A Scripta

Suicidal Wombat, in his old robes, stood before the door of the store in the haunted Isle of Croatoa. Witches glared at him, but he ignored them all. You can’t hurt me anymore. I’ve lived with what you’ve taken, and I don’t miss it anymore.

yesyoudo

Wombat whirled, claws bared, hackles raised on the back of his neck. He thought he heard a whisper, like the whispers he’d heard when the cursed spirits hung onto him. He learned to eventually use their power, and could control them. He trained them to do his bidding using his own blood or the blood of his enemies, until he overstepped his bounds and got the spirits wrenched out of his very soul.

I use my own spirit now. It’s not as strong, but it does the job.

He pushed open the glass door. It parted silently, not creaking like the old B-grade horror movies would normally do. He heard the hiss of the neon sign over the general silence of the store. Keeping his claws open, he padded quietly down the cereal aisle, eyes warily looking side to side but more sensing with his aura.

you missusyou we missyou

This time he didn’t whirl, but stopped in surprise. The whispers were clearer but still overlaid, garbled. A ghost appeared before him and he slashed, gathering his auras. It screamed in pain and went at him, but didn’t even touch him. More ghosts appeared.

no humans needwe miss youtake ushold uscomfortmake us wholeyouheld us keptus safe needhelp holdcomfort whole

Wombat fell to his knees, holding his head. “Stop, stop!” Spirits converged on him, he could feel them battering his auras.

Safe saveus help saveus keepushold –

Mark.

His eyes flashed open and he looked on a woman, her hair cut short like an Initiate in the Cabal, a gentle smile on her face. Wombat stared up at her, his mouth parting in disbelief. “R…Rachel?”

Mark. Then he noticed that she was encased in green, translucent, just like the others.

“Ray, Ray, no, no, no!” He reached for her, but his hands fell through her. He lost his balance initially and stumbled, but righted himself immediately. “Rachel, not you, too!”

Rachel’s apparition followed him. Mark. I’m all right.

“You’re dead!”

I’m all right. She reached out to him. You release us.

Comfort wecomfortmake uswhole make youwhole release safewholelove quieteasemakequiet

You are in pain.

“No, I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Human paincomfortrelease comfort helpwhole make wholemissus you miss

Release me, Mark.

He raised his head, his eyes full of tears. “Rachel…”

Her ghostly hand pawed at his claws. Release us.

Comfortpainhelpus

He looked up at her eyes. “God'a mercy on yer soul, sheila." He slashed deep inside the apparition. Nothing happened. Not a scream, not a cry of anguish, nothing. But he felt something travel slowly up his arm, like someone anesthetizing him, and then he turned to the next ghost and did the same. The same thing happened. Soon, he was going through the store, slashing at ghosts, feeling more and more heavy, more and more sleepy, more and more at peace. They didn’t whisper, demand, cajole, or even talk. They only covered him like a warm blanket.

The next thing he realized was waking up, sitting in a mess of spilled cereal boxes in the corner of the store. Diffused light came in from the window, and the clock registered three hours had gone by. The ghosts were still with him, no longer angry, no longer hurtful. He no longer wanted to control or use them either. He lay back, comfortable in the embrace of spirits, like a man who's taken enough opium to be down for a week.

Seagn (not "Shawn" but pronounced that way) is introduced in a story on my website. She's a veterinary student who's a pagan from Salem, Massachusetts. She and her brother Steven come from a long matriarchical line of ancient witches, who have been trained in assorted schools of thought, from Golden Dawn to Native American traditions. Their mother died when they were still in middle school and their father remarried, bringing on a new stepsister. This stepsister abused them in all sorts of ways, and used their power for her own purposes.

Soon enough, Sarah Beckham became “The Witch of Salem” and people flocked to her store to get love potions, money candles, and fortune telling crystals. Hardly any of the trinkets worked, but if you paid enough money she would call in her “assistants” who would make things work.

Meanwhile, Steven had a boyfriend that he had been seeing on the side, without Sarah knowing. After her second year at Becker College, where Seagn was tracked for veterinary training, it was found out that Stephen had contracted AIDS. Sarah sent a note to Seagn telling her not to return to Salem, that everything will be taken care of.

