On the following topics:
Molly's Sleep: Molly is going to go home and resolve to do her very best to sleep so she can have a solid day of research ahead of her and be ready for her best at midnight. She'd take a hot shower, some melatonin, and other such things to try and sleep as soon as possible. She'd probably get about 6-7 hours worth before she was up again the next morning and diving into her books and the internet.
Molly's Research: She's specifically looking into rituals-- hunting for information on seances to summon up lost souls/spirits, and for lore that would support them as well. She wants to know if there's some way to stitch the 'good reflection', what she believes to be the Jacky-Spirit (based on what Gregory had said), back to the body
If she doesn't blow all of her time on research rules doing the above-mentioned, then she would also spend a little bit of time looking up information on banishing or vanquishing other spirits, thinking of maybe looking into lore on protection against the other reflection were it to attack again. She wouldn't be opposed to looking into lore on cleansing one either.
She'd probably call Gregory up around 7pm or so, provided everything goes off successfully and she didn't have to leave home to run any errands on her research or anything. She'd want to meet at 11:30pm and be 'prepared to start' at midnight.
mystery
Okay! The rolls I want you to do for me:
Self Control, to see if Moll sleeps in what with tiredness.
Thee-e-e-e-en! Further research, let's say an Intelligence + Occult roll, diff 8 (because you're looking for something actually useful), then a stamina roll, then another Intelligence + Occult roll, diff 8, if the stamina roll is acceptable. We're gonna need 4 suxx to find a hint of anything.
The-e-e-e-e-e-en! If there's anything else Molly does in pursuit of occultism before calling Greg, let me know. I believe in earlier occult research-y bits for this she found out some sort of crossroads demon-summoning ritual, and the reflection told her to help it by getting the cards read (before Morris came along to distract Molly from that >:) ) so if either of those sounds like something she'd pursue/look into more, lemme know! I'm just mentioning them again because it's been so long (grin)
Molly
It looks like Molly smashed the everloving hell out of the research on binding, but just barely missed it on the 'banishing/warding' research. Molly's just like "Lol well at least I got the important stuff figured out, and I kinda get the rest, we're gonna be okay!". And they were famous last words.
I wasn't sure what would be deemed an 'acceptable' stamina roll to continue the research, and got 1 success, so I presumed that would be okay and threw dice as normal. If you want to provide some kind of penalty-in-post (like an upped difficulty or reduced number of successes), please do feel free!
Molly wouldn't have found the energy or time, it seems (based on the dice), so she wouldn't have come up with anything different to contact Greg about. She'd reach out to him around 6:45pm the next day saying she was ready and wanting to know where she should meet him. If he had a gun or something maybe he should consider bringing it (she didn't think it would help against the Reflection, but she had no idea what else might be mixed up in this, lurking around wherever Jacky might be hidden, or perhaps sent by that old Hag), but her probably was already going to. Greg ain't new to this game.
Anyway, here's dem bones:
M. Toombs @ 11:46AM
[Self Control]
Roll: 4 d10 TN6 (5, 7, 9, 9) ( success x 3 )
M. Toombs @ 11:47AM
[Intelligence 3 + Occult 4]
Roll: 7 d10 TN8 (6, 7, 8, 9, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 6 ) [WP]
M. Toombs @ 11:47AM
[Stamina]
Roll: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 5, 9) ( success x 1 )
M. Toombs @ 11:51AM
[I'm going out on a limb and considering that 'acceptable'? Otherwise we can find a way to penalize her (maybe you can subtract successes afterward or something idk). Continuing!]
M. Toombs @ 11:52AM
[Intelligence 3 + Occult 4]
Roll: 7 d10 TN8 (1, 4, 4, 5, 6, 9, 9) ( success x 3 ) [WP]
mystery
Molly is weary, of course she is: bone ache. This might be the most important week of her life. This might be (surely she has considered the idea) the last week of her life. Certainly, it is her last week unfettered by vitae. But she has been fettered by vitae before.
Molly is weary, of course she is, but Molly is also lucky. Might be Jack's influence, mightn't it? He might tell a story about it if he knew: make that story what is real. How he has a certain kind of luck and maybe that certain kind of luck translated itself into his companion. Distilled it. Might be fortune, playing favourites. Wanting to spool Molly's tale out just a little longer. Molly is also fucking lucky: and somehow, in the books she has acquired, via the very small group of people on internet forums she never quite interacts with (greedy, taking without giving), she finds
one potential ritual to 'bind' a shadow. A shadow and a reflection are practically the same thing, right? It requires an animal sacrifice, pure gold, and fire. The pronunciation of words in a bastardized version of Hebrew.
She finds a way to animate one's reflection and use it as a messenger. The ingredients for this ritual are likewise expensive: and a pint of blood, necessary, needs be drunk, and four mirrors (eight mirrors) set up facing the ritualist in a ring then facing away from the ritualist in a ring double sided mirrors see and then the sacrifice (not the blood, though perhaps a frugal person would combine the two ingredients). The sacrifice must be a geas, a vow: do this, and I'll never _______, I'll give up _______, I'll not have ______. Best done when the moon is dark.
And then, perhaps most interesting, at least most closely tied to Denver itself: a story about a mine (abandoned) and how in the darkness of that mine one can pass between this world and the mirrored world if one is unlucky, one gets lost, how the darkness in this mine listens. There are stories going back to Denver's inception, attached to stories in other cities: San Francisco, Seattle. They touch on some religious group which has settled in Littleton, too, owns a lot of property.
Maybe one of those ideas is good. Maybe it's not. Molly's lucky, but luck only takes one so far, even if skill and sharpness and determination is riding high behind it. By the end, she feels drained -- pushing so much will into something takes its toll.
Greg answers when she calls. The suggestion of a gun gets an audible heh. And then, "11:30, ey? Meet me at," and an address. If she asks him to bring anything, he's open.
---
doom
The address M. Toombs was given by Gregory Wilce takes her to a warehouse. The warehouse is just one warehouse among many, not very interesting at all. The warehouse used to be a textile factory, but it's been many years since the thing has been used for anything but storage, partitioned into different rooms for a certain price. The security on the place is acceptable, more than acceptable, but in the front yard behind the barbed wire topped fence amid the detritus of litter gathered by a helpful wind desolate stretch of graffiti it doesn't look like the safest place to loiter or to keep one's things.
Greg the baker has a white van parked in front. The back of the van is open, and he is sitting on the edge, shoulder against the side of the van and his eyes apparently on the sky. It was a warm September.
M. Toombs
When Molly arrived, it was in a dark green sedan that was purchased new within the past year or so. Simple, reliable, unimpressive, forgettable. Exactly what someone who lived the life of a supernatural sleuth (more accurately, someone who just wouldn't disappear and mind her own business) would want and need. It had a big trunk and good gas milage, and that's just what she'd needed today.
When she stepped out of the car she was drinking a latte with extra espresso in it. She had her hair back in a ponytail and was dressed in a snug black t-shirt. The neckline swooped low enough to show that a charm rested on a necklace just below her neck. She wore black exercise pants and sneakers and a red flannel shirt that was at the moment tied around her waist. She looked the kind of exhausted that existed before a monumental task. She didn't yet know how she was going to make it over this particular mountain but kept forward anyways. The end had to be somewhere just out of sight, after all.
She'd gestured a greeting to Greg from inside the car once she'd put it in park, then got out and approached him at the back of his van.
"So we're going to need to haul some shit in with us." She was explaining this in person, hadn't opted for doing so over the phone. Figured it would be easier to back herself up once she'd gotten there. Sipping at her iced drink, she looked back to the car. Looked doubtful and disgruntled both.
"How far away are we?"
doom
"I'm going to ignore the your question until I'm sure what you've got planned is on the up and up," he says. He holds up a bag and a paper cup holder with two cups of coffee. An offering. Molly recognizes the paper cups. Harald-Jacky often had one when he was pretending to be human. Maybe he liked the warmth, holding it against chill flesh. Maybe he didn't, but it was penance to pay. He'd brought her coffee on more than one occasion. There's a furrow between Greg's brows, but he doesn't seem anxious. Just: in need of action.
And they're taking action now, aren't they.
"But we're probably not too far away. What kind of shit do we need to haul? What did you find?"
M. Toombs
Not keen on being deterred, Molly rolled her eyes at Greg's need to checklist the legitimacy of everything. The look she gave him said As if you'd know the difference. She went along with it anyways, though, and nodded gratefully at his gesture of coffee. Lifted the plastic cup of iced latte she was currently halfway through to indicate that she was good, though. "My heart'll give out if I try putting anymore caffeine in my body than this." Plus, she's learned lessons about taking coffee from this man.
She wrinkled her nose, not at his questions but at what her answers were.
"I've got a big cardboard box I'd appreciate your help carrying. It contains some materials, including eight mirrors that we're going to need. That's the heaviest part." If looked at uncertainly, she'd clarify-- "They're not that big, just twelve-by-twelve frames." She'd hope the 'other materials' part would be let to slide.
As they spoke, she gestured, then started to walk around to the trunk of her car. The fob on her keychain blinked the lights and popped the trunk. She was clearly going to show him anyways.
"I know how to bind Jacky back to his body." The real question wasn't the how anymore, though. It was whether she actually could. They'd get to that when they got there, though.
"I also know how to go and get him to bring him back. We can do this." She sounded more confident than she felt (hopefully*). That soon faded, though, because she sounded a little more hesitant when she spoke next.
"It does require some... voodoo-level business, though. A ritual." When she reached the trunk of the car there was a stirring noise from within-- kind of a cooing sound if you listened close. When she lifted the lid Greg would find within a large cardboard box stacked with eight mirrors, sized as promised, as well as a small velvet pouch tucked down at the bottom and a plastic solo cup as well. Wrapped carefully in towels, a knife.
