[LP CYOA] 傳

[Baltika9]

I'm all for revisiting the story, but I also think this CYOA was suffering from fatigue towards the end so I'd rather try something different before getting back to it.

I absolutely understand where you're coming from, however, this would be a fresh setting. Cyberpunk Wuxia. Hell yeah.
Can't wait to whip our grand-daughters in shape and terrorize their boyfriends.

 

[treave]

The floor is cold, hard, and exceedingly uncomfortable. Your head is pounding. The first fact does not help the second. Not one bit. You open your eyes, staring at the wheel in front of you. As your gaze moves upwards, you realize that it is attached to a metal leg, which itself is attached to a tray. You gradually realize the familiar smell that has been irritating you all this while is that of disinfectant.

It seems that you are in a hospital.

That thought gives you the incentive to get off the floor just a little bit quicker. This place appears to be a ward. There are four beds with blue sheets, separated by privacy curtains. A large window is set into the wall to give the patients the luxury of enjoying the outside view without actually having to venture outside, but you cannot see anything through it. It is entirely dark. Perhaps it is nighttime.Knowing that does not help you any, however: you have no idea when or how you ended up here.

Walking towards the window, you take hold of the handle and push.

Nothing happens. You wonder if the window is stuck.

It does not budge even a fraction no matter how much force you apply, pushing and pulling. Rather than it being stuck, it feels more like the window itself is a fixture. You tap the glass – the sound is weirdly flat – and press your face close to the window, trying to make out anything beyond.

You cannot see anything; it is too dark.

You turn away from the window and a sudden thought strikes you. Patting yourself down, you realize that your cellphone is still in your trousers. You pull it out quickly, pressing the power button. A display lights up and a password screen appears. Easy, you know the password to your phone by heart.

It’s…

Your thumb hovers hesitantly over the touch display.

Strangely enough, you can’t seem to remember the numbers at the moment.

The wallpaper, too, does not seem familiar to you, now that you think about it… but you also do not recall the wallpaper that you had.

Well, when in doubt, it’s simple. You key in the numbers.

1234.

That would usually do it… no, it doesn’t. An error screen taunts you for your lack of effort. Frowning, you put the phone away for now. Maybe the password will come to you later. You noticed that there was a distinct lack of signal bars from the lockscreen anyway – you wouldn’t be able to call anyone even if you managed to unlock it.

There does not seem to be anything else of interest in the ward; nothing to explain how you got here. The pillows and beds appear normal, for a hospital – which is to say that they are uncomfortable enough that you would not like to bring one home, but not enough so that you would prefer to have woken upon the cold hard floor instead. The panels above the beds appear to be active; small red lights are lit, and you have a feeling that if you press the call button it would ring the buzzer at the nearby nurse station. It would probably be more polite to go out and find one, though, rather than calling them in to explain matters.

Gripping the handle, you push open the door tentatively and poke your head out.

The hallway is well lit but there is no one in sight. Here, as inside the ward, the sharp scent of disinfectant nestles in your nostrils.

“Hello?” you call out, but nobody is around to answer you. This is strange. Even in a less-populated ward in the wee hours, there should be at least a nurse or two walking around, if only to keep an eye on things. Looking around, you see that you are in ward 201. The plates that indicate the names of the patients inhabiting the ward are blank. A sign on the wall directly opposite you tells you that the nurse station is just ahead. You head towards it – perhaps they are sleeping on the job. It would not be a surprise.

You round the corner.

There is no one on duty – the chairs are empty. You suddenly realize that the hospital feels very cold… though you have no way to tell whether it is the lack of human warmth or lousy air-conditioning. Still perplexed at the situation, you walk behind the counter of the nurse station. At least there are wired phones that you can use – even if there is no signal on your mobile phone, landlines would work. You reach for the receiver.

A piercing, terrible ringing goes off.

You jump slightly, startled. Though you think it is coming from the phone at first, you quickly realize that is not the case. Casting your gaze around wildly, you find that a large red light is blinking quickly to attract your attention. Besides it is a number: 201. A buzzer has just been pressed in the empty room that you left.

***

A. Turn back and investigate room 201. Someone might have snuck in there while you went to the nurse station. You need answers.

B. Chalk it up to a mechanical fault, try to ignore the buzzer, and pick up the phone. You need to try and call out.

C. Run. Something is terribly wrong here. You don’t want to stay in this place any longer.

 

[treave]

So, choices for the next LP.

