A Letter

[Redacted],

XXXX, XX XXXXXX, 201X

Victoria,

How are you? I pray that this letter finds you well; if not, don’t worry: I’ve a plan to hopefully help you and others with that. And today, I think we might be making some progress.

I guess I’d best start from the beginning on this one. I learned that I had a…”special” parent only after others learned first, and targeted and suborned a friend of mine (with a different parent.) But for a colossal mistake on his part, and my father’s timely intervention, I would’ve met the same fate.I wasn’t safe at home anymore after that, which is just as well as my (“normal”) mother had been turned herself, and all but threw me out when she realized that I wouldn’t be going with the “nice people from the church.” Needless to say, I was pissed, and between that and everything that’s happened since, I’m ashamed to admit that I haven’t really given her much thought…until now.

I’ve since realized that no matter how betrayed I felt — and still feel, to be honest — my chosen mission being what it is, I cannot leave family behind to be influenced by those responsible without at least trying to free her from it to make her own choice. If it turns out that she made this choice of her own volition, then I will accept it, and her rejection of me, as final. But if she made the choice under duress or brainwashing, I intend to free her — or if necessary, avenge her.

As you might have realized, having worked on the TPB*, I have been working on a more covert scale to subvert the Order for some time, but I’ve always wanted to up the ante, so to speak. I’m aware of the huge risks this’ll involve, and even though I’ve spent years pleading for the opportunity, I’m still surprised that Mamou Renard finally consented (albeit reluctantly), my hands are shaking even as I write this. Hopefully, it’ll be the last place they’d expect me, let alone our entire class, to suddenly appear, and the element of surprise will buy us time.

And with this, as I prepare my kit for one of the days I’ve spent years waiting for, I pray: that my mother will be the first of many to be prised from beneath the Order’s thumb; that we might continue to repay you and your friends of your inadvertent sacrifice; that we may, now and always, do justice to those who have and will fall before this fight is done; and that, when that day comes and passes, that we may all find quiet and comfort, in this World and the next.

Until we meet again,

Anne

---

Anne quietly folds the letter and stuffs it in an envelope, as she crosses the room to her closet. She pushes aside the neatly-hung clothing –,mostly redundant nowadays — to reveal a metal lockbox on a shelf within. She opened the box, adding the envelope to a small but growing stack of similar ones.

And may I, someday, know where to send these tho that they can actually reach you, she thought, as she turned back towards the small pile of gear and Relics on her bed.

Anne’s Reponse

We don’t often get to choose what we’re faced with.

It’s a theme of this comic, and a fact of life. For all his determination to fulfill his duties as Suzerain, I’m certain Prince Cameron would gratefully trade his land, wealth and some assorted body parts if it would make the myriad threats to his realm disappear. I think it safe to say that we would all like the World back to a state where things, well, made sense. Some of us are becoming more and more desperate to make it happen, it seems.

For my part, I miss my home, from which I was separated years ago, and to which I long to return. But for all of that longing, I’ve only found myself further and further away – – not just in space or in time, but in ways that, a few years ago, I could never have imagined. And the furthest from home I’ve ever felt, has to be the moment I learned that fifteen innocent people, whom I’ve neither met nor even spoken to, were murdered….because someone didn’t like someone else’s work, at least as best I can tell at present.

We don’t get to choose what we face, only how we respond. And it is with overwhelming pride that I see Paris has given those responsible for this outrage a stalwart, defiant, decidedly Parisian response. Well done, my friends, my compatriots, my extended family.

And now, it’s my turn.

• Suzerain will be on a brief hiatus. Not out of fear or conciliation, but out of respect for the fallen, and to take measures to ensure this does not happen again. There will be no charges in content or plot.
• We will offer any and all support we can to the authorities in bringing those responsible to justice.
• As regular readers know, unfortunately circumstances have prevented me from interacting as much with our audience as I’d like (or at all, really.) I will do everything that I reasonably can to correct this.