More importantly than any of that, though, was the chicken clucking and fluffing itself disgruntled at them in the small cage beside it. Molly sounded displeased when she added:
"Sacrifice."
doom
The ghoul doesn't bat an eye. He'd cut Molly's throat if he thought it would do any good. His regnant has more humanity than he does, but he doesn't wear his lack of humanity on his sleeve, and he does have a finely tuned conscience. He doesn't think cutting Molly's throat would do any good.
He likes chicken salad. It's one of those little pleasures in life.
"So the plan is we go and get him to bring him back and then we bind him into place?"
M. Toombs
"Well, when I say 'go in', I mean one of us has to go into the mirrors after him." She licked her lips, gave him a moment to pick up on the fact that she said 'one of us' instead of defaulting to herself. Glanced up at him and raised her eyebrows almost apologetically.
"I think... It would be a better idea if I sent you in after him. You guys are bound, it'll be easier for him to find you." She wasn't sure of that, but she's learned to lie. We'll see if he sees through it.
"That way I can bind him quickly when we get him back."
[Manipulation 3 + Subterfuge 3: It's not lying if I don't know whether it's true or not right?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 6, 6, 6, 6, 7) ( success x 5 )
doom
"Huh."
The baker believes her. He believes her absolutely: that she thinks it would be a better idea, that it might even be a better idea, that there might be something to this idea that being bound by blood will make things easier on the other side. He knows a smidgeon of occult lore; what he knows does not match with Molly, who is a virtuoso on that particular subject. A precocious wunderkind. No wonder Jack liked her, so.
He starts hauling the mirrors out of the trunk, resting them against the side of her car. Pauses, to get a dolly out of his van, put the mirrors and the crate with the chicken on top of that. He hasn't raised a bit of protest yet, so perhaps he's not going to.
M. Toombs
Molly smiled appreciatively at Greg when he conceded to her explanation, and it broadened even moreso on a face that saw very few of them anymore when he started loading the things onto a dolly. She liked that he came prepared. Maybe after all of this, if they both survived, she would ask him out for drinks. They would both need it, she was pretty sure.
Clearing her throat, she stopped letting her eyes linger on the man around the time that he finished propping the chicken crate up. She carried her phone along with her, tucked into a zipper pocket on her pants. Put it on silent and tucked it away in vain hope that it may come in handy in case of an emergency.
She'd wait for him to lead the way, silent for she wasn't sure what else to say. I mean, what do you say in a situation like this?
Gulp. Here we go.
doom
Here we go.
Here they go. Once everything is loaded, he wheels the equipment (the rising protestation of the chicken) toward the ex-factory's front doors, pausing to unlock it. The keys are attached to his belt. He reaches in, practiced remembrance, to turn on lights before he and Molly are both inside the building. The building is, as perhaps expected, cavernous, something out of the 70s, partitioned without a care for light or human comfort. A maze. A warren. A labyrinth. All things appropriate for Nosferatu.
Here they go, and Greg says, "The thing is, Miss Molly, I just don't have the what the fuck reflection world the fuck is that even know-how if something were to go wrong. And I don't know I trust you with my body and his at once, because I'm guessing we'd be pretty helpless. But if the blood matters, it'll be easy enough to get you hooked a step. If you want a drink, it'll be a useful drink."
[Charisma + Empathy. This isn't going to manipulate you into anything, but you'll sure feel sympathy toward this idea, eh? EH? Charisma specialty Depend On Me in play.]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (4, 7, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 9 ) [Doubling Tens]
doom
[.... what the fuck Gregory.]
M. Toombs
Before they stepped inside the warehouse Molly paused to look up to the night's sky. She took in the moon and stars and breathed in one last deep gulp of the air before stepping through the door. She felt like there was a chance that might be her last time getting to do so alive. She should have taken a moment to do some studying out in the sun. She felt a sudden pang of regret at not seizing the opportunity.
As they were walking in and Molly was looking around Gregory presented an idea to her. Something about the tone of his voice caught her attention and called to her loudly. She stopped and lent him her full attention. Felt a pang of sympathy like a jolt of electricity in her gut and heart.
She understood where he was coming from. It was scary as hell, the prospect of being flung into a different dimension where you had no idea what the mechanics were or how you could get back out. He didn't have a mind for shit like this, but Molly clearly did. If anybody had a higher chance of traversing the Mirrors with any efficiency, it had to be her. Not him. Please not him. He didn't know what the fuck he was even doing here.
But the very idea of what he was suggesting... She scowled, looked sad, and asked to clarify:
"Are you suggesting I get a drink off his body?"
doom
"Yeah." He notes the scowl without comment, but nods as if to himself or as if to punctuate the thought. They're going deeper and deeper, down this aisle and then the next. His voice is warm and deep. "It's what I'll have to do in another month or two. Jack provided some back-up, but that won't last forever. As worthy as my continued existence is, this seems like an even worthier use, huh?"
Survivor. Molly's talking to a survivor, somebody who is committed to the next day and the day after that, to weathering whatever the night throws at him.
Survivors can be good guys. Survivors can be villains.
M. Toombs
Molly continued to walk along with him. She didn't like what he was suggesting, but she wasn't denying it either. He reminded her that drinking vampire blood was a part of his routine-- he had some on back-up, but he was going to have to go straight to the source himself before too long here.
Her mouth was pressed into a thin line. Wasn't this a worthier cause than his continuing to go on? Perhaps it was. She didn't know his life. She apparently didn't know enough about Jack's to determine whether his was worthier or not on its own.
So he was a survivor, so what? She knew one friend in particular who wished that she was one herself, as opposed to the kind of adventurous soul that kept diving headfirst into trouble without considering other options first. After all, she was here planning on killing an animal and drinking its blood in tribute to some dark magics that she probably didn't have any real grasp of anyways.
After that she didn't have a lot to say. She was just steeling herself for what was to come when they reached the center of this labyrinth.
nothing and Nobody
There is a door. "Here." Greg hands the dolley off to Molly at this point. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a key. The lock is a complicated one but not that complicated and Molly may think that this abandoned factory turned storage is not so dissimilar to the warehouse she initially stashed the Jack of Nobodies. Sweetheart Jack. Unlucky Jack. Ugly Jack. But he opens the door, grimacing: "Expect a climb."
They're going underground. There is an awkward ladder. They're both clever people and Gregory is a ghoul who gives the impression just now of having to transport let us say sensitive goods that are meant to pass under the radar more than once before and the mirrors, chicken, etc. all get passed down with relative safety. There is a light switch in the under the ground level room at the bottom of the ladder and Gregory flips it on. The room is long and narrow and at the end of the room is a series of metal boxes. Inflammable. No wood. The baker grunts, "He's here. Now how do we set up?"
[ooc: and when you get back, you can have Molly roll... hmm. Perception + Security or Larceny diff 8 oooor Perc + Alertness diff 10, Reflexive so no WP spent on this one.]
M. Toombs
[Perception 3 + Security/Larceny 0 (+1 diff penalty)]
Dice: 3 d10 TN9 (3, 8, 10) ( success x 1 )
nothing and Nobody
Molly, if she takes care to look at her surroundings, notices this: there is something odd about one of the walls, about the brickwork maybe but there's no brickwork. What is it? Ah. A smear on the ground, as if someone dragged into the wall. Faint. Very faint.
M. Toombs
When you walk through doors not knowing how you were going to come out again, if at all, you tend to do so one of two ways: kicking and screaming, or silent and pensieve. So when they reached the door leading down, Molly was silent as she went about assisting with the dolly and getting down the stairs.
Once they reached the point where Greg announced that they'd arrived, Molly took some time to glance about at the boxes. Took note of a peculiar something amiss about a brick wall, spied the smudging-scrape that went up into it, and made some guesses about the actual integrity and purpose of that wall and what may exist beyond it.
Her eyes narrowed just a touch at that particular anomaly, but Greg was soon asking how they should set up. It was time to get down to business. Molly gulped a breath to steel herself, then approached Greg and the box of supplies: "Here."
They followed directions that she'd written out in neat handwriting within a leather-bound notebook. Mirrors were to be set up in a circle large enough for a body or two to fit inside. She'd ask Greg to work on this in particular while she studied and prepared the rest of the details. Hovered near the dolly going over her notes and looking progressively more pale with each time that they read them over. One of the rituals required gold, and this was what was in the small velvet pouch that she cupped with one hand, rolling the contents absently about between her fingers while cradling her notebook open by its spine in the other.
When he was finished setting up, he'd find her looking at the chicken uncertainly, her brow furrowed like something was amiss.
"Fuck," she muttered. "I'm missing something."
What? He would no doubt ask, and she'd fix clear and serious blue eyes on his to respond.
"Blood."
nothing and Nobody
"How much?" His response is simple. His tone is heavy, but perhaps not easy to read. He squints at her.
M. Toombs
"A pint." She answered quickly, and looked hastily back down to her notes. Flipped a few pages as she explained.
"There's two rituals-- sending someone to bring him back, and then binding him. I need sacrifice to bind." A quick glance to the chicken cage. "I thought I'd just drain the chicken's blood, but I had my order of operations mixed up..."
She sighed and rubbed her face. It was pretty obvious that she hasn't slept much.
nothing and Nobody
"Eeh." He sounds unenthused, lifting his fingers briefly to rub up the bridge of his nose then between his eyebrows. "All right. That's a little more than I'd care to bleed out, not knowing how things are going to shake out later. But I've got just the thing." He'd started walking over to those metal boxes around the time he said 'things are going' and now he plugs in a code and opens the topmost one.
There's no Nosferatu body in the box. There is a large cooler, and in the cooler various things he doesn't necessarily want Molly to see. But she's over by the mirrors, right? And amid the various things, a big stoppered bottle. He uncaps it, sniffs, and recoils. "Fuckaduck."