A. Generations. Play as scions of an ancient family embroiled in a secret occult war through the generations, in a story spanning two hundred years...

B. Hero. You are a newly registered superhero, in a city full of superheroes better than you. Wacky hijinks and villainous plots abound as you hero your way to the top.

C. Spiral. Waking up in an abandoned hospital with twelve strangers, you attempt to find a way out by solving strange mysteries. The hospital spirals into ever increasing madness... can you survive?

Votes will stay open indefinitely until I feel like starting the next one.

 

[Baltika9]

A- Cthulhu.
B- Hobo Rider.
C- Hospital.

Votan A>B.

 

[LWC1996]

Hell yeah I'm voting C!!

 

[Tigranes]

A > C.

 

[Nevill]

C.

 

[Kipeci]

C! Though, I think I'm going to do terribly with making those numbers turn into something useful... ah well.

 

[Baltika9]

Votes will stay upon indefinitely until I feel like starting the next one.

Which one would you feel like starting sooner?

Spoiler

 

[Esquilax]

Definitely A. The introduction that treave posted of this earlier had me hooked.

 

[Baltika9]

Definitely A. The introduction that treave posted of this earlier had me hooked.

To keep ourselves from forgetting:

First, an old sample for one of the possible options. Some of you may have read this before.

***

Prologue: The Founder’s Decision

Berestovo, Kiev.

July 15th, 1015.

It was summer, yet the breeze was wintry. The falling sun was pale and dim, its light a diseased yellow rather than the brilliant orange that the Mercenary had come to expect from his sunsets. As the shadows crept over the small monastery of Berestovo, the bells began to clang, signalling the advent of twilight. Tekke shook his white mane at the sound, stamping his hooves. The Arabian stallion’s temperament was not helped by the weather. Calming his horse down, the Mercenary sniffed the crisp, cold air. He had not been this far north since he was a boy. He thought the environment would have agreed with him, brought him a sense of nostalgia, but it all felt wrong.

“Do you sense it too, boy?” The old man besides him gave him a gap-toothed grin, his tanned skin turned leathery by years of the desert sun. That was a far different sun from the one that was slinking off to hide above their heads right now… a sun blazing fierce and strong. How long has it been since the Mercenary was that far south? Ten years, perhaps. Maybe less.

“You are only twice my age, Mahmud. Yes, I can feel it.” The Mercenary muttered thinly, his eyes scanning the dirt-paved streets. He felt it alright; the black rot underneath the earth, its stink slowly permeating through the ground till it stained the very air they breathed. Ever since his encounter with the Al-Azif in the sandy ruins, he had been cursed with the Sight, weak though it may be. The mad ones said that those with the Sight would be able to see the future, peer into dreams, and discern the thoughts of others. All he got out of the bargain was the ability to sense madness.

Some bargain.

Mahmud prodded his donkey onwards, towards the monastery. “Then be prepared. Come. Young Bretislaus is waiting for us. The Grand Prince is dying and already the vultures circle his open grave.”

“Typical.” The Mercenary snorted, following suit on Tekke. “He throws away the old gods and invites the Christos into his rule, and now on his deathbed he loses his faith in the immortality that they promise.”

Mahmud let out a small sigh. “What use is immortality, my friend? There is nothing awaiting men after their passing. You and I both know that. Nothing, too, in our living future, except the eternal mocking laughter and cruelty of the gods that dwell in the stars. To leave this mortal coil is to escape their attention. One could wish for nothing more.”

The Mercenary peered at Mahmud with some concern. He had not heard the man speak in such a manner even once since the day they met. “Are you alright, Mahmud? You almost sound… defeated.”

“I sound old. Twice your age is a long time to live surrounded by the madness and chaos of the Black Pharaoh’s servants.”

The Mercenary’s glance fell upon the faded tattoo on Mahmud’s wrinkled wrist. The inverted ankh still marked him. The old man caught the Mercenary’s glance and shifted away, turning the tattoo from his sight. Joviality returned to his expression, wiping out the despair that had laid itself bare on his face for a brief moment.