As for those responsible for this: Quit while you’re behind. Your actions only further undermine what you would uphold. To paraphrase what I told a friend of mine, by the name of Gabriel, once: “Garbage In, Garbage Out.” Remember that.

To everyone else: Bonsoir,  and I’ll see you soon.

 

A Peek Beneath the Veil (Pt. 2)

(Author’s Note: Again, the events of the following (both Parts I and II) take place between the PA “Unquestioned Answers” and Issue #063.)

“So there you are.” Marie Catherine set her teacup and saucer to one side, and pointed to the image hovering above the large earthenware bowl around which the four of them gathered, clearly enjoying the mortified expression said image drew from Anne. “You and your friends are still safe within Takamagahara. It is through the power of your subconscious that we’ve been able to meet like this.” She grinned, her curly blonde hair — now freed of the wimple — reflecting the sun. “After all, ‘what dreams may come’ after the two of you–”

“–Please turn that off.” Gods or not, Anne was on the verge of blowing her stack. All present could see the image of the two of them on Chris’ tatami,  with himself burying his face in Anne’s bare chest, mumbling something that sounded like “evil fucking daystar”.

“…Wait, have you pervs been watching us all the time?!”

“Oh, do get over yourself, child.” Marie Walburge clicked her tongue in disgust. “Spent the last month trying to set this up, and this the first time you’ve slept anywhere that I could get a lock on you. Don’t like it, wear some clothes to bed next time. Actually: wear more clothes in general. Having to see this thing” — she indicated Marie Catherine with a disdainful toss of her head — “flounce around half-naked is bad enough.”

A Peek Beneath The Veil (Pt. 1)

(Author’s Note: The events of the following (both Parts I and II) take place between the PA “Unquestioned Answers” and Issue #063.)

Anne Montelepre woke to nothingness.

There was no other way to describe it.

Never had she conceived of a darkness so suffocating, so total, not just the absence of light but the absence of anything to see. Worse, a deafening silence reigned here — wherever “here” was — even when she tried to scream at the top of her lungs, and she could feel no clothing on her body, wind on her skin or even any ground beneath her feet. Feeling vulnerable, she tried to fold her arms over her chest and curl her legs beneath her, but couldn’t tell if her limbs responded…or indeed, if she even had arms to fold anymore , or a chest to fold them over.

…Am I dead?…

Father and Son

~May 17, 2011~

*All text is translated from Japanese.*

The short, two-story house at the top of the hill gleams in the light of the late afternoon. The door slowly slides open and closed, a single figure exiting the house. His short brown hair and dark red glasses catch the waning sunlight, his suit a plain, midnight blue, with a red shirt beneath. He lifts a white-gloved hand to adjust his eyewear, his thumb brushing through the short beard hugging his jawline like the chinstrap of a helmet. The figure blinks, stopping short as he spots a figure waiting outside the home. The older gentleman’s hair is nearly gone, his bald head gleaming in the sun, a halo of white ringing his pale pate. “Isn’t that a little… ostentatious, my son?” The younger figure cracks a small smile, shrugging one shoulder as a dove lands on the other, preening its pinions. “Not to mention, a bit heavy-handed. Especially if he were to poke his head out his window…”

The younger man shakes his head. “He won’t. He’s too busy dealing with his new gifts. It’s his birthday, after all.” His voice lowers, taking a step toward the elder man. “What are you doing here, Dad? Aren’t you supposed to be moving rainclouds away from Mt. Fuji?” Izanagi scoffs, making a face and waving away the assignment, his words dripping with disdain. “Busywork! Speak no more of such things.” His voice lowers in return, leaning closer to his son. “I sensed the power of the items that you gifted young Shinji. Yet another reason to stop wearing that ridiculous getup.”