Sighs, and reaches into his bag. He has a bag, of course. He'd put it on the dolley and has to walk back to get it. From the bag he pulls out a thermos, uncaps it and sniffs this one. His expression goes blank but not disgusted as before, and he holds the thermos out to Molly, but there are worry lines on his forehead.
"This should do."
If she takes a smell of it, she doesn't get the hunger-cramp craving that the smell of vitae might give her -- it being so delightful, so delicious. Worth living for, worth being immortal for. Really.
M. Toombs
She hesitated before accepting the thermos and looking inside. She sniffed it cautiously, as it was likely too dim to make out the contents very well. Ultimately she nodded in acceptance-- there wasn't much else of a choice, and she didn't particluarly want to drink warm blood from Gregory's arm either. It was bad enough drinking any, but she certainly wasn't a vampire. She had no love for the stuff.
At this point she looked around and sniffed. Put a hand on her hip and with an air of finality, like someone about to jump off a cliff, she said:
"Okay, we're as ready as we'll ever be. Where is he?"
Her eyes flickered tell-tale toward the wall she'd noticed the scuff marks by, and then back to Greg with a pointed lift of eyebrows. "We'll need to have him available right away so as not to waste time with the binding."
nothing and Nobody
"Okay," he says. "Okay," and tension simmers rising up in his tone, a trigger-warning temper which hasn't had occasion to show since his old regnant. The one who wasn't as nice as Jack. Molly doesn't know much about Gregory and how Gregory came to be Jack's man, but Gregory is invested for a number of reasons.
No theatrics. He goes to the wall Molly noticed something off with and it turns out the wall is a fake wall and he opens that. There's one of those fire proof boxes, a big one, and he hauls that out. It's heavy. It's really heavy. Gregory pauses to look inside, briefly. Not too long. Licks his lips, unconscious gestures.
"You need him outta the box?"
M. Toombs
When Gregory glanced up again he'd find Molly's nose wrinkled. Even though she'd been there herself, was there herself, she still didn't much care for the idea of being so drawn to vampire blood. She knew what those licked lips were for. Wondered about the internal struggle to keep on task, but only briefly and in incomplete thought.
"Yeah," she said, nodding her head and looking back to where the mirrors were set up on the ground. "I don't want the box messing with any of the..." She waved her hand in a twirling gesture while she searched for the explanation. "It might interrupt energy movement. Like how coppper is a conduit, this might be iron to an x-ray, you know?"
She didn't really offer to help move Jack, but probably would if Greg was struggling excessively or pressured her to do so.
nothing and Nobody
Gregory does not act as if he wants Molly's help with Nobody's Jack (Sweetheart Jack, Honey-tongued Jack, Jack-of-the-Underground), though he smiles a rather wincing smile like brace yourself babe and then he reaches into the box and pulls the creature inside the box out.
The creature inside the box is one that Molly has seen, of course. She transported him once the bus hit him, knocked his Mask away, knocked his projected humanity his conman's face away and left the truth:
The Curse. Skin melting, horns drifting thither-hither, and most horrible of all:
the clear definition of a man beneath all those gnarled knots of ugliness, those scabrous calloused hardened twists that must be painful (how can any one thing be so hideous? Hideous: Hide, Hide-Away, Right now). That is a person. That was a person. That could be you.
He doesn't breathe. He - it - seems to be dead. And to have shrunk, some, become withered, somewhat dessicated even paler, since last Molly clapped eyes on him. He's wearing the same clothes he was the last time Jacky and Molly went chasing down reflections, though they're torn. Have been mended.
Maybe there's a telltale cat hair. Gregory puts him down carefully enough, and then looks at Molly with an eyebrow cock for more direction. He is brisk with his handling of Jack's body. Brisk, but careful; doesn't look at him too closely.
M. Toombs
Brace yourself, the sardonic smile said.
Molly's grim lack of a smile answered -- she'd been braced for the past five goddamn days, she was ready to be done bracing.
Jacky-- or, well the actual Jack, not the Jacky that she had come to recognize and even kind of love in a way (thanks to adventure, to shared interests, and to vitae)-- looked the same as she recalled, but it was still a hideous thing to see and still took a moment to adjust to. He looked more withered, though, like a plant that desperately needed water. Like a husk of a beast-body, dry and shriveled and stiff. A life-sized voodoo doll monstrosity.
Once he was out of the box and on the floor, Molly began.
For the first ritual Molly stood with mirrors both facing her and facing away from her. The gold was set aside, near the chicken, for the ritual to come (assuming that this first one went accordingly, at least). For this one she needed a different kind of sacrifice-- a promise, and blood let. She'd cast an anxious glance to Gregory with her chest out, full of the deep breath to make her promise to set things into motion. Didn't say anything, but didn't need to-- her gaze told stories of how unsure she was if this would work, how it would work, and whether things would end in any positive light.
No direction but forward, though. Heaving that breath, Molly spoke clearly into the room.
"For this, I surrender something of worth to me. An exchange-- a tit for tat." At this point she reached into her pocket and produced a small deck of cardstock business cards. Each with a different name for a vampire. Each different and dangerous in its own way. Phone numbers, names, connections, strings to pull and fellowships to call upon, bargains that could be made based on shaky alliances built in curiosity and little more.
"I'll give up all of these names. All of these people." The cards were too thick all together to tear up in one fell swoop, so she spent a moment shredding them with blunt fingernails and letting the pieces fall to the floor. "I cannot contact them, not for help or information or shelter. Not anymore."
There wasn't necessarily anybody to answer, but figuring that she needed to seal the deal with a promise in crimson, she lifted the thermos, faltered momentarily, then closed her eyes tight and tried to chug it down.
M. Toombs
[Stamina 3]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 9) ( success x 1 )
M. Toombs
[Charisma 3 + Occult 4]
Dice: 7 d10 TN9 (1, 2, 3, 9, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )
The address M. Toombs was given by Gregory Wilce takes her to a warehouse. The warehouse is just one warehouse among many, not very interesting at all. The warehouse used to be a textile factory, but it's been many years since the thing has been used for anything but storage, partitioned into different rooms for a certain price. The security on the place is acceptable, more than acceptable, but in the front yard behind the barbed wire topped fence amid the detritus of litter gathered by a helpful wind desolate stretch of graffiti it doesn't look like the safest place to loiter or to keep one's things.
Greg the baker has a white van parked in front. The back of the van is open, and he is sitting on the edge, shoulder against the side of the van and his eyes apparently on the sky. It was a warm September.
M. Toombs
When Molly arrived, it was in a dark green sedan that was purchased new within the past year or so. Simple, reliable, unimpressive, forgettable. Exactly what someone who lived the life of a supernatural sleuth (more accurately, someone who just wouldn't disappear and mind her own business) would want and need. It had a big trunk and good gas milage, and that's just what she'd needed today.
When she stepped out of the car she was drinking a latte with extra espresso in it. She had her hair back in a ponytail and was dressed in a snug black t-shirt. The neckline swooped low enough to show that a charm rested on a necklace just below her neck. She wore black exercise pants and sneakers and a red flannel shirt that was at the moment tied around her waist. She looked the kind of exhausted that existed before a monumental task. She didn't yet know how she was going to make it over this particular mountain but kept forward anyways. The end had to be somewhere just out of sight, after all.
She'd gestured a greeting to Greg from inside the car once she'd put it in park, then got out and approached him at the back of his van.
"So we're going to need to haul some shit in with us." She was explaining this in person, hadn't opted for doing so over the phone. Figured it would be easier to back herself up once she'd gotten there. Sipping at her iced drink, she looked back to the car. Looked doubtful and disgruntled both.
"How far away are we?"
doom
"I'm going to ignore the your question until I'm sure what you've got planned is on the up and up," he says. He holds up a bag and a paper cup holder with two cups of coffee. An offering. Molly recognizes the paper cups. Harald-Jacky often had one when he was pretending to be human. Maybe he liked the warmth, holding it against chill flesh. Maybe he didn't, but it was penance to pay. He'd brought her coffee on more than one occasion. There's a furrow between Greg's brows, but he doesn't seem anxious. Just: in need of action.
And they're taking action now, aren't they.
"But we're probably not too far away. What kind of shit do we need to haul? What did you find?"
M. Toombs
Not keen on being deterred, Molly rolled her eyes at Greg's need to checklist the legitimacy of everything. The look she gave him said As if you'd know the difference. She went along with it anyways, though, and nodded gratefully at his gesture of coffee. Lifted the plastic cup of iced latte she was currently halfway through to indicate that she was good, though. "My heart'll give out if I try putting anymore caffeine in my body than this." Plus, she's learned lessons about taking coffee from this man.
She wrinkled her nose, not at his questions but at what her answers were.
"I've got a big cardboard box I'd appreciate your help carrying. It contains some materials, including eight mirrors that we're going to need. That's the heaviest part." If looked at uncertainly, she'd clarify-- "They're not that big, just twelve-by-twelve frames." She'd hope the 'other materials' part would be let to slide.
As they spoke, she gestured, then started to walk around to the trunk of her car. The fob on her keychain blinked the lights and popped the trunk. She was clearly going to show him anyways.
"I know how to bind Jacky back to his body." The real question wasn't the how anymore, though. It was whether she actually could. They'd get to that when they got there, though.
"I also know how to go and get him to bring him back. We can do this." She sounded more confident than she felt (hopefully*). That soon faded, though, because she sounded a little more hesitant when she spoke next.
"It does require some... voodoo-level business, though. A ritual." When she reached the trunk of the car there was a stirring noise from within-- kind of a cooing sound if you listened close. When she lifted the lid Greg would find within a large cardboard box stacked with eight mirrors, sized as promised, as well as a small velvet pouch tucked down at the bottom and a plastic solo cup as well. Wrapped carefully in towels, a knife.