“Hah!” laughed Mahmud, a cackling, guttural noise crawling from the depths of his throat. “Look at me. I’m rambling. Next you will call me the Mad Arab reincarnated! That is another form of immortality of the spirit as espoused by the Eastern religions, different from what the Christ-worshippers desire.” He coughed, gripping tightly onto the reins of the donkey. “In the end, though, an eternal spirit does nothing for an ailing conquerer who has partook deeply of the sinful pleasures and joys in life. Hailing God forever and ever in the glory of His heaven? No, that is not for a man like Vladimir. I know his sort. Making flesh immortal is a far better temptation, no?”

At that moment, Bretislaus rode up, hailing them and saving the Mercenary from having to discuss the philosophy of immortality with Mahmud. The bastard son of Duke Olrich of Bohemia was strapping even at the age of fourteen, almost the size of a full-grown man. Even at such a youthful age he had already developed a reputation as an adventurer, diving into matters of Bohemia’s concern – and plenty that were not. If the Mercenary ever had cause to wonder why he was all the way up here in Kievan Rus, he only had to look at Bretislaus to remember it.

The boy paid well. Really, really well.

“We need to get moving now,” said Bretislaus as he reined his horse back. “The monks have already been captured and bound. The cult must be stopped before it’s too late!”

“Slow down for a second, my lord,” gestured the Mercenary. “I suppose negotiations have failed?”

“He would not even listen to me. Luckily my father rates highly enough that they would not lay hands on me lightly. Prince Svyatopolk was there too, though he left before I did.” Bretislaus grimaced, reddening at the memory of his diplomatic failure.

The Mercenary raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Prince Yaroslav told us that his brother was at Vyshgorod. What was he doing here?”

Bretislaus shook his head. “I don’t know, but he is probably with the heathen bastards. He was speaking with their witch. I tried to tell them that Yaroslav was not plotting for his throne but only the cult has his ears now. Grand Prince Vladimir is convinced that attaining immortality through their false god is the only way to settle his unfinished earthly matters.”

“An excuse, one of many,” said Mahmud. “He will find such words coming easily to his mouth to justify whatever he does from now on, if he survives the night.”

“How many cultists were there?” asked the Mercenary.

Bretislaus murmured some numbers softly before giving the answer. “Fourteen in total. Five in the courtyard. Nine with the Grand Prince. They have daggers and axes. Some have bows. Do you fancy our odds?” He did not, but he was being paid to even these odds, and the young Bohemian heir’s knowing stare told him as much. The Mercenary nodded. He had faced worse odds in the field after all, battling against the Lombards and the Normans in southern Italy. The Varangian Guard entered the fray where the fighting was fiercest. Back to back with his brethren, they slew all comers, reaping glory with every head they took. But that was then, back in the prime of his youth. This was now, when the only ones he had by his side were an old Arab and a youth barely grown enough to grow stubble.

The shadows deepened as the sun finally dropped below the horizon. There was nothing more to be said. Whether for glory, or for money, he would have to go. Whether he died, or he lived, it would not be said that he shied away from a job that he had taken. The Mercenary rode forth, spurring Tekke on. As they approached the monastery he saw that the gates were not closing, despite the cultists’ increasingly panicked attempts to do so.

“I jammed them,” grinned Bretislaus mischievously, looking every bit his age.

The Mercenary gave him a slight smile of approval and charged through the archway. The yellow-robed cultists were fumbling with their weapons – they were just peasant rabble with little experience in war. One of them, standing in the Mercenary’s path like frozen prey, stared blankly while his fingers trembled nervously around his bowstring. Tekke reared back on his hind hooves and stamped his forelegs down on the cultist in front of him. The Mercenary could hear the splintering of the bowman’s bones. He dismounted and quickly pushed his dagger between the stricken cultist’s ribs to finish him off. There was a yell from Bretislaus as he hacked into another cultist with his sword. The boy could handle himself well, thought the Mercenary, and turned his attention towards the others. He hefted a throwing axe in his hand, testing the weight, and hurled it overhand. The axe spun true, embedding itself in a cultist’s skull with a sickening crack.

Drawing his great dane axe, the Mercenary let out a howling battle cry. He felt the familiar fury grow inside his chest. Shield up, he sprinted towards his next target. The cultist let fly a few arrows which missed their mark entirely; his hands were shivering from fear and adrenaline. Not so for the Mercenary; hot and cold his fury raged, but always he kept it under control. It was a tool, not who he was. Up close, the Mercenary could taste the tangible stink of corruption nestled in the man’s twisted heart. With a swipe of his shield he tore the bow from the cultist’s arms, leaving him wide open for the axe that would bury itself in his torso. His blow almost tore the man in two. With a strong jerk, the Mercenary ripped his axe from the soon-to-be corpse’s body, its entrails spilling onto the dusty ground. He turned the same movement into a circular swing, whirling around to chop into the cultist running at him from behind. The dane axe bit into the man’s neck, cutting through meat, gristle and bone with equal ease. The head parted ways from the body, trailing a brief spurt of arterial blood to mark their separation.

