![]()
|
|||||||||||||||
| Welcome To The Night You find yourself in London on a dreary, foggy night like any other. But what lurks in the shadows is the stuff of fantasies and nightmares, far from mortal reality. This game uses the cursed and immortal vampiric condition as a backdrop to explore themes of morality, depravity, the human condition, salvation, and personal horror. We are a writing and roleplaying community dedicated to telling complex and engaging stories. Your fate is your own. Mingle among the ivory-tower elite in the Camarilla, join the fight of the discontented and chaotic Anarch rabble, or set out independently and attempt to survive in London's nighttime underworld. Anything is possible in our World of Darkness. Create Your Account! If you're already a member, please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
| What Could Have Been; In Another Reality | |
|---|---|
| Topic Started: Sunday, 3. November 2013, 21:56 (251 Views) | |
| Toran | Sunday, 3. November 2013, 21:56 Post #1 |
![]()
The Formerly Hated
|
Toran had worked hard to brick closed all of the windows and secondary doors to his abandoned building. Then he put up plywood and garbage bags on the outside of those windows to make them look condemned. It helped to have picked the shittiest neighborhood he could find in this part of town, then buy the house. He sometimes wondered what the neighbors thought of a man who purposefully made his house look worse. The inside was different. Using a good portion of his savings he reinforced all the beams with metal struts, welding them into place to make the house damned near a bunker. The front door looked flimsy because he glued a shoddy front to it, but the steel cored door was meant for a security room and the two drop bars he could slide in place were both steel 2 X 4's he had custom cut. The long front counter and blanket covering the entrance to the back added to the look of destitution and were all just a simple way of getting casual customers to leave him the hell alone. The tiny sign Craig's Electronics was artfully defaced, something he'd paid a pair of very enthusiastic and skilled graffiti artists to do, along with most of his outside. The big back room was wide open. 3 of the 4 walls had floor to ceiling shelves covering them now. Heavy affairs bolted to the walls. They were covered in wire, tools, electronics, pieces of random things, scrap metal and odds and ends. A spiral staircase sat near the back on the left hand side and led to the next floor. The back wall had weights and various work out equipment. The strangest being the pull up bar mount, two metal beams rising to the ceiling with upward slanting pegs. The bar adjusted and Toran often flexed his pull ups to bounce higher and higher as he went, straining his shoulders and wrists to keep hold. A heavy bag and martial arts pads sat in the back right corner. A few tables were set up near the front, all with various gadgets strewn about them. The only other items were a heavy safe resting with it's face to the wall, an iron grip welded on top, and a small fridge for beer and snacks. Upstairs the area was spartan. The kitchen was clean, a small table, 3 chairs and painted dull brown. The bathroom was the same. A standing shower, toilet, sink, all simple, plain and unadorned. The bedroom was painted a dark gray. The floor was the same bare wood as the rest of the house. The bed was, big. Easily king sized and sitting on a frame that looked like twisted iron rebar welded together into simple curls. The thing had to weigh over 300 lbs and looked like it could hold an angry bear without flinching. Toran groaned as he rolled to his feet. Today, everything just fucking hurt. He knew the signs. He'd been warned of them. The Prison Docs had been "thorough" in letting him know what symptoms would be. Muscle fatigue. Nausea. Headache. General degeneration of his muscle strength. He shifted and sighed, feeling the spot the tumor had been on his spine. They'd removed it, but it was too fucking late. Shit had already spread everywhere. Dizziness swept through him as he slowly rose to his feet, but he was fairly used to that. He made his way to the bathroom like an old man. Not bothering to get dressed. Looking in the mirrors he snorted at his tan complexion and dark hair. "Fucking liar." he muttered to himself. Opening the cupboard he pulled out an orange pill bottle and regarded it. Oxy, extra strength. Just what the junkies ordered. He dry swallowed one, put them away and moved into his kitchen. His stomach already hurt like hell, the meds would make it worse. He poured a glass of milk and forced himself to choke down a couple slices of bread. Sitting naked at his kitchen table he rested his head in his hands for a moment, elbows splayed on the brown plastic, feet apart, head down. For a moment his huge shoulders slumped and his back bowed completely. The thumb thick scar traveling 10" across his stomach, starting at his navel and passing right back towards his