[The Grid] Chatper 1: Hardwired

[Persell]

Early March in Nags Head North Carolina is almost unrecognizable compared to the height of summer. Without the tourists, their SUVs and minivans, and the hundred thousand screaming children who come within, Nags Head is almost a ghost town. The population is a fraction of the summer peaks, and strip malls that line Croatan Highway go dark with the setting sun. When storms whip the cold ocean against the shore, few people care. Now, on a Thursday evening two hours after sunset, the tide is high and the breakers crash almost to the dunes without any help at all. Underneath them is several hundred feet of clean sandy beach, but only the sand crabs appreciate it. Two men in oddly formal black suits are standing on a wooden walkway that provides private beach access to one of the large rental houses, empty now as it waits for summer. The two gentlemen, who have eschewed removing their opaque sunglasses in the gloomy night, are talking very calmly, though their conversation seems to be oddly truncated.


"The certainty is above eighty seven percent. It is more than enough for a strike," one says.


"Yet in light of area seven, production is down one quarter across the board. Additional reductions will not be taken well," the other counters. There are no distinguishing characteristics between them. Both men are large, athletic types, who speak in clipped expressionless tones. Their detachment indicates the conflict between them is procedural, not personal. Nothing is. In fact, their natures are sterile to the point that individual names no longer apply. The first is of a class referred to as Red, and the second is Green.


"The failure of area seven does not push us into pre-catastrophic shut-down. Broad, thorough strikes are still acceptable," the Red points out.


"My division has no desire to enter pre-catastrophic protocols at all. A surgical team will suffice."


"Division One may not accept that."


"Your director is encouraged to discuss the matter with ours." The Blue's tone indicates he is not making offer, but drawing attention to a preexisting matter. This startling moment of expressiveness is noted by the Red.


There is a moment of silence. It would appear tense if either party had the slightest signs of unease. But they are as calm as alabaster statues in ebon silk. The Red representative of Division One reaches up and cradles his ear for a moment. Afterwords he says, "The matter has been forwarded to him. How long until the surgical team arrives?"


"Not long. They are in route from the central node. Estimated upload time is seven hours."


"Division One will be watching."


"We encourage it. It is our objective to share successful operational strategies."


If the implications are deigned worthy of notice, neither party acknowledges it with a visible movement. In tandem they mimic the earlier gesture of cradling their ears, and then turn away in opposite directions. The Red walks down the warped old wood of the raised walkway towards the empty house and the city beyond. The other descends the stairway to the narrow strand of beach, and walks along the hardened upper sand to the south. His foot prints are as meaningless as the rest of his physical traces.

 

[Arynne]

On the way home from her job, Erin suddenly burst into tears.


Nobody noticed. Crowded in the bus, people tired from work and dulled by the long rocking sat in indifferent silence.


On the long climb up the stairs to her apartment, she wept again. There was no reason to cry. There had to be a reason. She must be sick. The misery she felt was fear, a wretched panic of fear. She had been crazy to think she could stay back East and build a life for herself. She was too fragile, could never handle it. She sat down at her computer to type a formal letter of resignation to her employers, and an e-mail to her mother admitting her defeat and asking for her forgiveness. But the words would not come. They were all wrong.


Her head ached. She got up to find something to eat. There was nothing in the kitchen cupboards, nothing at all. When had she last eaten? Not at lunchtime. Not in the morning before going to work. Not after getting home last night.


“What the hell is wrong with me?†Erin said to the ceiling. No wonder her head hurt. No wonder she had fits of weeping and panic. She had never in her life forgotten to eat. Even during that last summer, after Leah had left and she couldn’t find a job in the city and her rent was due and she kept getting sick and having to go to the emergency room -- even then she had cooked food and eaten it, forcing it down her throat day after day.


She went back down the stairs, walked ten blocks to the nearest Star-Mart. All the foods were packaged, processed, pre-frozen, convenient. Nothing to cook. The sight of those wrapped rows made her tears break out again. Furious and humiliated, she bought a couple of hot dogs. The man serving was too busy to look at her face.