And just like that, it was over. Walking over to one of the corpses, the Mercenary bent over and plucked the throwing axe from the cultist’s split skull. Bretislaus jogged over to the Mercenary, his sword stained with the blood of his kill. He was panting slightly from his exertions.

“That was excellent work,” said the young dukeling. “Where did you learn to fight like that? You remind me of a Varangian I saw once.”

“No time to pat each other on the back, my boys.” Mahmud stepped into the courtyard over the bodies of the recently departed, a small dagger in his right hand. He had the good sense to stay out of the way during a fight.

They made their way forward, into the halls of the monastery itself. Here the Mercenary found that the rot had taken hold, almost choking in its thickness. The corridors were lighted but there was no one to be seen. Nothing to be heard, too; the usual chanting of the monks was absent. The only sound was from their echoing footsteps on the polished slabs of stone. When they reached the inner cloister, they stopped.

“Is it too late?” asked the Mercenary. The old man shook his head, pointing at the stairs leading downwards into the earth. Down there lay the source of the black corruption, the Mercenary knew. The both of them averted their gazes from the flayed monks hanging from the cloister’s beams, their bodies twisted into circles. Bretislaus, on the other hand, could not help but stare, his gaze transfixed by the bloody and raw bodies of people he had just seen whole not an hour before. They still wriggled in their bonds, their mouths opening in silent screams. Their throats had been carefully exposed and their vocal cords taken out. Suspended in such a position they could still breathe, but not for long. They would slowly suffocate to death while suffering the pain of their exposed flesh.

“This arrangement…” muttered Mahmud. “This is worse than I feared. The stars were right, but I thought my brethren broke these cultists and scattered their strength. These ones we face serve a great power. My friend, we must stop them. This is not just about gold or glory anymore.”

“Saving the world, Mahmud? You have never been concerned about that.”

The Mercenary felt Mahmud grip his arm in a frenzy in response. “This isn’t about being heroic, this is survival! These are the circles of the gate! The Grand Prince has been tricked into becoming a vessel, and should he open we are all doomed. Even if I would not live ten years to the day, I am not keen on having it end in some god’s maw.”

With a sigh, the Mercenary pried Mahmud’s fingers away. “I will do so, Mahmud. Calm down. You are not acting yourself today.”

The old Arab twitched away, attempting to settle his agitation. “Yes, yes, you are right. We must move quickly, nevertheless.”

“Can we cut them down before that?” asked Bretislaus, subdued by the horrific sight.

The Mercenary shook his head. “We have no time. My lord, you need to ride now to Prince Yaroslav and tell him of what you witnessed here. Let him know his brother Svyatopolk was here.”

“But-“

“My lord, you hired me to be your swordarm and confidante on this little adventure. I say this from experience – what we are about to face will not be anything you can help with. Your concerns are with Bohemia’s wellbeing. Go to Prince Yaroslav now.” The Mercenary made his point firmly, one hand clasped on his axe’s haft.

Bretislaus frowned, his brow creasing as he fought against his innate desire to remain and his duty to Bohemia. Duty won out and he nodded, his shoulders slumping. “If an undead Grand Prince does not arise to terrorize us all over the next week, you will receive riches beyond your imagining,” he promised. “I will see to that.” With that, he gave them a stiff nod and ran off.

“Well, we’ve gotten rid of the dukeling,” sighed Mahmud. “Unfortunately our own task is far more burdensome.”

“There’s nothing more to it,” the Mercenary shrugged. “We will do it. We have no choice.”

Down into the depths they went, the Mercenary and the old man. The stench of rotting flesh grew ever stronger as they descended. The carved stairs winding its way into the bowels of the earth turned into unpolished rock, and then into nothing more than a steep, rocky decline. Their way was lit only by the flickering torches that only seemed all too fragile against the darkness that assailed from all sides. At those depths, the Mercenary lost all track of time. He sped up his footsteps as much as he could, but he could not remember how far they had travelled, or how long. All that kept him moving forward was a soft chanting that had been carried up the stairs some time ago, growing louder with every step he took.