Seagn takes this as a challenge to find her brother. She starts at the usual places, hospitals and the like, but can’t seem to find him. To make a very long story short, she finds herself buying a small animal petting zoo that’s attached to a traveling carnival for the summer, which she uses as a cover to try and find her brother. In addition, she hooks up with a small band of pagan lesbian bikers called the Sidewinders whose leader takes a hankerin’ to Seagn. Okay, biker part was a little far-fetched, but the characters I created for that gang were too fun to throw away. (Grimaulkin’s name is taken from the gang leader – who also was insane but not quite as over-the-top as Grim-in-game.)

So for the CoH venue, Seagn is a pagan biker that’s part of a gang, who is on the search for her brother. The gang numbers 13, with the exception of “mattresses”. Seagn is not the recruiter for the gang, but could very well be in this instance. I might dust off the novella and pull out the characters to use them in altitis attacks.

Rosie snarled and slammed the mug back down on the bar again. "Men!" She looked up at Sam, the bartender. Sam merely smiled and drew her another beer. A woman quietly sidled up next to her and laid money on the bar. "I'll buy," she said.

"Whatever," Rosie replied angrily.

The woman chuckled. "Men, indeed," she replied. She sipped her own drink. "You can live without them, you know."

Rosie turned to the woman. She wore a black motorcycle jacket and had black hair with purple hilights. She wore tights with a pair of motorcycle boots. "Oh, let me guess," Rosie said haughtingly.

The woman laughed. "Of course, I make it obvious. Makes it a lot easier if people know where I'm coming from. My name is Shawn."

Rosie took the offered hand. "Rosie."

"Good to meet you. Care to talk about it?"

Rosie shrugged. "The usual. Guy says he loves me, gives me gifts, promises to marry me, then takes off." She stared at the mug. "Probably someone tiny, cute, pretty, and skinny."

"You're cute and pretty."

Rosie looked at her. "So I'm batting .500."

"Some people don't like skinny girls, either."

Rosie snorted. "I've heard that before."

"Would you like to be skinny?"

"Oh, no, that probably means I have to give up my soul."

"No, not really. There is a catch. No soul-loss required."

"Become a lesbian? Get raped?"

Shawn gave her an incredulous look. "No. It's a potion that one of my covenmates made, especially made for people just like you, who have been burned by their men." Shawn took a pull from her mug. "It's simple, really. You get to look as beautiful as you want, and all you need to do is hook a man and do to him what was done to you." Shawn smiled. "Ever mind the rule of three."

"What's that?"

"Whatever has been done to you will be returned to you thricefold. Very old Pagan law which, if we can choose to do it ourselves, we might as well, right? Why let the universe do it if we can make the universe bend to our will? That's what magic is, after all."

"Who says?"

"A bunch of old farts, dead now, but we like a few things they said. That's just a few. Interested?"

Rosie put the mug down. "I don't think so."

Shawn slipped a black business card under Rosie's hand anyway. "Just in case."

Rosie got up from the bar, leaving the card there. She turned her back on the woman and headed out the door, stumbling out of the elevator and almost tripping into the stairs. She straightened, didn't know how the hell she got home to her basement apartment. She fell face first onto her bed and fell asleep quickly.

The next morning she woke up, and after coming out of the bathroom, she looked at something lying on her bed, as if placed there by a gentle hand.

It was a black business card.

Masonry chuckled as he floated by the security at the elevators, now secure in his ghost-form. He floated backwards for about three feet and bumped into something.

I can't bump into anything, I'm a ghost--

He slowly turned around to face a very tall, blueish-green skinned man. His costume was white based but a rainbow of color streaked in very wide stripes along the sides. His otherwise plain blue and red cape billowed in a ghostly wind.

"Mas," said the blue-skinned man, then morphed into a dark-haired, dark-skinned dapper gentleman.

"Doppy," replied Masonry.

"How did you like hell?"

"I didn't."

"Oh, nice place to visit but didn't want to live there?" He smiled and morphed into a demon-like creature, with small horns, ashen skin, wings and hooves. "Seems to be just the place for you."

"Not anymore. Move aside."

Doppy folded his arms across his broad chest. "Say please."

Masonry narrowed his eyes. "Please."

Doppy looked thoughtful. "Hm... nuh uh." Then he slammed a fist into Masonry's face.

Masonry floated backward, stunned at the surprise of the attack. Doppy pulled energy from around him and threw it at Masonry in a wave, coursing him back among the security guards. Masonry struggled to right himself. He felt something cold and sharp slice through his chest, then a bolt of ice freeze his arm solid. Something else slammed hard into his head, like a hammer of fire.