The Open Notebook

Shinjiro has fallen asleep on the kitchen’s center island, his notebook open. The pages, filled with myriad Japanese characters, are written in pen, presumably from Ashura’s pen, but Shinji is sleeping with a pencil in hand. The page that the notebook is open to bears a pencil drawing:

Beneath the drawing, written in pencil, is one word:

Napea

Part III: Touching Base

Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Chartres
Chartres, France
About five months prior to Part I

(AN: Unless otherwise noted, all dialogue is translated from French.)

“This is BULLSHIT!–”

Anne stopped mid-sentence, remembering too late where she was and who she was with, wincing as her profanity — in English, no less! — echoed off the vaulted ceiling and throughout the seven hundred and fifty-year old church.

“No, this is a labyrinth.” The tall, gray-haired woman next to her enunciated each syllable as if Anne were a bit dim — and in English, which meant the girl was in trouble again. She looked vaguely grandmotherly, but age had done little to dull the bite of her sweet, slightly husky voice. “To help you learn the difference: a week spreading cow manure, starting tomorrow.”

“What?! But–” — Shit! English again!

“…Two weeks.” A smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she noted Anne’s dismay, she finally switched back to French.

“Now do it again — correctly, this time.”

“…Can’t I Just Go Kill Something Instead? Please??”

Anne kept her voice low as she put her hands on Wraxian’s shoulders and leaned in, praying the girl was still listening to her.

 

“If I push, pull, or call out a direction to move in….do it.”

 

Even as her mind raced for the smartest way to do something abysmally stupid, she watched their adversary warily. Something about its face: first that of a giant rat, all snout and whiskers and yellow, stinking teeth; then melting into a haughty mien, with close-cropped hair that could have been chiseled rather than cut; then a dark amorphous blob; then–

 

Suddenly the action froze, as Anne pointedly blinked, and blinked again, and again, until that face disappeared and didn’t return. His was the last that she wanted to see on a foe. Not on top of everything else. Only then did the World started moving again.

Madison’s Reply to Brynn (AKA, Zeffie Is Lame At Titles)

The response is rather late, but finally an envelope arrives for Brynn, the name scrawled in Maddy’s delicate spidery handwriting. Inside is a short letter, and a CD.

“Brynn,

I wanted to write for you. I love to write. I find that nothing has given me writer’s block quite like you do. I… haven’t been able to STOP thinking about you. I ABSOLUTELY would love to be your Valentine, and I don’t care that it’s almost Halloween. Since I couldn’t write, I did the next best thing. I really hope you like it.”

Recorded on the CD is this, performed on acoustic guitar and sang beautifully by Madison:

“Been on top of the world since about six months ago
Marking the first time I laid eyes on you
I lost all train of thought as I entered the room
Saw what looked like really good food then I saw you
And so did you

I want to wake up naked next to you
Kissing the curve in your clavicle
Kissing your clavicle

Been on top of the world since about 1 week ago
Marking a time when I was drunk enough to talk to you
I lost all train of thought as your eyes met mine
Told you I thought you were gorgeous
You gave me your phone number, I gave you mine
Before you left I said that you can bet
I’ll be bothering you soon
You said “No bother, please do”

I’ve called you twice
It’s been a hellish fight
To not think about you all the time
Sitting around waiting for your call

I want to wake up naked next to you
Kissing the curve in your clavicle
Kissing your clavicle

I want to wake up naked next to you
Kissing the curve in your clavicle”**

His voice is soft and adoring, every note perfect and passionate.

**It is important to note that this is an Alkaline Trio song and not mine or Maddy’s original work.

Judge, Jury, and … [or: The Space Between]

[Several months before the events of Generation S – Issue #001

Somewhere on Mount Olympus…]

 

 

 

The goddess Athena stood, as she had for nearly half of the sun’s path; watching, waiting to be acknowledged.  Wavering uncertainty had kept her in place this long, but she had begun to believe this particular war was not one she could win.  It seemed that her opponent was not merely ignoring her in some effort to incite her ire- the girl, she had come with some resignation to conclude, had simply failed to notice her presence at all.