More importantly than any of that, though, was the chicken clucking and fluffing itself disgruntled at them in the small cage beside it. Molly sounded displeased when she added:
"Sacrifice."
doom
The ghoul doesn't bat an eye. He'd cut Molly's throat if he thought it would do any good. His regnant has more humanity than he does, but he doesn't wear his lack of humanity on his sleeve, and he does have a finely tuned conscience. He doesn't think cutting Molly's throat would do any good.
He likes chicken salad. It's one of those little pleasures in life.
"So the plan is we go and get him to bring him back and then we bind him into place?"
M. Toombs
"Well, when I say 'go in', I mean one of us has to go into the mirrors after him." She licked her lips, gave him a moment to pick up on the fact that she said 'one of us' instead of defaulting to herself. Glanced up at him and raised her eyebrows almost apologetically.
"I think... It would be a better idea if I sent you in after him. You guys are bound, it'll be easier for him to find you." She wasn't sure of that, but she's learned to lie. We'll see if he sees through it.
"That way I can bind him quickly when we get him back."
[Manipulation 3 + Subterfuge 3: It's not lying if I don't know whether it's true or not right?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 6, 6, 6, 6, 7) ( success x 5 )
doom
"Huh."
The baker believes her. He believes her absolutely: that she thinks it would be a better idea, that it might even be a better idea, that there might be something to this idea that being bound by blood will make things easier on the other side. He knows a smidgeon of occult lore; what he knows does not match with Molly, who is a virtuoso on that particular subject. A precocious wunderkind. No wonder Jack liked her, so.
He starts hauling the mirrors out of the trunk, resting them against the side of her car. Pauses, to get a dolly out of his van, put the mirrors and the crate with the chicken on top of that. He hasn't raised a bit of protest yet, so perhaps he's not going to.
M. Toombs
Molly smiled appreciatively at Greg when he conceded to her explanation, and it broadened even moreso on a face that saw very few of them anymore when he started loading the things onto a dolly. She liked that he came prepared. Maybe after all of this, if they both survived, she would ask him out for drinks. They would both need it, she was pretty sure.
Clearing her throat, she stopped letting her eyes linger on the man around the time that he finished propping the chicken crate up. She carried her phone along with her, tucked into a zipper pocket on her pants. Put it on silent and tucked it away in vain hope that it may come in handy in case of an emergency.
She'd wait for him to lead the way, silent for she wasn't sure what else to say. I mean, what do you say in a situation like this?
Gulp. Here we go.
doom
Here we go.
Here they go. Once everything is loaded, he wheels the equipment (the rising protestation of the chicken) toward the ex-factory's front doors, pausing to unlock it. The keys are attached to his belt. He reaches in, practiced remembrance, to turn on lights before he and Molly are both inside the building. The building is, as perhaps expected, cavernous, something out of the 70s, partitioned without a care for light or human comfort. A maze. A warren. A labyrinth. All things appropriate for Nosferatu.
Here they go, and Greg says, "The thing is, Miss Molly, I just don't have the what the fuck reflection world the fuck is that even know-how if something were to go wrong. And I don't know I trust you with my body and his at once, because I'm guessing we'd be pretty helpless. But if the blood matters, it'll be easy enough to get you hooked a step. If you want a drink, it'll be a useful drink."
[Charisma + Empathy. This isn't going to manipulate you into anything, but you'll sure feel sympathy toward this idea, eh? EH? Charisma specialty Depend On Me in play.]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (4, 7, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 9 ) [Doubling Tens]
doom
[.... what the fuck Gregory.]
M. Toombs
Before they stepped inside the warehouse Molly paused to look up to the night's sky. She took in the moon and stars and breathed in one last deep gulp of the air before stepping through the door. She felt like there was a chance that might be her last time getting to do so alive. She should have taken a moment to do some studying out in the sun. She felt a sudden pang of regret at not seizing the opportunity.
As they were walking in and Molly was looking around Gregory presented an idea to her. Something about the tone of his voice caught her attention and called to her loudly. She stopped and lent him her full attention. Felt a pang of sympathy like a jolt of electricity in her gut and heart.
She understood where he was coming from. It was scary as hell, the prospect of being flung into a different dimension where you had no idea what the mechanics were or how you could get back out. He didn't have a mind for shit like this, but Molly clearly did. If anybody had a higher chance of traversing the Mirrors with any efficiency, it had to be her. Not him. Please not him. He didn't know what the fuck he was even doing here.
But the very idea of what he was suggesting... She scowled, looked sad, and asked to clarify:
"Are you suggesting I get a drink off his body?"
doom
"Yeah." He notes the scowl without comment, but nods as if to himself or as if to punctuate the thought. They're going deeper and deeper, down this aisle and then the next. His voice is warm and deep. "It's what I'll have to do in another month or two. Jack provided some back-up, but that won't last forever. As worthy as my continued existence is, this seems like an even worthier use, huh?"
Survivor. Molly's talking to a survivor, somebody who is committed to the next day and the day after that, to weathering whatever the night throws at him.
Survivors can be good guys. Survivors can be villains.
M. Toombs
Molly continued to walk along with him. She didn't like what he was suggesting, but she wasn't denying it either. He reminded her that drinking vampire blood was a part of his routine-- he had some on back-up, but he was going to have to go straight to the source himself before too long here.
Her mouth was pressed into a thin line. Wasn't this a worthier cause than his continuing to go on? Perhaps it was. She didn't know his life. She apparently didn't know enough about Jack's to determine whether his was worthier or not on its own.
So he was a survivor, so what? She knew one friend in particular who wished that she was one herself, as opposed to the kind of adventurous soul that kept diving headfirst into trouble without considering other options first. After all, she was here planning on killing an animal and drinking its blood in tribute to some dark magics that she probably didn't have any real grasp of anyways.
After that she didn't have a lot to say. She was just steeling herself for what was to come when they reached the center of this labyrinth.
nothing and Nobody
There is a door. "Here." Greg hands the dolley off to Molly at this point. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a key. The lock is a complicated one but not that complicated and Molly may think that this abandoned factory turned storage is not so dissimilar to the warehouse she initially stashed the Jack of Nobodies. Sweetheart Jack. Unlucky Jack. Ugly Jack. But he opens the door, grimacing: "Expect a climb."
They're going underground. There is an awkward ladder. They're both clever people and Gregory is a ghoul who gives the impression just now of having to transport let us say sensitive goods that are meant to pass under the radar more than once before and the mirrors, chicken, etc. all get passed down with relative safety. There is a light switch in the under the ground level room at the bottom of the ladder and Gregory flips it on. The room is long and narrow and at the end of the room is a series of metal boxes. Inflammable. No wood. The baker grunts, "He's here. Now how do we set up?"
[ooc: and when you get back, you can have Molly roll... hmm. Perception + Security or Larceny diff 8 oooor Perc + Alertness diff 10, Reflexive so no WP spent on this one.]
M. Toombs
[Perception 3 + Security/Larceny 0 (+1 diff penalty)]
Dice: 3 d10 TN9 (3, 8, 10) ( success x 1 )
nothing and Nobody
Molly, if she takes care to look at her surroundings, notices this: there is something odd about one of the walls, about the brickwork maybe but there's no brickwork. What is it? Ah. A smear on the ground, as if someone dragged into the wall. Faint. Very faint.
M. Toombs
When you walk through doors not knowing how you were going to come out again, if at all, you tend to do so one of two ways: kicking and screaming, or silent and pensieve. So when they reached the door leading down, Molly was silent as she went about assisting with the dolly and getting down the stairs.
Once they reached the point where Greg announced that they'd arrived, Molly took some time to glance about at the boxes. Took note of a peculiar something amiss about a brick wall, spied the smudging-scrape that went up into it, and made some guesses about the actual integrity and purpose of that wall and what may exist beyond it.
Her eyes narrowed just a touch at that particular anomaly, but Greg was soon asking how they should set up. It was time to get down to business. Molly gulped a breath to steel herself, then approached Greg and the box of supplies: "Here."
They followed directions that she'd written out in neat handwriting within a leather-bound notebook. Mirrors were to be set up in a circle large enough for a body or two to fit inside. She'd ask Greg to work on this in particular while she studied and prepared the rest of the details. Hovered near the dolly going over her notes and looking progressively more pale with each time that they read them over. One of the rituals required gold, and this was what was in the small velvet pouch that she cupped with one hand, rolling the contents absently about between her fingers while cradling her notebook open by its spine in the other.
When he was finished setting up, he'd find her looking at the chicken uncertainly, her brow furrowed like something was amiss.
"Fuck," she muttered. "I'm missing something."
What? He would no doubt ask, and she'd fix clear and serious blue eyes on his to respond.
"Blood."
nothing and Nobody
"How much?" His response is simple. His tone is heavy, but perhaps not easy to read. He squints at her.
M. Toombs
"A pint." She answered quickly, and looked hastily back down to her notes. Flipped a few pages as she explained.
"There's two rituals-- sending someone to bring him back, and then binding him. I need sacrifice to bind." A quick glance to the chicken cage. "I thought I'd just drain the chicken's blood, but I had my order of operations mixed up..."
She sighed and rubbed her face. It was pretty obvious that she hasn't slept much.
nothing and Nobody
"Eeh." He sounds unenthused, lifting his fingers briefly to rub up the bridge of his nose then between his eyebrows. "All right. That's a little more than I'd care to bleed out, not knowing how things are going to shake out later. But I've got just the thing." He'd started walking over to those metal boxes around the time he said 'things are going' and now he plugs in a code and opens the topmost one.