She stood outside the convenience store, turned away from the cars passing by, and crammed the food in her mouth, forcing herself to swallow, just like before. She would not go back, Erin told herself. She was tougher than that. She would go on. And right now, she had a fencing meet to go to. The classes sponsored by the parks department were poor excuses for lessons after the ones she’d had at college; generally the (mostly younger) students just went at it hammer-and-tongs, while the teachers chatted with one another instead of supervising. Still, it was something to do. Something to keep her mind occupied.


She went back to her apartment, climbed the eight flights of stairs. She thought she’d been lucky to get a top-floor apartment so cheaply. As it turned out, the elevator hadn’t worked for two years.

 

[cyl]

Awakened from the sweet oblivion of his old pals Johnny Walker and painkillers, Brennick wakes up in his room with an uneasy feeling in the back of his mind.


"It's still a dream this life, my life... when the hell am I going to wake up ?!" he says out loud reaching for the ceiling above his head with an open hand.


He gets up in his dirty hotel room, the heat almost suffocating, but he cannot help but to feel cold... realizing he once again slept in his clothes.


After a quick shower of burning water to ease the hangover, he looks at himself in the mirror, so pathetic, so broken, so empty... and he grabs his pills behind the mirror and swallows a couple. "Go to hell" says his reflection in the mirror, "where do you think I am ?!" he answers.


Grabbing his leather jacket he finally decides to hit the street, lights up a smoke and goes for a walk.

 

[lordofthestorm]

Across the country, Kase Wilder was bored out of his mind.


Most of his friends (if you'd call them that) had left for the day, leaving him alone as the twilight sun filtered through the high windows of the student center at his community college. He'd spent most of his class time writing out scenarios in between bouts of note-taking, and it would be some time before he moved on to his Japanese class later in the evening. Most of his family would be currently learning Spanish.


Another reason why he didn't fit in his family. And he hated it.


Eventually, he just gave up, planting his face in the empty notebook in front of him, listening to the sound of his fellow students going about their business or going home.


"I am so frickin' lost..." he mumbled. "Help me out here..."

 

[The Bushranger]

As the waves crashed against the shore, and the final traces of daylight faded to be replaced by the light of the moon, the chill northeast wind blowing spray against the beachfront houses from time to time, Patrick O'Connell, one-time 'field-filler' racing driver turned charter fishing-boat captain, sighed and turned away from the window.


"Won't be too long before the whip-poor-wills arrive," he mused quietly, as he set the coffeemaker to perking, and flipped on the radio to get the weather report and morning forecast. Then it'll be spring, Hopefully the hurricane season won't be too bad.


Grabbing a frying pan from the cabinet, he pondered the cupboard, then the fridge, before deciding that a plate of portobello mushrooms would fit the bill for a light dinner, and he started to cook, adding sesame oil to the pan then a bit of seasoning, humming to himself. Hopefully this summer will have a better set of bookings...

 

[Persell]

She stood outside the convenience store, turned away from the cars passing by, and crammed the food in her mouth, forcing herself to swallow, just like before. She would not go back, Erin told herself. She was tougher than that. She would go on. And right now, she had a fencing meet to go to. The classes sponsored by the parks department were poor excuses for lessons after the ones she’d had at college; generally the (mostly younger) students just went at it hammer-and-tongs, while the teachers chatted with one another instead of supervising. Still, it was something to do. Something to keep her mind occupied.
She went back to her apartment, climbed the eight flights of stairs. She thought she’d been lucky to get a top-floor apartment so cheaply. As it turned out, the elevator hadn’t worked for two years.

The 'fencing' class would have been more accurately named 'meaningless flailing' but that wouldn't have allowed the high schoolers to get a PE credit for it. It's held in the early evenings for the young'uns but that time is already passed. As Erin throws a precooked dinner into the microwave and sets the power level to 'Bikini Atoll' her answering machines starts clicking. She doesn't remember if the phone just rang and she ignored it, or she pressed the play button. Upset as she is, it hardly matters.


"Hi, Erin, it's Jake." Jake is one of the instructors at the class. He's an odd guy. Clearly the best of the teachers, he's good enough to compete and yet doesn't. Every now and then he'll take a student aside and give instruction on the subtler points. She hasn't seen him around in almost a month. "Amanda, Carl, Zaid and I," he lists the names of the more serious instructors and students. "have decided to start a second class for the more advanced students. We're going to be holding later, and it will be an adult's only thing. We'd love to have you join us. We're at the gym now, and should be getting started soon. Hope to see you."