He stood, wincing, and faced a huge bruiser and two cops, one male and one female. Both of them were different than what he remembered. Before, they were merely white, faceless, nondescript as he looked in ghost form. This time the bruiser wore a black leather jacket, jeans and motorcycle boots; the two cops looked like police officers in uniform. All of them glared at him with eyes full of fury.

Masonry was going to utter something, but the lady cop drew her revolver and shot him. The bolt of fire went right through his head, the pain making him scream in agony. At the same time the bruiser tacked him and plowed him through the elevator doors--

------------

Jackie Risoti saw ghosts. She often saw them as they floated up through the morgue, lost and confused, and sometimes saw other ghosts guide them away. It was worse after two twelve-hour shifts, just like now. She worked in the lab on the other side of the newly established suite of rooms for a special and highly-sensitive patient whose own ghost she saw wandering on its own.

Jackie wiped her eyes and settled back from the microscope - then saw something flash out of the corner of her eye. She turned to see a pair of ghosts fly into her lab. One huge man grabbed the one leading the chase - he was defined wearing huge pointy shoulder pads. The big one punched the other solidly in the stomach and then a fire sword appeared in its hand and he slashed at the shoulder-padded one's head. He jerked up in the air.

Three other ghosts were right behind the large one, a woman and another man. The third one she had often seen in the elevator to the floor, and took it as some sort of psychopomp, and was translucent. He raised his hands and yet another ghost appeared, and shot energy bolts at the pointy-shoulder-padded ghost.

All three of them pounced on the other, either shooting bolts of energy or firing fire and ice. She could only watch helplessly as the other buckled under their attacks.

"What're you doing here?"

Jackie turned to the wall and saw another ghost, this one in full color of red and white, with a red cross on his chest. She had never heard another ghost speak before. This one seemed to have a strange blue/black aura around him. She walked over to him, looked right at him.

He looked at her, too. "You'd better get back," he said, and waved his arm as if pushing her behind him. She moved back, her brow knitted in confusion. Three of the ghosts held the one they had beaten, who was limp in their arms.

"Oh, hey, Mas! Come to visit me? Here I am."

The ghost raised its head and its eyes blazed red. "You son of a BITCH." He strained against them.

"You should have known better when I beat you in the arena that time. It didn't take much. You going to run away again?"

"You can't hide behind this security forever. You can't live forever. I'll get past them, and I'll get you, I'll get your SOUL."

The man waved his hand airily. "You'll still have to go through these."

"I'll have help next time."

"I'm sorry," said the man in red and white calmly, "there isn't going to BE a next time."

The one in the center flexed his muscles but the three held him fast. He glared at them, and she watched as he slowly gained color. His shirt turned brown, his face wore a red mask. His hair became black. His arms were white bands, and his shoulder were brown with gold spikes.

The ghosts still held him.

He struggled against them, focusing his eyes on Jackie now. Slowly, his eyes began to register panic. He jerked his arms and knocked over a rack of vials. Jackie screeched and ran to the phone to get security. The man growled and then fell over, knocked over by some invisible force that sent him flying into the cabinets.

He recovered faster than expected and turned into almost a brown streak as he ran out the nearest door and down a corridor. The ghosts followed, including the one in red and white. "That's it, Mas, run like the coward you--urk!" Something yanked him back suddenly, snapping him backwards like a rubber band and back through the wall he had come out of initially.

Jackie looked at the shattered glass on the floor. She went to the closet for a broom, and opened it slowly, peeking in. She half expected the man in brown to come barreling out of the closet to choke her.

(Thanks Vagz, for letting me borrow E and Doppy)

Duncan Idaho stirred his coffee absently while sitting in the base, staring at the wall. He thought he could things flicker in the wall, like the fire surrounding Masonry. He turned to the laptop beside him, brushed his hand along the touchpad and looked again at the entry.

"Purgatory: believed by Western Catholics to be a place of purification, usually symbolized by the soul encased in purifying fire..."

There was a light thud of a coffee cup across from him. He looked across the table to see a very exhausted Suicidal Wombat, called Womby.

"Got no sleep?" Idaho asked, slowly closing the laptop.

Womby sighed, raised his coffee cup. "Time travel'll do it to ya."

"Yeah."

"When're you goin' to Oz?"

"I don't know if I'm going to bother going."

"Why not?"

"The reason why I wanted to go isn't good enough anymore."

"To save your girlfriend?"

"No. To save Masonry."

Womby sipped his coffee cup in silence. "You gotta let 'im go, mate."

"You didn't see his face."