There's no Nosferatu body in the box. There is a large cooler, and in the cooler various things he doesn't necessarily want Molly to see. But she's over by the mirrors, right? And amid the various things, a big stoppered bottle. He uncaps it, sniffs, and recoils. "Fuckaduck."
Sighs, and reaches into his bag. He has a bag, of course. He'd put it on the dolley and has to walk back to get it. From the bag he pulls out a thermos, uncaps it and sniffs this one. His expression goes blank but not disgusted as before, and he holds the thermos out to Molly, but there are worry lines on his forehead.
"This should do."
If she takes a smell of it, she doesn't get the hunger-cramp craving that the smell of vitae might give her -- it being so delightful, so delicious. Worth living for, worth being immortal for. Really.
M. Toombs
She hesitated before accepting the thermos and looking inside. She sniffed it cautiously, as it was likely too dim to make out the contents very well. Ultimately she nodded in acceptance-- there wasn't much else of a choice, and she didn't particluarly want to drink warm blood from Gregory's arm either. It was bad enough drinking any, but she certainly wasn't a vampire. She had no love for the stuff.
At this point she looked around and sniffed. Put a hand on her hip and with an air of finality, like someone about to jump off a cliff, she said:
"Okay, we're as ready as we'll ever be. Where is he?"
Her eyes flickered tell-tale toward the wall she'd noticed the scuff marks by, and then back to Greg with a pointed lift of eyebrows. "We'll need to have him available right away so as not to waste time with the binding."
nothing and Nobody
"Okay," he says. "Okay," and tension simmers rising up in his tone, a trigger-warning temper which hasn't had occasion to show since his old regnant. The one who wasn't as nice as Jack. Molly doesn't know much about Gregory and how Gregory came to be Jack's man, but Gregory is invested for a number of reasons.
No theatrics. He goes to the wall Molly noticed something off with and it turns out the wall is a fake wall and he opens that. There's one of those fire proof boxes, a big one, and he hauls that out. It's heavy. It's really heavy. Gregory pauses to look inside, briefly. Not too long. Licks his lips, unconscious gestures.
"You need him outta the box?"
M. Toombs
When Gregory glanced up again he'd find Molly's nose wrinkled. Even though she'd been there herself, was there herself, she still didn't much care for the idea of being so drawn to vampire blood. She knew what those licked lips were for. Wondered about the internal struggle to keep on task, but only briefly and in incomplete thought.
"Yeah," she said, nodding her head and looking back to where the mirrors were set up on the ground. "I don't want the box messing with any of the..." She waved her hand in a twirling gesture while she searched for the explanation. "It might interrupt energy movement. Like how coppper is a conduit, this might be iron to an x-ray, you know?"
She didn't really offer to help move Jack, but probably would if Greg was struggling excessively or pressured her to do so.
nothing and Nobody
Gregory does not act as if he wants Molly's help with Nobody's Jack (Sweetheart Jack, Honey-tongued Jack, Jack-of-the-Underground), though he smiles a rather wincing smile like brace yourself babe and then he reaches into the box and pulls the creature inside the box out.
The creature inside the box is one that Molly has seen, of course. She transported him once the bus hit him, knocked his Mask away, knocked his projected humanity his conman's face away and left the truth:
The Curse. Skin melting, horns drifting thither-hither, and most horrible of all:
the clear definition of a man beneath all those gnarled knots of ugliness, those scabrous calloused hardened twists that must be painful (how can any one thing be so hideous? Hideous: Hide, Hide-Away, Right now). That is a person. That was a person. That could be you.
He doesn't breathe. He - it - seems to be dead. And to have shrunk, some, become withered, somewhat dessicated even paler, since last Molly clapped eyes on him. He's wearing the same clothes he was the last time Jacky and Molly went chasing down reflections, though they're torn. Have been mended.
Maybe there's a telltale cat hair. Gregory puts him down carefully enough, and then looks at Molly with an eyebrow cock for more direction. He is brisk with his handling of Jack's body. Brisk, but careful; doesn't look at him too closely.
M. Toombs
Brace yourself, the sardonic smile said.
Molly's grim lack of a smile answered -- she'd been braced for the past five goddamn days, she was ready to be done bracing.
Jacky-- or, well the actual Jack, not the Jacky that she had come to recognize and even kind of love in a way (thanks to adventure, to shared interests, and to vitae)-- looked the same as she recalled, but it was still a hideous thing to see and still took a moment to adjust to. He looked more withered, though, like a plant that desperately needed water. Like a husk of a beast-body, dry and shriveled and stiff. A life-sized voodoo doll monstrosity.
Once he was out of the box and on the floor, Molly began.
For the first ritual Molly stood with mirrors both facing her and facing away from her. The gold was set aside, near the chicken, for the ritual to come (assuming that this first one went accordingly, at least). For this one she needed a different kind of sacrifice-- a promise, and blood let. She'd cast an anxious glance to Gregory with her chest out, full of the deep breath to make her promise to set things into motion. Didn't say anything, but didn't need to-- her gaze told stories of how unsure she was if this would work, how it would work, and whether things would end in any positive light.
No direction but forward, though. Heaving that breath, Molly spoke clearly into the room.
"For this, I surrender something of worth to me. An exchange-- a tit for tat." At this point she reached into her pocket and produced a small deck of cardstock business cards. Each with a different name for a vampire. Each different and dangerous in its own way. Phone numbers, names, connections, strings to pull and fellowships to call upon, bargains that could be made based on shaky alliances built in curiosity and little more.
"I'll give up all of these names. All of these people." The cards were too thick all together to tear up in one fell swoop, so she spent a moment shredding them with blunt fingernails and letting the pieces fall to the floor. "I cannot contact them, not for help or information or shelter. Not anymore."
There wasn't necessarily anybody to answer, but figuring that she needed to seal the deal with a promise in crimson, she lifted the thermos, faltered momentarily, then closed her eyes tight and tried to chug it down.
M. Toombs
[Stamina 3]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 9) ( success x 1 )
M. Toombs
[Charisma 3 + Occult 4]
Dice: 7 d10 TN9 (1, 2, 3, 9, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )
The Nosferatu ghoul stays out of the circle of mirrors once the ritual begins. His arms are folded. Of course he can still see his reflection in the mirrors, the ones that face outward. Face outward, face inward. The body of Jack is Nobody indeed. There is no reflection caught in the mirrors. Molly can see her own reflection, though: multiplied, all angles caught. The Fun House Tradition.
Molly pulls her offering out.
They could be kids, playing at understanding things greater than they. Molly and Gregory.
This could be stupid, a game.
But it isn't. Molly manages to feel the air grow dense as she speaks. Her reflection is innocuous. Her reflection is under her command. Her reflection does what it is supposed to do. Gregory makes a sound when she starts to quaff the blood. It hits her throat and tastes just like actual blood, copper, disgusting, stomach-churning, nothing to be excited for. It isn't vitae. It isn't ambrosia and delight. It isn't immortality: it's iron and who knows what it came from and her stomach wants to rebel but she manages to swallow the whole thing.
That's not why Gregory makes a sound.
When Molly is done drinking, she might notice that the mirror directly in front of her is not quite as it should be. She can still see herself, looking back at her, mouth gory and grim. But the mirror Molly is -- there. The mirror Molly is closer than she should be to the mirror, as if Molly herself were standing pressed flush against it instead of in the middle of the circle.
M. ToombsWhile she drank, Molly's eyes were directed at the ceiling. Her face looked as if she wanted to cry. But she kept chugging, not being neat or taking her time, wanting it over as quick as possible. By the time she was finished there was blood all down her chin and dribbling into the neckline of her shirt as well. Wearing all black had been a strategic call, no doubt for this reason exactly.
When she finished she couldn't see anything but mirrors, so the fact that her reflection had shifted while she drank certainly was not missed. Gregory was standing with his arms locked over his chest, aside and out of the way. Jacky nearer, but hardly anything more than a shell right now (albeit an impossibly ugly one). More than that, she was focused on her reflection.
Initially she'd been startled by it-- the double-punch impact was not only registering the fact that her reflection was much, much closer, but that its being closer made the impact of how she appeared with crimson down her front (not the first time, but it was startling and grim all the same). The reflection was close enough that it may reach through the glass for her if she got too near. She worried for this-- in her studies, she had gotten the impression that they could be very jealous things and try to change places with her. For this reason, she didn't approach the mirror to be any nearer to her now-independent reflection.
Doing her best to keep her tone confident, as well as trying hard not to throw up, Molly lifted her chin and filled her chest with air to address the messenger.
"I need you to find and bring this--" and she pointed to where Jack was in the physical world, for his reflection had long since been gone. "--back to me from your side. There may be two-- if there are, I need them both. ....Please." The word tacked on at the end because she wasn't sure how manners translated through the looking glass.
nothingMolly's Doppelganger touches her bloody chin, wiping away the blood. She'd seemed to speak when Molly spoke, and other than being too close had mirrored all that Molly did perfectly -- until the touching of her chin, the wiping away of the blood just so.
The reflection presses her fingers against glass and writes.
The way is open for you.
M. Toombs"Fuck."
The explictive is breathed more than spoken aloud. She had hoped that she could send the reflection in her stead. No, the way was open for her to go on her own. She frowned a little, brow creasing, and asked the reflection:
"Can you not go without me?"
nothingMolly finds herself on the receiving end of a look that some of her coworkers might just be familiar with. It's an unamused, impatient look - just be perfect and don't talk about stupid things that don't matter! She scrapes more blood from her chin, paler finger trails in the mess, and using all four fingers underlines 'for you.' Then steps back and to the side.
The lights flicker.
M. ToombsShe didn't actually curse aloud this time, but the face she made said it loud enough instead. She didn't move forward just yet, but instead paused and looked to Gregory once more. Maybe for a last time? Who knew.
