then I get out, pick up the amulet, get back in, and follow them.”

Alan Pollack, “Traveler’s Amulet”

“You never know when you might lose your way, lad, or when someone might lose it for you. If you should face other fiends, this amulet will help you find your way.”

I hesitate. Rutstein is good at his job, I’ll admit it. He’s probably trying to squeeze a few extra coins out from me. But on the other hand, the amulet could be useful, and I’d rather spend a bit more to increase my chances of making it back than save some money, get on Rutstein’s bad side, and possibly get murdered, or worse, by an abomination.

“It’s a deal,” I say, rummaging through my coinpurse and giving Rutstein a handful of coins and then some more, following his will. The old man hands me the three items with a perhaps over the top reverence.

“I knew we’d meet again,” he says as I prepare to leave.

I stand up and crack the door open, stepping outside into the fog. The geist remains lurking, but I don’t feel the same dread now. My purchases will keep me safe, I know it.

I turn to thank Old Rutstein.

There is no carriage behind me, not even tracks to prove it was there.

#mtg #magic the gathering #mtg fanfic #innistrad #old ruststein

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mechagalaxy · 6 years

Text

How Addiction Saved the World

I was at my court mandated ASA (Asinine Substance Abuse) meeting. I did a lot of Stim Packs, but there weren’t a lot of niode hungry jocks who hadn’t sold their souls to the big corporations or noble houses who were not Stim Junkies. You needed Stims to spend the hundreds of hours in the cockpit to chase the pirates until you could catch enough of them to get the gate codes to the lair they were hiding the good loot at. Then you needed Large Stim packs to fight the damned base forces. I was fine right up until Unification started pushing into our reality. The Unification troops brought a lot of forbidden biotech, but some of it was pretty cool, so I was OK with it. They wanted to enslave humanity but considering the sponsorship deals most of the pilots have already signed, it just mean you didn’t have to cover yourself with fifty sponsor labels, just the one, and their song wasn’t any stupider than the dozen or so planetary or interstellar anthems sung out there. Other than Zolak. Zolak was a combined Maori and Swiss colony world, and their anthem is a Hakka delivered wearing leiderhosen while yodelling. Honestly, the Unification March is better than that. But Unification brought new Unification Stims as well as our existing Stims, and I started using both, and skipping sleep for weeks at a time.

I may or may not have decided that the giant Hello Kitty balloon on top of the Very Nice Lacy Underbits Emporium had come to life and was about to destroy the city, and I may or may not have sent my Pikes, Fext, Apatotrons, Regis, Boreas, and Aspis to destroy said balloon and about half a block of the largest lingerie emporium in the Shogunate. This lead to a fine that made me sell my Kami and two Notas I had been working up, and a thousand hours of ASA meetings. Its like decaffeinated Hell. Come to think of it, I bet Hell is decaffeinated. That would explain a lot.

I was sitting in the chair because today it was going to be my turn to “share”. Honestly with four Friendly Persuaders and their shock rods standing in the corner, it wasn’t so much sharing as the choice between talking about your stim use, or doing the dance of the electric chicken as the Friendly Persuaders worked you over with their shock sticks to show the Shogunates opinion on addictions that destroy shopping malls. Well, lucky day, I had a story to share about how my addiction just saved the world. This world anyway.

My turn came after we all sipped our soothing tea. It was chemically treated so that any residual Stim Pack chemicals in your bloodstream would result in an immediate epileptic seizure. They don’t tell you that part, but I discovered it for myself on day one of the program. So far five others have made the same discovery, and I guess its still just as funny for the sadists running the program, because all of them laugh. I was stim free, but caffeinated to within an inch of my life. That is kind of what brought it all about. The usual blessings of the Emperor were over, and the speech about how glorious it was to live in a society so free that it allowed us to prove we were worthy to re-enter the ranks of productive supporters of the Prince of Iron’s stick up his ass society of conforming drones on pain of more pain if we don’t obey, were over, and it was time to begin the sharing. I creaked and groaned my way out of my slump and shuffled to a vague approximation of at ease, and began my story. “Ohayo, I am Chu-I Takagi Ramierez-Sanchez, and I am a stim addict, but my addiction saved the world”

The Serene Co-ordinator of Enlightenment snapped her fingers and the four Friendly Persuaders closed in with their shock sticks to administer an attitude adjustment (my first one was for nodding off last week during someone else’s sharing), but with an arrogant pride I threw back my armoured coat to show the gleaming steel of the Broken Sword medal, an award given by the hand of the Iron Prince himself, and only for the saving of an entire world for the Shogunate. “Listen and learn, how my addiction saved this world” I shouted as the Friendly Persuaders and Co-ordinator joined the addicts in the room in the bow my medal demanded from anyone save the Prince who did not bear the Broken Sword.