“…Yi…nash…”

He continued to descend, Mahmud scraping along behind him.

“…throdog…”

“What language is that, Mahmud? Do you know?”

Mahmud did not respond, instead prodding him to keep on moving.

“…nash…”

The Mercenary reached the bottom; the passageway opened out into a chamber, bright but unlit by any torches. Starlight appeared to illuminate the entire hall instead. Here they found the remaining cultists laying on the floor, their bodies bent into a circle in the rituals of their worship. On an altar at the center of the chamber lay the aged body of the Grand Prince, naked and wrinkled. A full-bodied woman sat atop him in a similar state of undress, copulating sensuously with the old ruler. Her red hair floated as if it were real fire in the starlight.

Witch. The Mercenary cursed. He knew her; he knew her. Every detail of her curves and every memory of her touch. If it were not for her… he would not be here right now. Theodora would not have decreed his exile from Constantinople.

The cultists continued to chant a single phrase, repeating it as the red-haired woman worked herself into a frenzy, her chest rising and falling rapidly while the Grand Prince groaned in ecstasy.

“Yi-nash-he-lgeb-fi-throdog-Yah… Yi-nash-he-lgeb-fi-throdog-Yah!”

The Mercenary rushed forward, kicking the cultists aside as he raised his dane axe. Then, Vladimir the Great shuddered. The woman smiled wickedly, her red lips touching the old man’s ear as she whispered the secrets of the universe to complete the ritual.

“There is no time!” screamed Mahmud.

The Grand Prince’s body bloated, as if there were spheres growing from within. There was a flash of blinding light and for a moment the Mercenary thought that he could see past, present and future, all as one. For a moment, he saw the depths of despair that awaited man, where their only fate was to be food and playthings for the ancient deities that would awaken and ravage all existence. For a moment, he witnessed great towers being thrown down by even greater giants that rose from the oceans, as men screamed and died in pitch black streets. For a moment, he wavered. Then, he screamed the battlecry of his ancestors. The Mercenary threw the heavy axe with all his might. It flew, and flew straight, but instead of hitting the Witch, as he had surely intended, it buried itself in the Grand Prince’s neck, almost severing it. There was a loud thud as the axe sank even into the rock that the altar was made of. His eyes widened as a bloody gurgle escaped his lips, red bubbles rising from the cavity of his mouth. The globes stretching his skin appeared to deflate, shrinking as quickly as they had appeared. The cultists screamed and collapsed impotently. The woman shrieked. For the first time, she turned her head towards the Mercenary, finally realizing his presence. Her enraged visage settled just as quickly into a smile so familiar that the Mercenary’s chest twinged in pain.

“Why did you do that?” asked the Witch in a voice as sweet as honey, though her hands were twisted into claws that dug deep into the Grand Prince’s corpse. “Did you know how much I had to sacrifice to get this close to my goal?”

“We know all too well, Witch!” shouted Mahmud, as he came to my side. “I had not expected that you would escape the purge, and that you would be able to gain access to one of the lineage in time. But it is over now. You have lost.”

“We have not lost,” said the Witch coyly in that same saccharine tone. “The stars will be right again a thousand years from now. I may not see the return of the gods in my lifetime, but my faith goes beyond such petty matters.”

“We will stop you again a thousand years from now.” declared Mahmud, though the Mercenary could hear a tinge of uncertainty in his voice.

“If your people remember. Already your numbers dwindle, complacent in your victory.” She sneered slightly, turning her gaze to the Mercenary. “You saw it, didn’t you?” The Mercenary remained quiet. “You saw the future,” the Witch pressed. “You know it is inevitable. Your only chance… our descendants’ only chance, is for us to keep the faith so that when they return, we will be eaten first. That is all there is to it. That is our fate. Leave this place with me. You have done something terrible here, but together we can set the foundations that will right that wrong.”

The Witch stretched out her arms to the Mercenary, beseeching his aid. The woman that he had saved, once upon a time. The woman that had betrayed him and their children. He should not trust her, yet he knew that she was right. When the time came… when the stars were right again, all that he could hope to give the world was a quick death.