ribs stood out stark white against his tan skin. His chest, legs and forearms were covered in a light curly coating of black hair, to match the jaw length mess on his head, and the ragged beard on his jaw. A fine stubble covered his neck, he hadn't bothered to shave in a few days. He lost track of time, just sitting at his kitchen desk. The world was passing him by, and he didn't care. For a moment he considered just ending it. Going out his own way. Getting the pain, the indignity, the suffering. Getting all the shit out of the way. Six months to two years. As much as five with treatment. Or tomorrow. Got to love the precision of modern medicine. Toran didn't have any items expected, except those goggles and he was waiting on some parts. His phone sat on the kitchen counter, hooked to a charger. But for now. He didn't care. A few small lights illuminated his place. No sunlight, not with the windows bricked up. Toran knew security. Every point of entrance was a vulnerability, and after 3 years, he was just more comfortable living in a box. Finally stirring Toran rose to his full 6'4 height and shook like a dog. Rolling his heavy shoulders he walked towards his bathroom, the dim light enough for him to see by. Not bothering to turn on any further lights he starts his shower running, the water taking a bit before it starts putting out a healthy head of steam. Grabbing his razor and a wash cloth the big man slips into the hot water and closes the glass door. Standing under the high pressure spray he sighs, letting the heat sink into muscles and bones that ached continually, no matter how much he exercised, what he took. For a brief moment he almost felt relief, then it drew the line and the pain once more held it's ground. He squeezed out some shampoo into his hand and started lathering up his head, getting his hair and beard full of soap before he picked up his razor. He carefully shaved the hair off his head, then lathered up and repeated the process on his manhood, an odd quirk a girl got him into that he never stopped, even after she was gone. Shaving done he stayed in the shower for a while, soaping up and soaking in the hot steam, hoping that TODAY the hot warm air would seep into his bones and give him some lasting peace. But it didn't. Turning off the water before it could go cold he stepped out of the shower and toweled off fast. Staring into the mirror for a while, somewhat happier to have groomed himself he draped the towel over the glass doorway handle and walked out of the bathroom, ignoring the steam that wafted behind him. He walked into his room and pulled on a pair of simple sweat pants. Grabbing a wife beater he walked down the staircase to consider where he wanted to start in his workout routine. Today he couldn't do it. It just hurt to much. He couldn't deal with the pain, with the exhaustion. With trying to pretend his body wasn't a mass of decay and death flowing through his system on his blood and bones. He tossed the shirt onto a table and walked to one of the shelves. He took down a heavy box and twisted the locking dials. When it clicked open he took out something he'd made himself. While it resembled a pistol, it had a snap so the barrel unlocked and folded down like an old shotgun. The man too a single shotgun shell from the box and loaded it into the gun. It was a single fire weapon, a 12 gauge slug shell that fired from a heavy pistol cut weapon. The barrel was sawed off and trimmed from a shotgun and he had cut and built the grip himself. It was heavy, not good at more than a dozen paces, but it packed enough punch to stop an ox mid charge. Walking over to another table he turned on an iPod set into a pair of speakers. All around me are familiar faces Worn out places, worn out faces Bright and early for the daily races Going nowhere, going nowhere Their tears are filling up their glasses No expression, no expression Hide my head I wanna drown my sorrow No tomorrow, no tomorrow The music filled the empty space. Toran pulled out one of his chairs and sat in the middle of the room. Listening to the music, letting it sooth him. Raising the weapon he set it under his chin, angled up and towards the back so the slug would travel the longest distance through his head before exiting the back. It didn't matter really, he'd hollowed out the point of this slug. When it went in, he wouldn't have a head left. Waiting for the music to reach it's height Toran sighed, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The boom momentarily silenced the song, the sound like rain and the heavy thud followed. Then it was all silent, save for the single song playing quietly on repeat. |
![]() Toran's Voice Can't leave... can't leave... can't leave the girls will eat me.... | |
![]() |
|
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
![]() Our users say it best: "Zetaboards is the best forum service I have ever used." Learn More · Sign-up Now |
|
| « Previous Topic · Other Works of Fiction · Next Topic » |









3:26 PM Jul 11