I had been running missions out the Clark Federation way for weeks now. Not a lot of luck. Those Xeon bastards were playing hardball, and no one was willing to talk. The Federation Rangers were playing games in the shadows they wouldn’t talk about, and nobody on the mercenary side had enough experience in this neck of the woods to figure out what we were being lied to about. Damned Yoram plague seems to be drawing away the bulk of the Clan to duties outside the Clark Fed, so I don’t even have much backup. I was left running the Clark missions on my own, and without Stims at all, I was almost dead when I got back to base, shumbling and shuffling into barracks, and passing out where I fell, uniform still on. I took six shots to silence my alarm, because shooting by sound isn’t that accurate, but the noise and kick from the Cogwork Bolt-thrower finished the work of waking me up enough to realize emptying my side arm at the clock was probably signs of caffination failure. I wanted a stim, but all I was allowed was coffee. I stumbled towards the bathroom, but through a failure of navigation hit the front door instead. Deciding I could always just pee on a tree someplace if I didn’t find another bathroom I began shuffling towards the mess hall and coffee. I found a bunch of pilots shuffling like zombies towards the mess hall. I sort of followed them. There was screaming and shooting going on in the mecha bay, and more in the barracks. I guess I wasn’t the only one shooting their alarm clock, and that would explain why no MP’s came when I shot up my clock. I followed the other zombies to the mess hall where one of the cooks snapped a probe in my implant to check for conscious brainwaves. There was some sort of challenge icon on my HUD to respond, but I hadn’t had my coffee yet, so I kind of drifted off to sleep while I tried to figure out how to respond. I got woken up again when the cook pulled out the probe. Weird. Never had a brain wave check to get into the mess hall before, and I guess it didn’t matter if I failed because I was asleep when it finished. I really needed my coffee. I pulled away from the other zombies as the smell of coffee pulled me to the big urns. I couldn’t find a cup, but there were big bowls out, so what the hell, I filled a big bowl. I dumped sugar into it and some Powdered Tumour brand whitener and shuffled to the benches beside the other zombies. They were all eating something pink with their bare hands. It looked too complicated for pre-caffination, so I just decided to finish my coffee, then think. As the caffeine began to connect neurons, I realized a few things, in no particular order. All the pilots around me had weird twitches and moans going on. All of them were eating something that looked a lot like human brains……so much like human brains that I could see pilot implants in some of the bowls. Looking outside the windows, I saw running humans emptying their side arms into mobs of zombies who pulled them down, before they rose again, shuffling like the zombies around me. Ah crap. Yoram plague duty had gone badly. The zombies got the base, and I guess anyone with a detectable brainwave was getting spores or gunshots. I was the only person still alive and functional, in a messhall full of zombies. Last survivor of my unit. Awake, caffeinated, and boned. Looking up at the ceiling, I saw the self destruct we had rigged from the last contract negotiation. Our CO was a little unhappy with the terms on the contract and swore if they ever tried to end our contract and hire someone else she would blow the base back to bare rock………

Sipping my coffee, I tried to remember what the hell the activation code was. Oh yes. I accessed my implant and sent the signal. [CODE Screw them, blast it back to bare rock you penny pinching crack weasels]

I dove through the widow with a lunge as the first charge went off in the mess hall. Charges went off in every barracks, mecha bay, and the landing pad. All our possessed pilots, techs, and infantry were blasted to a fine paste. When the ammo cooked off, the vast organic computers that had grown beside the HQ to control the Yoram horde were blasted into a fine pink mist. I just stayed on the ground until stuff was done falling from the sky and napped until the Shogunate cleansing team responded to the explosions. Only I was so completely screwed up by long term stim addiction that I registered as a full on Yoram Zombie to the brain scanners, only I could be awoken by simply applying fifty ounces of coffee to my semi-connected brain cells into a fit of suicidally stupid genius to blow up my own base to stop the Yoram plague and save the world. If I wasn’t a stim junkie, you would all by Yoram slaves right now. My addiction saved you all, so refill my coffee and thank me for my service you poor uncaffinated fools.

John T Mainer 28840

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