"Whazzit?" He focused on Idaho.

"His eyes...blazing - angry - full of hate."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, here . . . where'd you see'im?"

"Star brought me to see him. And Mr. Frost. And he was - he was so evil! The things he said. He threatened us." Idaho focused on Womby. "His face, Womby, I can't get it out of my mind."

"You will." Again, Womby sipped his coffee and his concentration slipped out into the distance.

Idaho said, "I want to see him again."

"Ya think that's wise?"

"I don't know, but I feel this pull... maybe if I talk to him."

Womby shook his head. "Ya said Frosty was there? If he can't talk t'im, nobody can't. They loved each other, mate."

"He didn't."

"Who didn't?"

"Masonry didn't. He didn't love anyone, I don't think."

Womby set the coffee cup down and stared at him. "Then why d'ya wanna talk t'im? He don't care. Ya can't change a ghost if it's hauntin' some'in."

"What?"

"I said, 'Ya can't change a ghost.' You can appease it."

"It must want someone to do something."

"Or is angry at someone for doin' something."

Idaho looked down at the cup. "Star."

"Hm, maybe. But you go there an' he says 'Kill Star,' ya gonna do it?"

"No," Idaho answered quickly. "Then that starts the revenge spiral."

"Uh huh." Womby got up. "Lis'n. I ain' tellin' ya how ta feel. But I wouldn't do it, mate. He's beyond redemption." He started to walk away, then turned back. "He committed a few mortal sins. Even God don' forgive that." He pointed to the notebook. "He's in hell, mate. Accept it."

The man who now called himself Masonry paused the DVD and zoomed in. He smiled, seeing the shape of the bruise on the man’s shoulder. That was how it was supposed to come out. Too bad most of the rest of it didn’t quite work out. Luckily, his patron didn’t notice the other imperfections and still paid him handsomely for the work. But, strangely, the patron was more interested in the process than the result, which confused Masonry.

The real Masonry could have cared less about art. He was a brute, through and through, caring more about battle and blood. When I lived in him, he thought proudly, he could have learned so much about art and beauty.

However, there were some days when he was called upon to be that Masonry. It was those days he showed some sense of enjoyment, knowing that as he killed something, be it with his mind or his bare hands, he besmirched the name of that man of stone. This way slowly, unequivocally, he broke its name apart further so that eventually the name of Masonry would be synonymous with the most vile things a human could be accused of doing.

It did help that this man called Masonry was not all human.

He was originally a Kheldian called a Peacebringer, but soon quickly tired of that descriptor. He had called himself Benakasar in the human language, because he liked the sing-song of the name. He termed himself a true artist, known for his ability to see beauty in anything, and to render in an aesthetically pleasing manner anything else, no matter how potentially crude. He was often called upon by interrogators to depict the procedures and results.

He frowned, looking at the man’s bruise, off by half a centimeter. He thought for a moment of the clone, and then of his faulty intel. The clone’s name was still Nate Greene, according to all his sources, and Duncan Idaho was a stupid nickname, not a real one. At least the girlfriend was right – but then, they expressed themselves publicly at the D, so it really was not hard to keep track of them.

The phone rang, a pleasantly jaunty tune from a human musical group called T.A.T.U. Their high-pitched voices pleased him, and he picked up the phone.

“Masonry,” he snapped.

“Mr. Masonry,” said a woman’s voice that had a gentle Indian accent, which was the only reason he hired her, “Lady Ashina would like to observe your next work.”

“Hm…I do not know a Lady Ashina. Who recommended me to her?”

He waited, his mind already connected to Himani, feeling the fear and confusion, and intensifying it. He loved the taste of it in his own mind, closed his eyes and savored it, listening to her fearful breathing over the phone.

“Well?” he demanded, and he felt the fear jump.

“I do not… I do not know…”
“Mmmhmm, I know…I sense that, and I am displeased.”

The fear surged and he was almost overwhelmed with the delight of it.

“Find out!” he snapped, and slammed shut the phone, but kept the connection through his mind. He stoked the fear, feeding her images of what he could do to her. He sat back on his chair, his mind lost in her fears, while his body ached in pleasure. For a quick, fleeting moment, he wished he had more time with the clone's girl. He could have torn her mind into a kaleidescope of terror, but it would have taken him a very, very long time.

No, this one was much easier.

He checked himself in the mirror - again - as he walked through the warehouse. His boots made harsh clomping sounds as the metal horseshoes he had attached to them hit the concrete smartly. He tipped his violet-tinged glasses down, looking at his eyes. The contacts reflected his sapphire eyes perfectly. He checked his dark hair, tight shirt and pants. Everything was perfect.