The machine clicks and goes silent. Next to it the microwave dings, a cheerful chirp that draws the eyes left to the blinking green LED. Next to that is the pile of fencing equipment, all neatly sorted and stacked. The face guard sits on a bust of Socrates, weeping, but behind the grill, his distress is completely concealed.

 

[Persell]

Awakened from the sweet oblivion of his old pals Johnny Walker and painkillers, Brennick wakes up in his room with an uneasy feeling in the back of his mind.
"It's still a dream this life, my life... when the hell am I going to wake up ?!" he says out loud reaching for the ceiling above his head with an open hand.


He gets up in his dirty hotel room, the heat almost suffocating, but he cannot help but to feel cold... realizing he once again slept in his clothes.


After a quick shower of burning water to ease the hangover, he looks at himself in the mirror, so pathetic, so broken, so empty... and he grabs his pills behind the mirror and swallows a couple. "Go to hell" says his reflection in the mirror, "where do you think I am ?!" he answers.


Grabbing his leather jacket he finally decides to hit the street, lights up a smoke and goes for a walk.

The stupid streetlights aren't working again. It's very dark out, either long after sunset or long before sunrise. Either way the streets are very quiet. As Brennick strolls along the overhead lights go out, one by one, and stay dark behind him. That happens at least twice a week in this town. Apparently it happens to other people too. Someone was complaining about it in the liquor store earlier today. Or maybe that was yesterday. It couldn't have been before that, because he only bought a fifth. The aggravation of the dim lighting is swept into the background of his mind as the sort-of-cop realizes that he has absolutely no idea what day it is, nor the week with any certainty. Muttering, a self pat down reveals little, no information, not nearly enough money, and a dirty slip of paper with an address.


1543 Post Ave


Below that is scrawled 'JUST PAST MILE 12' in what Bennick recognizes as his drunk writing. After a moment of dim, uncomprehending staring, the memory that this was the place Capt. Winters wanted you to check out for him surfaces. Residents, pets, occupancy status, that sort of thing. Winters probably just gave it to you to be sure you hadn't died. But it should probably get done today. Unless it was supposed to be done yesterday. Dammit, what week is this?

 

[Persell]

Across the country, Kase Wilder was bored out of his mind.
Most of his friends (if you'd call them that) had left for the day, leaving him alone as the twilight sun filtered through the high windows of the student center at his community college. He'd spent most of his class time writing out scenarios in between bouts of note-taking, and it would be some time before he moved on to his Japanese class later in the evening. Most of his family would be currently learning Spanish.


Another reason why he didn't fit in his family. And he hated it.


Eventually, he just gave up, planting his face in the empty notebook in front of him, listening to the sound of his fellow students going about their business or going home.


"I am so frickin' lost..." he mumbled. "Help me out here..."

Oddly enough, an answer comes immediately. Like a stoned angel Won plops down into the chair next to Kase and fixes him with bloodshot eyes. "Dude. Coffee? You fly, I buy?"

 

[Arynne]

"...We're at the gym now, and should be getting started soon. Hope to see you."
The machine clicks and goes silent. Next to it the microwave dings, a cheerful chirp that draws the eyes left to the blinking green LED. Next to that is the pile of fencing equipment, all neatly sorted and stacked. The face guard sits on a bust of Socrates, weeping, but behind the grill, his distress is completely concealed.

The next few minutes are a mad scramble to change into the stiff white jacket, light underarm protector and short trousers while taking hasty, tongue-scalding mouthfuls of overcooked Swedish meatballs. She stuffs the glove and heavy mask into the old ditty bag that once belonged to her grandfather, grabs the thinner, rectangular bag that holds her sabre, and flees her apartment, barely remembering to lock the door. Halfway down the sidewalk she realizes she has forgotten her chest protector, and, cursing, goes all the way back up the stairs to fetch it.


As Erin hurries to the gym, she remembers her first fencing lesson, more than five years ago, and what preceded it: Laszlo, her instructor, demonstrated the basic en garde position, made her stand in front of a practice target, sword in hand, and then left her alone for a time. Just as her muscles began to ache and sweat to bead on her forehead, there came a sharp bang! from directly behind her. She swung round, flailing the sword wildly, only to see a chuckling Laszlo, who had leapt back a safe distance the moment he burst the paper bag. Later that morning, he told her that she would be studying the sabre.