***

A. The Mercenary accepted the truthful proclamations of the Witch. What he saw was no illusion. It was a prophecy; a promise of the terrible things to come, a thousand years from now. There would be no winning side when it came to pass. There would only be the faithful, who would be granted a quick death, and the faithless, who would be subject to torments so terrible that the Church’s vivid imaginations of Hell were mere pinpricks of pain in comparison. Better, then, that his legacy be one of the faithful, so that his descendants do not suffer needlessly when the stars align again.

B. The Mercenary rejected the Witch’s blandishments. Even if what he saw was the undeniable truth, and a record of the dark days to come, he would not give in. He would fight these unfathomable forces every step of the way, and entrust his descendants with the same responsibility. If the stars would be right a thousand years from now, his lineage would be there too, to stop the followers of the dark gods from achieving their nefarious goals. His would be a legacy that would not give up even in the face of onslaught by powers beyond human understanding.

 

[Azira]

HOBO RIDER YOU FUCKS!!

B

 

[ChumBucket]

HOBO RIDER BELIEVERS UNITE!

B

 

[Baltika9]

Oh yeah, we had a sample for Yog-Sothoth, now here's a test sample for Hobo Rider.

***

Hobo Rider Rides Forth

Another day… another morning in the dumps.

Literally.

I open my eyes to see a mangy stray dog expressing his – unmistakeably his – keen interest in my face. Grumbling, I slap him away before he decides to actually act on his interest. He limps off, whimpering. “Go get a bitch to settle down with!” I yell. If I were the C-rank hero, Furfagg, perhaps the dog would have understood my advice, but I’m not and as such, my outburst is met with a howl that I can only imagine to be one of frustration.

“Doesn’t that mean you look like a bitch?”

The cardboard walls of my little hand-made hut shimmer as the projection wakes up; I had left it on standby last night. A red-headed girl – devastatingly cute but exceedingly annoying – pops up on the screen.

“Hello, Miss Sara. You’d know about bitches, wouldn’t you?” I reply with a sing-song voice. “Isn’t it a bit early for you to check in on me?”

“It’s almost noon,” she states flatly. “Anyway, it’s not like I wanted to check in on you. There’s a job from the Association.”

Well, that’s unusual. Usually I had to go fighting crimes by myself, sending in reports in return for a measly stipend. As a F-ranked hero, I was not allowed to take on the more lucrative missions – I spend most of my time helping old ladies cross the street and discussing the nature of concrete with gentlemanly young punks. “Go on,” I say.

“Hm…” Sara taps something on her side, and looks up, her green eyes flashing. “It’ll be quicker if you just switch to the news right now.”

Sighing, I make the gesture, commanding my home program to go to the news. The display changes – Sara’s image shrinks, while the background is replaced with the latest and greatest happenings in the city, as told by a newscaster dolled up in a plasticky way.

“…and in other news, the progressive activist group CHANGE have continued to accuse B-rank superhero, the Chameleon, of dismissing trans-gender lived experiences as he persists on identifying as being male despite having the ability to change his gender. They are now demanding that he spend equal time as persons of all races and genders in order to promote equality as a superhero. The Chameleon is yet to give a statement on this accusation, and in fact has not been spotted at all ever since the #GenderChameleon tag began trending on social media.”

The news then moves on to other, more interesting stories – these I can tell by how many teeth there are countable in the newscaster’s grin (the more, the better) – like the recent scandalous affair between the C-ranked Widowmaker and the A-ranked Topcrusher, both of which are married to other people. I met them once… wouldn’t want to repeat the pleasure. Sighing, I wave off the news with a gesture, and Sara’s image fills the projection again. I frown at her quizzically. “Chameleon? He’s a B-ranker. You do know I don’t fit in well with those circles.”

“You could if you would take a bath and clean up once in a while.” She never stops trying to get me to groom myself. I think it’s a woman thing.

“Clean water doesn’t come cheap.” It comes cheaper than access to the internet, but I have always deemed a working connection more important than hygiene. It’s one of the reasons I am not a more popular superhero. Besides, I now smell like the city, making it easier for me to sneak up on villains with a more discerning sense of smell.

“There’s always the river.”

“I’d be immersing myself in the sewage of half the city’s homes if I ever took a dip in there.”

“Excuses, excuses. Anyway, the Chameleon job. Do you want it?” Right down to business, it seems.

“Let me tell you how suspicious I am right now about-“

“Do you want the job or not?” she says exasperatedly.

I give in. Any job is better than none, and the Association rarely passes on an assignment to the lower-ranked heroes. “Fine. What’s it about? I can’t see why the job has been passed on to an F-rank hero like me.”