Two Unknown Letters

 

((OOC: The following are a copy of the two letters seen in the 7/16/2012 PA, and as such should not be counted for XP purposes.))

Blood and Sorrow, Act I: One Simple Demand

— NOTE: All speech is translated from Japanese, unless otherwise noted. —

Dojima Shinjiro is aware of a brightness, the illumination shining from a massive LED array rigged beneath a gigantic paper lantern mounted on the ceiling of the room. The padding underneath his feet, familiar and firm, yet yielding, signals to him where he is, or where he is supposed to be: a dojo, a training facility. The garb on his shoulders, however, feels wrong for a gi, the familiar cut and weight of his Negotiator’s suit, a perfect match for the attire of a dominus of megadeus, settled on his form. The figure before him is also unfamiliar, but at the same time, his identity is obvious. Disguises and tricks set aside, the man cuts a lean, tall figure, easily six and a half feet tall, his long, dark hair tied neatly into a ponytail, his gi ornamented with the triple-teardrop that is his emblem, a pair of doves roosting on his shoulders. Father, Shinjiro thinks to himself as the man opens his mouth to speak. “It is time, Dojima Shinjiro. It is time for you to face that which you bear.”

1 Corinthians 13:1-13

She had allowed her aspects to become dangerously unbalanced.  In reaction to the venomous wound inflicted in retaliation for her brutal control over serpentine intellect, she had fled too deeply into the easy, feral familiarity of feline chaos.

Though she could have recited Kendall Henry’s quotation back to her with ease, her left hand rose to the device strapped to the arm now bound tight to her chest.  Illumination erupted from its embedded screen the instant her fingertips brushed over it, and a few rapid twitches and taps brought the full text the dark-skinned girl had referenced to the main display.

‘If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing. Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful.’

Kingdom Phylum Class Order Family Genus Species

 

 

….Decrypted from the private files of Wraxian’s phone/computer-y gadget….   

                                           …. Revision 1.17….

 

 

Reflections in the Moonlight

She hadn’t gone far.  The forest and its denizens would have welcomed her, as they always did, but now something different had taken hold of her attentions.

Moonlight glittered and shone off of the surface of the massive pool, providing pristine reflections of the odd, awkward girl perched at its precipice.  Bent so far forward that it seemed the slightest breeze should have sent her tumbling forward into the depths, hard cut amethysts stared back at her, providing none of the answers she sought.

They were so certain.  How many times had she stared at that same image, at all of them, searching for the key that would properly fit?  A breath she had not realized she’d been holding sent ripples shimmering over the water, dazzling her vision for a few brief moments.

Generation S PA: December and Shinjiro – Understanding

06[17:00] * @December unlocks the gymnasium and holds the door open for Shinjiro, her pale lips seeming to tinge slightly blue with the force with which they are pressed together in silence.
06[17:02] * @Shinjiro-kun walks through the doors, his red pen held firmly in hand, a small glimmer of reddish light escaping from underneath the cap. He marches straight into the gym, turning on his heel and watching the door. “You are biting your lip, December-sensei.”
06[17:10] * @December gently closes- and locks- the doors behind her, going so far as to lace the heavy chain through the handles, before then leaning back against them. She switches to Japanese, the weight of her accent dramatically lightening with her native tongue, though the dialect itself that she uses is still informal and rough. “I am trying to sort out, Dojima Shinjiro, why you would have done what you just did.”
[17:15] <@Shinjiro-kun> I told you why, Sensei. I don’t wish to get blood in the foyer.
01[17:16] <@December> “Not that, Dojima.”
06[17:17] * @Shinjiro-kun swaps to Japanese as well. “Then what, kitsune-sensei?”

Journal Entry #337

Maddy lay stretched out on the lounger at the foot of Wraxian’s rope ladder. The sheets draped over the cushion towers surrounding him left an odd glow across his sleeping face, and the open journal that lay across his lap…
((The following contains graphic description and offensive language.))