How she quailed, upon hearing that pronouncement! She, the shy, uncertain girl, always on the defensive, both on the fencing strip and off, was to learn the most aggressive type of fencing! But Laszlo only laughed again, upon hearing her timid protestations.


"My girl, there's a saying I learned from my own teacher: If you want to find out about fencers, creep up behind one as they face a practice target and burst a balloon behind their back. The foilist will immediately attack the target. The epeeist will stand their ground, immobile, but alert. But a sabreur...ah! A true sabreur will spin round and assault you."


At the time, she had accepted it on faith, as she accepted everything Laszlo said. But now, remembering the way she had let the best opportunities pass her by, time and time again, Erin wonders if he had known what he was talking about at all.

 

[cyl]

Brennick breathes heavily, is it the cold, the smoke, deficient lung, or simply the uneasy feeling that his life is now a mirror shattered to little pieces of glass, each of which reflects the world around him expressing nothing but emptiness.


He looks for his car... or at least try to walk the last memory of himself stepping out of it and going "home", and his instinct does the rest.


The smell of urine, human sweat, filth and dirt are too familiar and too strong to forget, even as wasted as he is at the end of the day.


His black Chevrolet is patiently waiting him, like an old abandoned dog quietly waiting in the same spot where he was left behind hoping its master will come back for him. The car and the jacket were the last remnants of his now so distant past blissful life, everything else had burned.


He steps into the car and feels a burst of nostalgy and barely holds himself together.


The he grabs a nearby metal flask filled with scotch in the glove compartment, and takes a sip, lighting up another smoke and turn the engine on to pretend being a cop, being alive and awake, for another day.

 

[Persell]

Grabbing a frying pan from the cabinet' date=' he pondered the cupboard, then the fridge, before deciding that a plate of portobello mushrooms would fit the bill for a light dinner, and he started to cook, adding sesame oil to the pan then a bit of seasoning, humming to himself. [i']Hopefully this summer will have a better set of bookings...[/i]

The radio prattles on to the aroma of cooking mushrooms. The business section of the evening news winds down with nothing of interest, which may be good news by itself, when one of the evening commentators begins talking about local events. There was a craft fair downtown that raised several thousand dollars for local kids to visit Washington DC. An atheist group put up a billboard outside of town, and several local residents are giving their reactions. They're the usual assortment of overly opinionated buffoons radio and TV love to question because each of them hates the billboard for reasons that make no sense. If it went up just to bother these morons, that might be okay with you.


When the mushrooms are done and you're searching around for some kind of sauce, the station turns to less pleasant current events. An old woman who lived alone on the south end of town went missing. She was a shut in for years, and no one recalls the last time they've seen her. There is no sign of foul play, and police are concerned she wandered off after her mental state degraded. Tragic, really. You find some white wine that looks like it hasn't started to evolve into sentient life yet, and pour a glass.


Also in the news was that a local man had his garage vandalized today. It happened between eight and nine, which is impressively current as it's only eight twelve now. Some tools were stolen, as well as the man's prize vehicle. You wince appreciatively, because that would really, really suck. In fact, you're so wrapped up in your personal immersion into the pain of what would happen if someone stole your prize car that you almost miss the address, 1543 Post Ave.


But you don't. And an instant later, the following thought of 'That's MY address.' hits you. The mushrooms look tasty on their plate.

 

[Persell]

The he grabs a nearby metal flask filled with scotch in the glove compartment, and takes a sip, lighting up another smoke and turn the engine on to pretend being a cop, being alive and awake, for another day.

The scotch tastes funny. Good but funny. Through your overly medicated haze, it takes you several minutes to determine the subtle differences. There are two.


First, it's hot. Second, it's black coffee.


You puff suspiciously on the cigarette, insuring it hasn't been replaced with bubble-gum or, god forbid, a clove, but the sweet taste of Marlboro's finest hits you like glorious cancer.

 

[The Bushranger]

Patrick O'Connell


...what the heck...?!