"See you soon."
I hope.
Then she looked forward and, finally, stepped from where she began in the center of the circle of mirrors. Walked directly up to the first mirror so she was as close as the reflection had been. Molly lifted a hand up, but hesitated. Looked down at her hand and rubbed her fingertips together. Then, with a breath, she reached forward and pressed her fingers to the surface of the glass.
nothing[Gregory! Let's throw Molly a you-can-count-on-me supportive look, eh? Charisma (Specialty 'Dependable' applicable) + Empathy.]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 7, 10) ( success x 5 ) [Doubling Tens]
M. Toombs[Wits 4 (Cool-Headed specialty]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 7, 10) ( success x 3 ) [Doubling Tens]
nothing[A damage roll.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 7, 7, 8) ( success x 3 )
M. Toombs[Soak!]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (3, 7, 7) ( success x 2 )
nothingGregory, beyond the circle of mirrors, has his arms loose at his sides. He seems ready for something. He's been around the block. He knows it's best to be ready for something, for anything, because something and anything will happen. When Molly gives him a look, perhaps for the last time, he musters up what warmth and competence he has to project them into a nod, keeping his eyes on hers until she looks away. Whatever else happens, Molly has the feeling that Gregory has her back and will do what needs to be done, at least while she's on this particular journey.
Her hand on the mirror. The mirror is cold enough that she feels as if her skin is blistering. No reflected hand mirrors her; the mirror just seems to show the other mirrors, endlessly repeating, no Molly at all. No Molly and no Jack and maybe a shape that could be Gregory.
Then her reflection blinks into existence again, eye to eye. It smiles, and then its pupils widen and widen and widen until the whole mirror is black and the darkness splashes out of the mirror and it swallows Molly whole.
Gregory pulls out his gun, but the darkness subsides and there's nothing and nobody left behind.
Molly, though. Molly's perspective: the darkness blinks over her; it feels as if her wrist is broken, her hand is frozen, her skin is peeling off; she keeps her wits about her, though, and after a pin-prick tingling which passes from her soles to her head and back again she finds herself on
the ground of the same room she was in before. But Gregory is a ghost only visible from some angles. If she looks hard at the walls, she can see all of these places where the picture blurs into fog and mist and hallways and darkness. If she looks up, it's more fog and murkiness.
Welcome to the other side of the mirror, Molly.
M. Toombs[Perception 3 + Alertness 3: Reflection, are you there?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 6, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )
nothingMolly finds it difficult to notice her reflection now if she looks directly at it, but at the perepheral, out of the corner of her eye, if she just keeps this one area in the corner of her eye -- the Molly-reflection is still there, leaning against the edge of one of the mirrors and chewing as if on gum.
There are also things up above, vaguely bat-like in shape. They seem very still right now, and are likewise difficult to look directly at, but there's a sense that if they move
if they are wakened
if they
...
... well, don't wake them.
M. ToombsMolly knew a trick or two about looking for things. In search for the reflection she didn't just turn her head all around and search frantically for hiding places. She let her gaze unfocus as well, checked the peripherals. There, against the side of a mirror, like she was going to wait patiently for her to return. Maybe hang out and play catch-up with Gregory, who knew.
She also noticed shapes huddled all over the ceiling, like resting bats. She could really only imagine what would happen if they were disturbed. Would they tear her flesh from bone like a pack of winged pirhannas? Best not to find out.
While she couldn't see the reflection directly, she still gestured in her direction and breathed her words soft, smooth, and gentle-- as though there were a sleeping baby the next door over.
"How do I find him? Do you know?"
nothing"I don't know." Molly's reflection doesn't have Molly's voice. How would she? The visual copy is a visual copy; do they even have music in the world beyond the mirror? The reflection's voice sounds froggy, harsh and raspy, like cat claws and velvet. "I'm not your guide. You didn't summon one. Just look around, do your Nancy Drew thing."
M. ToombsMolly seemed to think about the answer she got for a moment, then shrugged one shoulder and nodded as though to concede. "That's fair enough, I suppose..."
If this was Molly's Reflection, she knew enough of the person she was bound to to know that she was smarter than to just walk off into the land of reflections and get herself lost. She did roam around the room, looking about carefully. She checked carefully the area where the mirrors where, were she'd left Jack laying on the floor as well.
The doorway was checked out as well, but before that she spoke softly to her reflection again, as though absently wondering aloud while doing her Nancy Drew thing as suggested.
"If I were go go looking, how worried would I have to be about getting lost? Or nabbed by something nasty?"
nothing"We hate you here," Molly says. "Every time you primp and preen, every time you build something reflective, something to show your fucking faces, one of us gets trapped and we have to dance and do whatever you want. We can't talk. We lose our voices. We hate you here; how worried do you think you should be?"
Beat. "There are lots of exits. Finding one isn't something you're going to need to be worried about. Hopefully your boy out there lights a candle to draw you back to those mirrors but if he doesn't," a shrug. A shrug Molly knows intimately.
M. ToombsThere was plenty of vitriol in her reflection's voice when the mechanics of reflections was explained. For what it was worth, Molly listened to the answer that was given and looked sad, or maybe regretful about the nature of mirrors and what they've done to the spirits on the other side.
"What were you before--," she started to ask, curious about the origins of reflections. She said that when a mirror was created one of them was trapped, after all, indicating that they used to be something before the awful magic of mirrors was worked. Instead, she sufficed for.
"I'm sorry." She never made a mirror. She didn't know that her primping in the mirror-- applying mascara and checking ample cleavage-- was slave's work for the image on the other side. All the same, a bit of sympathy was offered. It wouldn't cure anything, but at least it was there.
"Okay," she said, then nodded. "Thanks." And with that said, Molly moved quietly from this room to the ladder that would lead her upstairs again. She was willing to search the rest of the warehouse that Jacky apparently haunted but with the warning given about how hated she was here she had no plans to wander far enough to find any other people's reflections.
She just wanted to find one in particular.
nothingThe ladder is cold to the touch and when Molly begins to climb she can feel the beginning of a bruise in her muscles, but it isn't bad enough to give her any great difficulty, so Molly climbs. This has been an exhausting week for the young nurse; who knows if she'll have another week? This might be the last.
She might never get home.
Up she goes, and the things she noticed hanging from the 'ceiling' (though the ceiling disappears the higher she climbs; dissipates into a dark fog, a smear of formlessness) do not seem to be wakened quite yet.
But when she is done climbing the ladder, she finds herself standing somewhere quite different from the factory she remembers walking through. Oh, there are little slivers of space which look like they've been cut out of the factory, little bits of familiarty: the things that were reflected and so are given form. But between those reflections of the real world as captured (and somewhat distorted) by a door knob or a handle or a broken bottle the ground is slag rock folded over and over again stretching out a very long way, a thick white fog roiling across, and the air is full of lightning.
That-a-way, there is a door.
That-a-way, there is the ghost of a car, and its reflection. Other ghostly reflections, echoing silently whatever it is their person is doing- rigid beneath it but you'd never know. They don't get to express themselves.
That-a-way-over-there, open doors in the ground.
And that-a-way, over there, a bus.
M. ToombsEverything was cold, incredibly so. She had to favor her right wrist-- the pull through from the Physical Realm into the Realm of Mirrors was a painful one, and though she was a gal with a sturdy constition her hand still took the brunt of the damage from the transition. She'd put it in a brace when this was all over, assuming that she would make it through intact.
The world above was nothing but fog, with snips and clips of the 'real world' to be found throughout. She recognized a knob here, a bit of familiar flooring there, but there was no ceiling, and there was no way to see through the distance. There was a car, a bus, some doors left open that are in the earth itself, and a solitary upright door.
Molly had carried the thermos that once held the blood along with her, forgetful about it still being clutched in her right hand. She looked around thoughtfully, and stared at the standing door in particular for quite a while. Looked to the door in the ground that she had come through herself. Slowly, carefully, she tested out a theory.
Fingers dipped into the interior of the thermos and scraped along the side, pulling what blood residue was still in there (admittedly, there was plenty of it-- Molly certainly didn't lick the thing clean or get every last drop) onto her fingertips. Testing first, she smeared the red of blood onto the door she'd come through. As it was her only real option and seemed sufficient enough, she made several dashes of the bright red blood on the earth with her fingertips, forming a circle around the door she had come through.
The trail of blood was lightly, sparingly dribbled on the ground between this door and the next as she walked. The single door that stood upright was what she would test first.
This time when she grabbed the knob and twisted, she used the flannel shirt tied around her waist as a guard for bare flesh.
nothingThe bloodied markings do not become any more sinister than any bloodied markings are to begin with. They do not disappear; they hold.
And Molly grabs the door knob and twists it, using her flannel shirt. The door knob twists easily and without sound; when it opens, she finds herself looking at what might be a city. Denver, but viewed from above: a spider web of lights, blinking and illuminated, a strange staircase leading from the door and spiraling downward.
It is incredible and it should not exist but Molly is no longer on earth or in the fields she knows. As for Jack or Jack's Reflection:
The few times she's seen Jack's Reflection, it has come to her, in her own house or her place of work: it haunts the familiar locations. (There might be two of them, she thinks.)
Molly is looking for a needle in a haystack, but she has also made herself into a needle in a haystack: the thing needles in haystacks are is lost. Directionless? We'll see.
Going down the staircase will surely take her 'far' from where she is now, although who is to say what direction means now.
M. ToombsThe sight through the door took Molly's breath away for a moment. She knew she was in a place that made no sense, where the rules didn't apply, but it was still mind-boggling to open a door and see an entire city below, with a staircase leading down to it on top of that. She stood with the door open for several seconds, just staring with her mouth slightly open, before hastily (but gently, quietly) closing the door again. She was slightly worried that something may have 'gotten in' during the time that she was standing there. Doors weren't really made to be ajar, after all.