“The Chameleon’s missing.”

“Yes, it was on the news. I know.” Thank you, Mistress Obvious. I don’t say it out loud, however. She holds power over your stipend – I get a feeling that she enjoys the occassional verbal jabs with me, but I’m always careful not to take it too far. Nowadays, at least. The last time I did it…

“No, I mean, he’s really missing. He hasn’t reported into the association for a week now.”

“I only report in once a month,” I point out. “No one comes looking for me.”

“You’re Rank F. No one cares.”

“Thank you for the honest truth,” I say acidly. “At any rate, if it’s a missing persons investigation, Detective One-Eye is A-rank and a lot better at this than I am.”

“We wouldn’t mobilize him to just check on the Chameleon. For all we know, he’s just laying low until CHANGE finds some other target. It’s a simple job. Go over and break into his apartment, report back with any clues you find.”

“…that’s illegal. Don’t we have the cops for this?” I have a rather niggling suspicion that I was picked for this precisely because it is illegal.

“The Hero Association takes care of its own. Getting the police involved would be embarrassing,” she explains.

Ah, yes. Political power plays. The rise of the Hero Association as a force for Justice! and Peace! has not been met kindly by the police. I’ve heard that the chief of the Association and the city’s police commissioner have nearly come to blows at recent reception parties more than once, after one cocktail too many. It’s no surprise; with the superheroes around – and the subsequent escalation in the form of superpowered crime – the police had found themselves steadily being forced into irrelevance. I think it’s the budget cuts that irks them the most, though. Their shrinking waistlines and frownier faces is testament to that.

Sara’s voice drops down low as she continues, as if afraid of eavesdroppers even though our communication is conducted via lines encrypted by Fenrir Corporation’s state-of-the-art technology. “This isn’t part of the official briefing, but I also hear that the top has an interest in this case.”

“The Association’s chief?”

“Further up.”

“Ah.” That can only mean one person. The elusive head of Fenrir Corporation – some Scandinavian bastard with a fetish for collecting ancient Sumerian antiques. If he’s ‘interested’, then this case might not turn out to be so simple after all.

Still, a job is a job.

“Got it,” I say. “Anything else?”

“The usual. Stay safe, Hobo Rider.” The line cuts out before I can reply, as usual.

***

For a superhero with the name of ‘Hobo Rider’, the only ride I can afford is the public transport. I get off the bus, followed by the foul looks of the good, law-abiding citizens whose noses I so callously offended. They’ll have to deal with it: one good thing about being as superhero is the free bus rides, courtesy of Fenrir Corporation. I’m not about to give that up just because some middle-class folk need to hold their breath for a while.

The Chameleon’s apartment is not hard to find – it’s the one picketed by dozens of protestors demanding that he change his gender. I slip into the alleyways behind the building with ease. It’s time to get to work.

Every hero has a power, which usually determines their rank.

Even amongst the F-rankers, however, I am different – I have the misfortune of not having any power at all. The cheap, generic implants and genemods did not take, and I didn’t have the marketability to have a company sponsor better hardware. I’m forced to make do with what meager talents I have.

To be honest, it all started as an accident anyway; this was definitely not my chosen career pathway.

But when your memories seem to have gotten started only in the last six months, there isn’t much choice. You take what you can get.

In this case, I settled for being a hero. Amnesiac I may be, there are some things that still stick in my mind.

How to lockpick a door quietly, for one.

I gain entry to the apartment with ease, the door swinging open invitingly as I finish jiggling the wires.

I can also assemble explosives, gut things expertly with a knife and shoot someone in the head with a pistol from fifty metres away, but I (wisely, in my opinion) didn’t advertise those skills to the Hero Association.

Sometimes I do wonder just what sort of crazy mess I was involved in before I came to this city.

I walk through the rooms of the Chameleon’s apartment. His taste in décor is stunning. Garish colours are splashed all over the ceiling and the walls in unfathomable designs, and the floor is a blinding red and black checkerboard pattern. With such a brilliant gamut of clashing colour rewarding my eyes, you can understand why I had to trip over the Chameleon’s cooling corpse to find it.

His skin has taken on the same pattern as his floor: red and black squares. This is his power, a type of shapeshifting. I shake the body once, but there is no response. Not that I was expecting any. Placing my gloved hands under his armpits, I haul him onto the puke-green leopard-spotted sofa, where his checkerboard pattern stands out enough for me to take a look.