As the realisation of the address mentioned in the crime report sinks in, Patrick manages to avoid dropping the wineglass, the ancient wine being from the only good bottle he has left, setting it on the table, instead, and going to stand, pushing back the barstool quietly.


This must be some sort of practical joke, his mind continues, as he tries to think of just who might pull such a thing...and crosses the floor with quiet steps, unlocking the cabinet in the old, junk-store roll-top desk, and producing one of the few shiny, valuable items he owns (aside from the boat and car, anyway) - a Beretta .45.


Along with a flashlight.


And then he crosses to the electrical service panel, reaching to flip off the main breaker, to plunge the house into darkness...before heading, attempting to be as quiet as possible, torwards the garage. Gun in one hand, flashlight in the other. Intending to throw open the garage door and use the flashlight to blind any potential trespassers in its beam!


Not sure if a roll is needed or not. And if it is, I hope I've got it right how to do it...


Anyway. (Dexterity + Stealth) = 4d10 → [8,2,7,6]

 

[lordofthestorm]

Kase looked up at Won.


"Dude. I'm surprised you managed to get here, looking like that...ah, whatever," he grabbed his notebook and flipped it closed and stuffed the pen away, picking up his bag. "Coffee, hm? Alright."

 

[cyl]

Brennick savors both the coffee and the smoke, they help him reach some clarity and anihilate his smell and taste for a while... one less sense constantly aggressed by the oppressing reality surrounding him.


He drives slowly to the direction indicated by Winters... who knows, with some luck maybe someone will finally shot him dead today and he would not have to wake up tomorrow still wondering what day it is.


The simple thought of the blissful ignorance of this lingering splinter in his mind almost makes him hopeful.


Soon he arrives at the Mile 12 and looks around while driving, scratching his five days beard searching for the 1543 Post Ave.

 

[Persell]

Erin

At the time, she had accepted it on faith, as she accepted everything Laszlo said. But now, remembering the way she had let the best opportunities pass her by, time and time again, Erin wonders if he had known what he was talking about at all.

The class has barely begun by the time Erin arrives, breathless the run. Jake looks up and hits her with his welcoming grin before returning to drawing the various practice apparatus from the closet where it is stored. Carl and Zaid are laughing with each other while they stretch out. Carl is a strong gentlemen of late middle age who stays in the pack with those twenty years his junior. Either he made a deal with the devil, or he leads an amazingly healthy life. Zaid is one of those twenty years his younger. With skin black as pitch, he's a first generation Rwandan immigrant and speaks with a heavy accent. He lacks Carl's forceful aggression, but compensates with an oblique attack style. Only a lack of confidence keeps him from truly capitalizing on his advantages.


Amanda is suiting up with a woman you've never met. She's a small one, Amanda. Not even five feet tall, she weighs perhaps a buck twenty in all her gear. She's a speed demon though. You've seen her dance like a butterfly during footwork drills, and she takes a downright unnatural delight in poking holes in weak defenses. The woman next to her is somewhat taller, about average height and weight, and has old, worn gear. Either she's an old pro or broke. She's got friendly blue eyes, and her hands go about the business of assembling her protective suit with casual grace. Probably an old pro, you'd guess.


Once the dummies are ready Jake emerges. He hasn't bothered to suit up, which means the session will mostly be drills. Good and mind-numbing, you'd expect. You'll sleep well tonight.


"All right, boys and girls. Toes on the line please. We're going to start with spacing practice. Leave your foils, you won't need them with me. Erin, you're with me. Everybody ready?"


It isn't long before sweat soaks your chest protector, and tentacles of your hair wrap your face like seaweed. It feels amazing though. You haven't actually been pushed this hard in months.

 

[Persell]

Kase

Kase looked up at Won.
"Dude. I'm surprised you managed to get here, looking like that...ah, whatever," he grabbed his notebook and flipped it closed and stuffed the pen away, picking up his bag. "Coffee, hm? Alright."

Won follows you outside and falls into step beside you. He's an odd guy. He consumes both non-medicinal pharmaceuticals and coffee in quantities that can only accurately be described with euphemistic terms involving profanity. At one time he had an art scholarship but he basically pissed it away his first year. Now he's marking time in the same pointless existence you are. At some level he deserves it though, for he didn't have to be here and could leave at any point. You've seen him free hand with pencils on notebook paper. Even through an addled haze, the man drips skill.