Rather than assuming this was the right path and moving forward, Molly wanted to know her options. She very much did not want to get lost. There were plenty of endings that she would accept, but forever wandering through fog was the least of them.
That was close enough to her actual life as it was. She wouldn't be able to stomach the irony nearly as well as she did the blood.
This door was marked with a crude pictoglyph of multi-height rectangles, just three of them so she wasn't being wasteful. To her it represented a city's skyline. That was what this door went to.
Next, she would check one of the doors that was built into the ground. Presuming that nothing intervened otherwise, she did this with all of the doors available-- simply opening and looking and checking, then closing, marking, and moving on to the next. The whole while she looked about shiftily, as though paranoid of attack or being snuck up on.
nothingThe first one: opens into darkness. The darkness is wet and cloying and seems to be breathing. In, and out. In, and out. In, and out.
The second door: opens into a street. The street is wide and generous, and after a moment or two, Molly may recognize it for a street down in Santa Fe. There are people moving around on the street, but it is absolutely silent. Nobody says anything at all to one another, although if she takes time to watch the way people move she may notice a pattern.
The tiny little revolutionary acts that one might commit.
The third door: opens on a car, black and wide and wealthy.
The fourth: on the hotel room she had an audience with the Sophie the Ventrue and Morris the Malkavian.
The fifth: a cave with a sign written in a script she does not know, roots tangling over them. The roots are pulsing, as if they are feeding, in time not to breathing but to the beating of a heart.
M. Toombs[Wits 4 + Investigation 2: Which door will fuck me up the least?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN9 (1, 2, 5, 5, 7, 9) ( success x 1 )
nothingMolly considers and by considering realizes a couple of things. 1. In darkness, things which are enslaved by sight might have more freedom of movement. 2. If Jack's Reflection is here, so is She that took it. 3. The door which might fuck her up least and the door which might take her to Jack are not necessarily the same doors. 4. This place has rules, but she doesn't know them. Still: it must be easy to spy from this place she is in. 5. Spying is not what she is here for, so the car and the hotel room likely do not have what she is looking for.
M. ToombsMolly took her time, stopped and thought carefully about each door that she opened and each option that was available. She decided immediately not to go to Sophie and Morris. That was the last place she wanted to be-- it was like hitting her timer early going to them. She didn't even mark what this door was, actually, just wrote "NO" in big bloody letters across it.
The car seemed interesting. She had a feeling that if she got into that big, expansive back seat the driver would appear faceless in a black hat and start quizzing her. She was willing to bet she'd learn plenty, and see some amazing places in that car.
Not now, though. This door was marked with a crude crawing of a steering wheel and nothing more. The first door was marked with hatch marks to represent darkness. The second, lines to show a street and its paint marks, and the fifth was a small cave drawing (an arch within an arch). They were all considered, and very carefully. She was a smart woman, but in a land whose rules were unfamiliar to her. There were some things that she was able to put together, though-- likelihoods, possibilities, and so on.
It was only when she started to feel rushed by herself-- how long had it been? How long did time here translate to on the other side? How long could Gregory just stand there waiting for them before he assumed her lost for good and packed up his show and left? What happened if her mirror circle got disturbed? A decision definitely had to be made-- she didn't want to waste any more time finding out.
Taking a breath, deep and nervous, she opened one of the in-ground doors and walked from the land of fog into a cave of living, feeding, thriving roots. It seemed the kind of place that a creature like Jacky may go.
M. Toombs[Dexterity 3 + Stealth 2: I don't want to disturb anything I just wanna get my guy and go]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 6, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )
nothing[Ears in the Dark]
Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 4, 7, 10) ( success x 2 )
nothing[Eyes in the Dark]
Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 3, 4, 4, 6, 8) ( success x 2 )
nothing'Walk' is more of a 'gently let herself down into this oh wait gravity is behaving strangely now oh walking indeed okay' and then she is somewhere that is underground. The sense of being underground is strong; didn't Jacky tell her that his reflection was stolen when he was exploring beneath Seattle?
The Cave.
If Molly looks past the door she just walked through, she can see the cavern stretching out and over until it turns into something manmade, something with arches and brickwork and the sound of water rushing. The air has a hollow feel to it; it echoes. The sound of water rushing is one of the first sounds she has heard since coming here; something that is a sound natural to this environment.
If she looks ahead, the cave broadens, there is the sign, and past the sign:
a labyrinth made out of stone. Staircases built into the wall, and tunnels. Graffiti here and there, looking more like glyphs than anything else, and of course the pulsing roots--feeding roots. The roots snake across the ground, and what light there is seems to come from no light source at all but to be dim and ever-present, a diffuse filtered out almost-brightness, the sort of light you get from the last gutter of the last candle, a sort of night air brightness when there's no moon and it seems dark but if you know darkness and shadows you know it can get much much much much darker.
M. ToombsThe rubber soles of Molly's sneakers were quiet on the rock-and-earth upon which she tred. They, too, were a decision made with intent. She didn't just happen to pull on the clothes she did-- she knew she may need to run or sneak or climb, so she wore clothes with give, clothes that were dark and wouldn't show evidence of everything she did tonight, shoes that she could get the hell out of there with if need be.
There may be something lurking about-- more than likely, as a matter of fact. Places like this didn't usually exist without sentries and residents. But if anything was there it didn't notice Miss Molly as she slinked forward past the sign she couldn't read, following the deep echoing sound of water and noticing how the walls gave way to man-made brick.
At last she came upon a labyrinth that looked like something out of M.C. Escher's portfolio. For a few moments she stared, and even tried to follow a path from whatever vantage point she had until it was lost. Those moments were precisely that, though-- just a few seconds ticked by on a clock somewhere (in her perception, at least). It didn't take her long to decide against this particular path. She was trying not to get lost, after all.
So Molly turned about and went right back the way she came. Seeking the hatch-and-door back to the plane of someplace inbetween. She didn't want to go to the darkness, but perhaps it was better after all...
nothingAs soon as Molly returns to the door, re-opens it (for it is closed when she returns to it, whether or not she left it that way), she will notice a change:
The air smells of salt. The door opens not into the room fog-world many doors and many corners that she'd climbed up into, but into the room where her mirror ritual stands and Gregory is standing, or half of Gregory is standing, the half that is visible in one of the mirrors a pale ghost she can reach through perhaps if she tried (although isn't he a slave? He is a slave; a mirror world slave), back braced against the side of the room, his kindle on, reading.
The ladder seems different, too. Darker; abyssal tendrils hiding just behind it, as if something would snatch at her were she to climb again.
The labyrinth waits at her back.
All ways are forward.
M. ToombsBack into the room-- not the room with doors again, oh no. Apparently she didn't have the option of seeking the breathing darkness, or the mirror-world Santa Fe street where everyone walked silently in a pattern that she didn't take time to dissect. Rather, she was back in the room where she'd initially stepped through to this realm. She spied the half-views of Gregory (oh good, he was still there!), and glanced briefly about for her own reflection as well.
Well damnit. Her nostrils flared-- the room smelled salty, like the sea or perhaps some rock chamber far below the earth where salt actually grew into crystals. It was different from before. Something had changed, but what?
A glance back at the ladder. The tendrils of darkness that swayed around it, vaguely threatening, had her backing away from the ladder and further into the room. She scowled, stuck for the moment.
Tonight was a night of trying, apparently. She touched a hand to her face- the blood that had caked her chin and neck was drying quickly on the surface area of her skin-- it would flake off if she took the time to scrub at it, but this wasn't the time for that either. So, bloody-faced and pale underneath that still, Molly approached the mirror circle again and came to stand in its center. After a cautious glance upward, she looked into one of the mirrors and called softly, gently, as though cooing for a child to wake from their sleep.
"Jack... Can you hear me? Can you come to my voice? Please, I can't find you. I need you."
nothingThe surface of the mirror shivers as the flat surface of a lake might shiver when a breeze comes trip-trapping over it.
Trip-trap, skim-shudder, and then: Molly's own eyes looking back into hers. They shift into something hideous, drooping; her skin loses its lustre, becomes paler; her visage shifts into something truly hideous. She loses some of her hair.
Monster-Molly reflection opens her mouth and says "Molly?" in a voice she knows quite well. Honeyed voice, something about it and its cadences cornfed and hale and hearty and it's a good voice and it's Jacky's. Sounds foggy, with sleep.
M. ToombsHer own reflection appeared at first, and Molly was braced for sarcasm. No, she was sure she'd hear herself say in that raspy growl of a voice. I told you to go do your Nancy Drew thing on your own what are you doing asking for help from me again.. But the image shimmered along the surface, then began to melt and morph and grow. The monster was a disfigured thing, and watching her own face transform into what Jack's face was now had her cringing.
But there was Jack's face, ugly as sin as it was. And more than that, there was his voice. Her name on his voice sang in her veins and made her heart soar with relief and excitement and a weird, deep, bound love all alike. She had to resist the urge to press hands to the glass between them in her excitement. Remembering the cold burn and worrying that it would disrupt the connection and send him away kept her hands to herself, both wrapped tightly around that thermos.
"Jack!", she exclaimed quietly and leaned forward, closer, but touched nothing.
"Jesus Christ, Jack. I'm gonna help get you back, okay?" He sounded sleepy, though, so she felt compelled to explain: "I need you to stay here, okay? Can you do that? I'm gonna fix this, but I need you to stay here in these--" indicating the mirrors around them. Even as she was gesturing to the mirrors she was looking around at them, and if he were coherent enough he could see the gears spinning full-speed in her head. She was figuring out getting back across, when she should, and how quickly she would be able to go into binding.