Welcome to the Pack

As the victorious band walked back to the mansion, huddled around the fallen Wraxian, Kendall was largely silent.  Lost in her own thoughts, her mind kept replaying the events of the forest, and certain words kept sticking in her mind.

“You cannot do it alone… you aren’t strong enough…”

“Whoever said she was alone?”

“She doesn’t have to be.”

“Never alone again, Wraxian.”

The more she replays the events in her mind, the more she takes those words to heart.  ::She fought for us, even after we treated her like shit.  I’ve got to do something for her, to thank her, let her know we appreciate what she did,:: she thinks to herself as she helps get Wraxian squared away into the infirmary.

Suddenly, an idea springs into her head.  With a fire in her belly, she makes her way to the kitchen and starts to work.   Within minutes, she pulls several sheets of cookies out of the ovens, and, as they cool, pipes seven little stick figure frosting people onto each cookie.   Quickly, she collects the cookies into two baskets and, after cleaning the kitchen, hurries back to the lounge, leaving one of the cookie baskets there for the rest of the gang.

Slowly, Kendall goes through her not-so-small library and pulls out a few very well read volumes, including her own personal copies of the Harry Potter series.  Placing them into a box, she quickly writes out a small note, and looks to a sleeping Anne.  “Guess I’m making myself a hypocrite tonight, girl,” she says, quietly, sneaking out of the room, hoping to not wake the Cajun girl.

In the dark, she makes her way out to the edge of the forest, hunting for the first arrow trail marker. “I’m not coming in there, animals, just leaving this stuff for a friend,” she says, half to herself, half to the forest.  Carefully laying things out, expecting Wraxian to retreat to the forest as soon as the girl wakes up, she carefully places the note so it would be the first thing that someone walking from the mansion would see.

Wraxian,

What you did for us won’t be forgotten.  In the future, though, please don’t be afraid to ask for our help in the future, any one of us would be willing to face for you what you did for us.

It’s been shown that we have to work as a team, a pack, to make it in whatever freaky war we’re in, and I only hope the rest of us show the concern for each other that you have.

Sincerely,

Kendall Jenkins Henry

p.s. If we’re a pack, I suppose, given the experience, this makes you the Alpha?

Smiling to herself, Kendall walks slowly back to the mansion, optimistic that things around the school will be more harmonious from now on.

As the Storms Gathered

(All speech is translated from respective regional dialects.)

((Mature Content Warning: The following post is rated Mature [NC-17] for Sexual Content))

 

 

437 B.C.E., Early Spring

Athens, Greece

The great patron of Athens strolled amongst her citizens unknown, invisible to all while she basked in the warmth of the Grecian sun, surveying the laborers who worked their craft upon the nearly finished temple to her honor.   It soared above her, finely wrought columns reaching for the heavens; built upon the highest section of the city, the prayers that would be given there, that much closer to her ears.  Allowing her eyelids to slide heavily over the vast grey depths of her eyes, she focused upon and listened solely to the Delphinic voice that had been whispering through her mind since her audience with the oracle that morning.

Shuraba and the Demon, Ashura

Shinjiro stands, stock-still, in the lounge, turning his head away from the door as Kendall makes her exit back toward the rest of the students. The rest of the students that I interrupted. The rest of the students that I -failed-. I ran when I should have walked, skipped ahead instead of waiting patiently for December-sensei to continue her lesson. I was a fool. His hand closes around the cap of the pen in his hand, lifting the cold aluminum body up to his gaze, cast down as it was. On its own, his hand slips the cap from the pen, turning the oblong oval of the writing instrument end-over-end to reverse its position, sliding the cap onto the end of the barrel. The exposed steel nib shines in the light of the lounge’s lamps, taking on a crimson glow all its own, illuminating the boy’s features and flooding through his closed eyelids. She made a fool of me. She lost control, lost her temper. It is shameful. I have been dishonored. I must act. Gripping the pen in his right hand, he lifts his head and the pen, gaze locked on its sanguine body. Words leap to lips in the rusty glow of the room before he stops, gripping the metal even harder. What am I doing? His mind flickers back to a bedroom in a small rural town, what feels like a lifetime ago…

-One Week Earlier-

Kendall Henry: From Hood to Harvard

Admin note:  there is a use of racial slurs in this story.  The admin wish it to be known that it is not in the least meant to incite or show hatred of any race or creed by the characters or the players controlling them.    If such language offends you, do not read this entry any further.