The Green Bean is only a couple miles down the street. The walk is pleasant now that evening is on Palm Springs, and you see the glowing lights like a warm beacon. Won is urging you to finally learn to drive and get a license, mostly so you can drive him around, which is a tired old topic. He has his license, but no one will ride with him for some reason. It's a mystery.


Halfway there you two are waiting at a crosswalk when you see a beat up old pickup cruise through a red light without even slowing down. Completely unnoticed is the semi-truck that's cruising along through it's green. It happens so quickly you're not sure the pickup driver even knows what hits him before the collision.


The rusty white chevy simply shatters around the cab's nose. Bolts sheer, metal tears, and the engine block crashes out of the hood to go rolling down the street while the bed flips up and slams into the cab. It throws the driver sideways and yanks the wheel, forcing the entire thing to pivot hard to the left, away from you. This is good except the trailer is still moving forward. The fifth wheel crumples and snaps, the trailer careens over the tail of the cab and gets airborne, rotating until it slams into a brick wall above and behind your head. Then it smashes down and slides along the sidewalk, directly towards you.


OOC


The trailer isn't coming fast, resulting in One success on a default attack roll, but being better than forty feet long it's undodgeable without a stunt. I would encourage you to dodge in some way.


Basically, you're at a four-way intersection. There are two or three story brick and mortar buildings on each corner. The truck was coming along the main drag, and the pickup blew through a blind corner.

 

[Persell]

]Patrick O'Connell

And then he crosses to the electrical service panel, reaching to flip off the main breaker, to plunge the house into darkness...before heading, attempting to be as quiet as possible, torwards the garage. Gun in one hand, flashlight in the other. Intending to throw open the garage door and use the flashlight to blind any potential trespassers in its beam!

The house is raised on stilts so that when the storms come in it won't flood. This is unfortunately not the case for the detached garage. It's on a two foot rise of concrete, about twenty feet from the front door. There's a set of stairs leading down to the lawn that you just had fixed ($1200) that doesn't creak as you creep down.


There are lights on in your garage. From this perspective you can't see if the main sliding door is open, but the smaller door is certainly closed. There are noises coming from within, that sound suspiciously like your tool box being emptied into something.

 

[Arynne]

All right, boys and girls. Toes on the line please. We're going to start with spacing practice. Leave your foils, you won't need them with me. Erin, you're with me. Everybody ready?"
It isn't long before sweat soaks your chest protector, and tentacles of your hair wrap your face like seaweed. It feels amazing though. You haven't actually been pushed this hard in months.

Vision blurred, head pounding, Erin advances, lunges, retreats over and over, trying to keep the space between her feet at just the right breadth, holding her right hand outstretched even as her wrist aches from too much tension. Every other moment she thinks, I've got to stop. I can't do this anymore! I can't- and the next moment, she finds she can. It is as though the day's frustrations have created a bubble, and at some point in the evening the bubble has popped. And the peeling of the bubble falls back like the petals of an opening bud...


Just as she really is tingling all over with exhaustion, Jake calls a break. She lurches over to one of the wooden benches that line the wall, sinks down upon it, and reaches with an unsteady hand for her water bottle. What was that?

 

[The Bushranger]

Patrick O'Connell


Grumbling to himself about needing to rewire the house and garage next, Patrick edges closer to the garage, debating his next move as he hurries across the lawn, leaning up against the side of the garage next to the door.


Making his decision, he reaches for his pocket, then mentally curses at discovering his keys are nicely back on their peg in the house. Ah well. A lock is cheaper than tools and a car, he muses. Reaching to check the side doorknob...


((next action depends on if the door is locked or not))

 

[Persell]

Patrick


The door is open but locked. The handle won't turn at all. After a moment you realize it's because the door was deadbolted shut, but someone went at it with a crow bar. Now the old wooden frame is mangled ($60) and the door itself is hanging crooked on its hinges. It will swing, but at the angle it's resting at you're going to have to give it a hard shove to get in.

 

[Persell]

Just as she really is tingling all over with exhaustion, Jake calls a break. She lurches over to one of the wooden benches that line the wall, sinks down upon it, and reaches with an unsteady hand for her water bottle. What was that?