"Is she ready?" He turned to the grey clad young man with the flat mohawk.

"Yes, sir."

"Did she give you any trouble?"

"Nothing we couldn't handle."

The young man opened the door for the other. He stepped inside a room, facing a woman with long hair that, inside, a woman sat alone on a stone bench, her ankles chained to it. Two men stood at the corner of the room. The man smiled and walked over to her.

"Duncan, what's going on?"

He blinked, caught himself because he realized he looked at her confusedly. Fool! Already failed because she used a different name than you expected. Already she is on the offensive.

"My name is Nate," he said, smiling again, though the warmth didn't reach his eyes. He joined her on the cold stone slab. He took her chin in his hand and turned her head. She resisted. He pulled her harder. She resisted further. He was stronger, and he would easily have twisted her neck around.

The smile became feral and the eyes turned steely as he leaned in and kissed her forcefully. He kept his eyes open as he kissed her, smiling as she winced in pain as he kept holding head still, deepening and forcing the kiss harder. He pulled back and threw her head back, so she almost fell backwards.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and his arm. "You'll need to practice."

She glared at him, then exploded in fire. His reflexes were faster, so he moved back and only was slightly scorched. He smiled. "Excellent. I've always wanted to do a piece in fire. But first, I must make you supple."

He turned to the men. "Gentlemen? Let us begin."

Six men appeared out of nowhere. He stood in the doorway and began to fully detail a systematic beating. First, clothes were torn off piece by piece, either by a knife, scissors, or brute force. He would make a comment. A man would reply to it. They would all laugh. This continued on, until finally the punches came steadily after barked commands. Sometimes she fought back, with fire, and once hit one man back, glancing his blow off.

The man launched himself off from the doorway with a growl, and looked at what the glancing blow did. Not so bad that the spreading bruise couldn't handle, but still off. He stood, debating the placement of that bruise in his mind.

She moaned, reached for him. He roughly pulled her up, hugged her nude body to his. "Hmmm," he crooned. "You don't smell dirty enough. Smell is very important, it brings a certain panache to the piece." He kissed her roughly again, then slapped her hard.

He tilted his head to see the red welt forming. "Oh! I like that!" Grinning, he slapped her hard in the exact same place again. "Oh, oh yes."

He rose. "Bring her to the room."

Some men grabbed her and dragged her down the hall. They went into the room first. When it was secure and presentable, someone came out and nodded his head. There was a huge room, about 12x12 that looked like a stadium. The man walked in, stripping as he went. There was applause throughout the room as he discarded piece after piece of clothing.

He stood before the assembled crowd his arms raised in jubilation. "I am perfection!" he cried, and the audience of men and women applauded. "I am true beauty." He turned to Ariel, now bruised. "This imperfect creature, I will attempt to make true beauty." He stared at her with undisguised contempt. "To think that Masonry's clone accepted you as beautiful. He must be blind and stupid."

The audience laughed. Then he began, again, a fully orchestrated beating - and now cutting - session. She tried to fight, but her flames became weaker and weaker. He smiled, leaned forward and pressed his naked body against hers, "I can do it better than him, make you ache for me all the time. Make you want me."

His voice didn't change. She looked at him, her eyes full of tears. "No."

He slapped her, the tears flying out of her eyes. "I think a black eye is due. In a couple of minutes..."

He kissed her. She tried to keep her mouth closed, but he pinched her, and she gasped. He forced his kiss on her again. He manipulated bruises and made new ones, and then he sat back to look at his handiwork.

A couple of things were wrong. As he wondered whether he could repair them, someone poked his head in and said "Mr. Masonry, they're getting closer."

He glared at the man. The man retreated quickly, a look of absolute fear crossing his face. He glared at her. "Bah, this is useless. Substandard material. I can't fix this ugly mess." He slapped her. "Get rid of it. Do what you want with it. Just get it out of my sight. Oh, wait--"

He grabbed the body, turned her head and slapped her forehead. Ariel's head lolled sideways. "Hmmm, my sweet... Give a message to your brave, brave 'Duncan': 'Stop searching. This is your warning.'"

As they dragged the body away, he said, "Maybe the next one he gets will be a little more workable." He chuckled, looked up at the audience and said, "And he will always have a 'next one'."

(Character of Ariel was used with permission, thanks! :) )