 

1 Week Prior

“Worthless nigger’s got to be drinking again.”  Kendall said under her breath as she looked behind her place at the stove at her brothers and Sisters. She had been cooking dinner for her brothers and sisters some 2 hours after her father was supposed to have gotten home from work, but hadn’t shown up.   It was not the first time the father McCormick had been late home on a payday night, and every other time he came staggering in the door reeking of cheap wine.

“No, girl, that’s not right, you know your momma taught you better than that.” Kendall said to herself as she put the meager meal on the table for her 5 younger brothers and sisters.  Mimicking her lost mother’s words, she said, “Now Kenny, child, the Lord didn’t make no N-words,  Brothers and Sisters made themselves into N-words, and it’s up to you to be better’n that.”

Part II: The Price of Liberty

Fort Monus, Kansas
About Six Months Prior to Part I

Anne waved to her ride as the car pulled out of the parking lot, then jogged the rest of the way to the Fellowship Church annex, buttoning her letter jacket against the early evening chill. She was tired–last practice before divisionals was rough–but she still needed to pay Gabriel a visit. Not that she was worried about him or anything, of course, but even distracted by midterms and an extended soccer practice schedule, Anne could tell something was bugging him. And he wouldn’t say what was wrong, which bugged her.

He was her best friend, the first she made after arriving in Fort Monus five years ago. The first weeks after Hurricane Rita were hard, especially for a ten-year-old. She and her mother Eugenie were bussed from shelter to shelter, unsure of where they were going: their house, the motel her mom owned, their whole town had been wiped off the map. There was a welcoming celebration at Fellowship, who’d agreed to sponsor their group of evacuees. It started well, but things became awkward when one of the congregation members made a comment that the storm was both a God-given warning and an opportunity for them to “clean up their lives.” The adults among the group bristled, and as the other ministers tried to cover the gaffe, the kids were ushered outside to play.

Like a Shank to the Throat

“Yo, let’s get moving, man! We don’t have much time!” The Hispanic youth, around 14 years old, with a green-and-gray headband wrapped around his brow and wearing an unseasonably hot black sweatsuit, fumbles with the prybar in his thickly-gloved hands as ten more youths, all between 13 and 17 and in similar attire, follow suit, sneaking around the back of a large, drab green warehouse just outside Albuquerque, New Mexico. “Hey, where’s Cabron, I don’t see him,” another, shorter and lankier boy asks the first youth, a tall figure for his age and filled out with the results of eating wet burritos from a take-out restaurant six nights a week.

Part I: Final Exam

(Edit: Removed date.)

(Author’s Note: Unless otherwise noted, all dialogue in this section is in French.)

Just outside of Chartres, France (60 miles southwest of Paris)

The alarm went off, chirping softly at first, but slowly approaching a volume that, if left unchecked, would wake everyone in the house. Exactly what its owner didn’t want.

Anne Montelepre groaned into her pillow as she blindly groped for the off button, finding it after a few seconds of flailing. Four A.M. She had half a mind to just kill the alarm and wait for Valerie to chase her out of bed at five, but she didn’t dare, not after she’d overheard the old battleaxe talking about a “surprise test” on the phone the day before. Eavesdropping might not have been completely honest of Anne, but with all the crap Val would give her for anything less than a perfect score, she’d happily beg, borrow and steal whatever break she could get. Listlessly, she rolled out of bed, slipped on her ring, and padded as quietly as she could to her desk, where she woke up her Mac, opened Evernote and began reviewing her class notes.