As Erin glances around, too fatigued to keep moving she notices the usual signs of weariness in those she knows. But something odd strikes her briefly, and is gone. (OOC: Perception + Awareness please)


The water is cool, not cold, and refreshing. It goes down quickly, and you instantly feel better. Jake switches up the partners, and sets in on less intense exercises. Some feinting, rote repetition of positions, and a little balance work. It's all stuff you can do in the other class, but no one takes it seriously there. Sad, really, because the basic drills are the foundation of true skill. This goes on until the last fifteen minutes of the session, when the gym attendant appears to politely inform everyone that the building will be closing soon. Jake calls a halt and gives you the final assignment. It consists of an advance to the far end of the pitch followed by a rapid repetition of a complex pattern of strikes and feints followed by a retreat to an equally complex pattern, and then repeat. He clicks his stop watch, and then you go.


Later, while divesting yourself of sweaty equipment, the other students get together to congratulate Jake on a good workout. Zaid mentions he can feel 'spiderwebs dusting' and everyone laughs but agrees. It's not until later, sitting in the hallway refilling your water bottle before heading home you have time to think back and wonder what that feeling was.

 

[lordofthestorm]

"Holy-!"


When he was asking for help, he wasn't expecting Won, but that was okay. He could handle a stoned art major. A rolling pickup truck, however, was totally out of left field. The thing wasn't bouncing, so there was no way under it. The only way was away from its collision course, and there were only whatever buildings were nearby. It would have to do.


Grabbing Won by the arm, he took aim at the building next to him and charged, hoping to throw the door open with the triangular part of his shoulder.

 

[Arynne]

Jake calls a halt and gives you the final assignment. It consists of an advance to the far end of the pitch followed by a rapid repetition of a complex pattern of strikes and feints followed by a retreat to an equally complex pattern, and then repeat. He clicks his stop watch, and then you go.

Erin takes her position, left arm crooked in the perfect arc, legs bent for the spring, and commences thrusting, parrying, striving for ever greater speed and accuracy. After the others are spent, she carries on, feeling the tingle of hardening muscles in her calves and arms, the pain melting into added strength.

Later, while divesting yourself of sweaty equipment, the other students get together to congratulate Jake on a good workout. Zaid mentions he can feel 'spiderwebs dusting' and everyone laughs but agrees. It's not until later, sitting in the hallway refilling your water bottle before heading home you have time to think back and wonder what that feeling was.

Surfers believe that somewhere out there rolls the perfect wave; sexologists seek the perfect orgasm; physicists long for everything to be reducible to one equation; executioners once spoke of the perfect hanging. Any skillful activity invites the notion of its distillation into an ideal form. For fencers, this has manifested itself in the quest for the perfect blow.


Erin puts down the bottle and imitates the movement of the saber with her hand, studying her shadow on the wall. Always before, when she tried to fence, freestyle, with her fellow students, she ended up performing the familiar, classical moves that could easily be predicted and avoided by an opponent. Now she begins to see, dimly, that the perfect cut or thrust must be something else. It must be as swift and precise as a shaft of light, unexpected, impossible to parry. But what is it?


((OOC: Results for 5 dice: 3 successes [ 6 7 0 3 6 ] (TN: 7) ))

 

[Neolarthytep]

Robert Maudeville


With a slam of his hand on the table Robert let out a loud curse.


"Shit!"


He had done it again, Robert was never very good at scheming. He flipped his friend across the table the bird. The grand plan he had laid out had fallen once again. He made it to the final three PCs left in the game, but only the last man standing won the title of King. This was his favorite and yet most hated game to play with his friends on their annual beach getaway to the Outerbanks. No matter what every year blood boiled and tempers flared while the 6 friends would play the Game of Thrones, a cleverly stolen title for a most dastardly game created by his friend.


"Kill me if you like... it's just a game after all"


He knew this was the end and that soon he would no longer be in the game. The sound of the waves called for him anyways... well that and the cute Russian girls in the house next door. Robert totally hoped that one of them would be laying on the beach again sunbathing. The other day while walking on the beach checking out one of the beautiful young women Robert had stepped on a shard of glass. He could feel the ache in his foot from where the stitches were placed by the doctor at Nags Head General. He vowed to himself that he wouldn't be so clumsy this time.