It takes only a second to identify the cause of death.

His brain had been fried by the virtual reality gear he had jacked into his spine. I remove the machine covering his eyes – another fine product of Fenrir Corporation, which had been steadily expanding into everything these days, including pattiseries. Apparently they make some really good pastries: Sara swears by it. Shaking my head, I look back at the VR gear. There’s something strange about it – I have not seen this model in the market before. I wonder if it is a developer model… it would not be out of the ordinary for the Chameleon to have one; he had been using his gaming hobby to promote himself nowadays. I turn the gear around in my hands, peering closer.

There it is.

Black market sensation mods.

I check the time I have left: there’s still a few hours to go before the bus I need to catch. I have the time to spare. Sitting down on a lush, neon-purple carpet, I unroll the bag of tools I always have by my side. There’s a trick that I’ve forgotten where and who I learnt it from, and it involves a spinal jack like the ones used in these VR gears. If the corpse is relatively fresh – and from the looks of it, despite being missing for a week, he hasn’t been dead nearly that long – I should be able to replicate the last bits of information stored in his retinas.

The last light – the final thing he saw, in other words.

I fiddle away until I am satisfied, and when it is done, I plug it in.

A hazy image comes into focus gradually as I tune the visuals, shifting and rotating the Chameleon’s dead head by his ears like an antique TV antenna.

A… ring?

No. A serpent, biting its own tail. The first thing that comes to my mind is the tail-swallowing serpent, Ouroboros. Ouroboros. Jormungandr. Fenrir. Is there a connection there? I stare at the symbol intently. A ring of fire, like a halo, surrounds the serpent’s body. Different from the other ouroboros reliefs that I am familiar with, this snake has only one eye – the other is a simple line, as if depicting a scar. This is not a symbol that I have seen before. I hold my phone in my hand, contemplating whether to relay this information and seek help from other sources. The symbol had something to do with the Chameleon’s death, and I highly doubt that CHANGE is behind it…

***

A. I get into contact with Sara and report my findings to her. She knows people in the Hero Association and has the rather useful ability of keeping a secret while finding out information at the same time. Besides, this is a job that she passed on to me; it’s only right that I work through this case with her.

B. I have a direct line to the CEO of Fenrir Corporation, though I had contemplated deleting it on many occassions. Perhaps now is the time to use it: if he truly has an interest in this case, he might know more than I do right now. Then again, he might actually be the mastermind and proceed to try and silence me. I wouldn’t be surprised. Still, no risk, no reward, right?

C. I recognize the black market mods that the Chameleon installed – though I don’t know who sold it to him, I know a man who might have a lead for that. Foul-Mouthed Cheung, from Xianfu Street down in Chinatown. We’ve crossed paths before – the man is a true connoiseur of illegal circuitry. If he doesn’t know, I doubt anyone in this city does.

 

[skaraher]

A

Also, were there any links between Zhang Jue and the Zhang clan or did they happen to share the name ?

 

[LWC1996]

Sigh... Of course a Shulgi/Jing type hero adventure will win this... Yes, I'm sulking. I really LOVE C type scenarios. Goodbye Spiral, it was really fun reading your intro... *sulksulk*

 

[Absinthe]

C>B for now.

Mind, I fully expect before long for the thread to go:

Codex: This is nuts. How do we escape the madhouse?
Treave: No, codex. You are the madhouse.

 

[Grimgravy]

A

 

[Ifeex]

A>x.

 

[Elfberserker]

Hmmm...
All ot those look quite delicious choices.
So, we got cthulu waifu war, super hero hijimks and horror hospital.
Ah fuck it, I will roll for it
1: chtulu
2:Super hero
3:hospital


Edit: A , it is!

 

[Kashmir Slippers]

B

 

[archaen]

My wife is in labor (for realsy) but I am hiding in the bathroom reading the final updates. I vote C > B

 

[treave]

I am suddenly glad I did not go with the "Zhang Manxing is reincarnated with all his memories as an evil baby" scene for Another Epilogue.

 

[a cut of domestic sheep prime]

A>C

 

[Elfberserker]

I am suddenly glad I did not go with the "Zhang Manxing is reincarnated with all his memories as an evil baby" scene for Another Epilogue.

I can't even begin fathom what kind severe butthurt that would have caused.