Waiting for his answer first, though.
nothingThe mirror is not flat or smooth right now. The surface has the texture of liquid but it is still held perfectly straight. Ugly-Molly (for there is more of Molly in the face that looks back at her than there is Jack, but there is more Jack than would mean the reflection looking back at her is strictly Molly, so Ugly-Molly) monster-Molly blinks. Lifts her/his/its hands up knuckles skim out of the mirror elbows poke out too and then presses the palm of her-it-his hand to her-his-its face.
"Jack is an important name. A humble name. It's important to be humble but also arrogant enough to know you can get more if you only want it enough," and the end of the sentence wanders away from sleepy-Jack voice.
"Molly, I haven't been sleepy for longer than I can remember."
And the mirror shudders again, and the reflection is gone.
Instead, the mirror reflects a hallway.
M. Toombs"I don't want anything more than getting you back to the right side of the looking glass right now," she said quickly a the reflection that was mingled between herself and Jack rubbed at its face. More to Jack's voice than not, a statement about not being sleepy for a long time ended their talk. The reflection faded away, shuddered and shimmered, and instead there was a hallway.
Only forward, not back. And this was the best lead she had so far.
Without near so much hesitation this time as what she's shown before, Molly reached out to touch the glass surface, reluctant to whatever pain it may cause her, and then pushed through to try and access the hallway she was seeing.
nothingThis time there is no pain. There is no cold and no shock and she gets no bruises, but the hall is slippery: difficult to walk on. The walls seem to be coated with water; water is slowly, and noiselessly, dripping from the ceiling, slicking down the walls, slick across the floor, a subtle and constant undulation.
The hall she is in might be a castle: it seems old, with wooden beams (crusted with salt deposits), and then all the stone. It also has the sense of being under-the-ground, under-the-world. Up ahead, it opens up into a couple of rooms, and one of them is a blackness. A darkness.
Behind the door-mirror she just came through, a stair case that spirals downward. More darkness.
M. ToombsThe pain didn't come, and Molly was grateful. Her wrist was a constant throbbing ache and was no doubt beginning to swell up. Her muscles were all tired and worn already, as though she'd run a couple of marathons over the course of a week. That she transitioned so easily into the hallway was a blessing.
There the walls were stone, supported by wood, and everything was slick and wet and salty. It made her think vaguely of saline spills at work. One hand touched the wall in case she needed steadying. At the end of the hall there opened a room, and there were more doors. She got the impression that she was at the same crossroads that she was at earlier, but with a different facade to it.
Ahead-- the darkness. Behind, the darkness. Good, she thought. That's where I thought I had to go anyways.
So, not going back, but instead going forward through the door, Molly stepped into the dark.
Molly pulls her offering out.
They could be kids, playing at understanding things greater than they. Molly and Gregory.
This could be stupid, a game.
But it isn't. Molly manages to feel the air grow dense as she speaks. Her reflection is innocuous. Her reflection is under her command. Her reflection does what it is supposed to do. Gregory makes a sound when she starts to quaff the blood. It hits her throat and tastes just like actual blood, copper, disgusting, stomach-churning, nothing to be excited for. It isn't vitae. It isn't ambrosia and delight. It isn't immortality: it's iron and who knows what it came from and her stomach wants to rebel but she manages to swallow the whole thing.
That's not why Gregory makes a sound.
When Molly is done drinking, she might notice that the mirror directly in front of her is not quite as it should be. She can still see herself, looking back at her, mouth gory and grim. But the mirror Molly is -- there. The mirror Molly is closer than she should be to the mirror, as if Molly herself were standing pressed flush against it instead of in the middle of the circle.
M. ToombsWhile she drank, Molly's eyes were directed at the ceiling. Her face looked as if she wanted to cry. But she kept chugging, not being neat or taking her time, wanting it over as quick as possible. By the time she was finished there was blood all down her chin and dribbling into the neckline of her shirt as well. Wearing all black had been a strategic call, no doubt for this reason exactly.
When she finished she couldn't see anything but mirrors, so the fact that her reflection had shifted while she drank certainly was not missed. Gregory was standing with his arms locked over his chest, aside and out of the way. Jacky nearer, but hardly anything more than a shell right now (albeit an impossibly ugly one). More than that, she was focused on her reflection.
Initially she'd been startled by it-- the double-punch impact was not only registering the fact that her reflection was much, much closer, but that its being closer made the impact of how she appeared with crimson down her front (not the first time, but it was startling and grim all the same). The reflection was close enough that it may reach through the glass for her if she got too near. She worried for this-- in her studies, she had gotten the impression that they could be very jealous things and try to change places with her. For this reason, she didn't approach the mirror to be any nearer to her now-independent reflection.
Doing her best to keep her tone confident, as well as trying hard not to throw up, Molly lifted her chin and filled her chest with air to address the messenger.
"I need you to find and bring this--" and she pointed to where Jack was in the physical world, for his reflection had long since been gone. "--back to me from your side. There may be two-- if there are, I need them both. ....Please." The word tacked on at the end because she wasn't sure how manners translated through the looking glass.
nothingMolly's Doppelganger touches her bloody chin, wiping away the blood. She'd seemed to speak when Molly spoke, and other than being too close had mirrored all that Molly did perfectly -- until the touching of her chin, the wiping away of the blood just so.
The reflection presses her fingers against glass and writes.
The way is open for you.
M. Toombs"Fuck."
The explictive is breathed more than spoken aloud. She had hoped that she could send the reflection in her stead. No, the way was open for her to go on her own. She frowned a little, brow creasing, and asked the reflection:
"Can you not go without me?"
nothingMolly finds herself on the receiving end of a look that some of her coworkers might just be familiar with. It's an unamused, impatient look - just be perfect and don't talk about stupid things that don't matter! She scrapes more blood from her chin, paler finger trails in the mess, and using all four fingers underlines 'for you.' Then steps back and to the side.
The lights flicker.
M. ToombsShe didn't actually curse aloud this time, but the face she made said it loud enough instead. She didn't move forward just yet, but instead paused and looked to Gregory once more. Maybe for a last time? Who knew.
"See you soon."
I hope.
Then she looked forward and, finally, stepped from where she began in the center of the circle of mirrors. Walked directly up to the first mirror so she was as close as the reflection had been. Molly lifted a hand up, but hesitated. Looked down at her hand and rubbed her fingertips together. Then, with a breath, she reached forward and pressed her fingers to the surface of the glass.
nothing[Gregory! Let's throw Molly a you-can-count-on-me supportive look, eh? Charisma (Specialty 'Dependable' applicable) + Empathy.]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 7, 10) ( success x 5 ) [Doubling Tens]
M. Toombs[Wits 4 (Cool-Headed specialty]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 7, 10) ( success x 3 ) [Doubling Tens]
nothing[A damage roll.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 7, 7, 8) ( success x 3 )
M. Toombs[Soak!]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (3, 7, 7) ( success x 2 )
nothingGregory, beyond the circle of mirrors, has his arms loose at his sides. He seems ready for something. He's been around the block. He knows it's best to be ready for something, for anything, because something and anything will happen. When Molly gives him a look, perhaps for the last time, he musters up what warmth and competence he has to project them into a nod, keeping his eyes on hers until she looks away. Whatever else happens, Molly has the feeling that Gregory has her back and will do what needs to be done, at least while she's on this particular journey.
Her hand on the mirror. The mirror is cold enough that she feels as if her skin is blistering. No reflected hand mirrors her; the mirror just seems to show the other mirrors, endlessly repeating, no Molly at all. No Molly and no Jack and maybe a shape that could be Gregory.
Then her reflection blinks into existence again, eye to eye. It smiles, and then its pupils widen and widen and widen until the whole mirror is black and the darkness splashes out of the mirror and it swallows Molly whole.
Gregory pulls out his gun, but the darkness subsides and there's nothing and nobody left behind.
Molly, though. Molly's perspective: the darkness blinks over her; it feels as if her wrist is broken, her hand is frozen, her skin is peeling off; she keeps her wits about her, though, and after a pin-prick tingling which passes from her soles to her head and back again she finds herself on
the ground of the same room she was in before. But Gregory is a ghost only visible from some angles. If she looks hard at the walls, she can see all of these places where the picture blurs into fog and mist and hallways and darkness. If she looks up, it's more fog and murkiness.
Welcome to the other side of the mirror, Molly.
M. Toombs[Perception 3 + Alertness 3: Reflection, are you there?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 6, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )
nothingMolly finds it difficult to notice her reflection now if she looks directly at it, but at the perepheral, out of the corner of her eye, if she just keeps this one area in the corner of her eye -- the Molly-reflection is still there, leaning against the edge of one of the mirrors and chewing as if on gum.
There are also things up above, vaguely bat-like in shape. They seem very still right now, and are likewise difficult to look directly at, but there's a sense that if they move
if they are wakened
if they
...
... well, don't wake them.
M. ToombsMolly knew a trick or two about looking for things. In search for the reflection she didn't just turn her head all around and search frantically for hiding places. She let her gaze unfocus as well, checked the peripherals. There, against the side of a mirror, like she was going to wait patiently for her to return. Maybe hang out and play catch-up with Gregory, who knew.
She also noticed shapes huddled all over the ceiling, like resting bats. She could really only imagine what would happen if they were disturbed. Would they tear her flesh from bone like a pack of winged pirhannas? Best not to find out.
While she couldn't see the reflection directly, she still gestured in her direction and breathed her words soft, smooth, and gentle-- as though there were a sleeping baby the next door over.
"How do I find him? Do you know?"
nothing"I don't know." Molly's reflection doesn't have Molly's voice. How would she? The visual copy is a visual copy; do they even have music in the world beyond the mirror? The reflection's voice sounds froggy, harsh and raspy, like cat claws and velvet. "I'm not your guide. You didn't summon one. Just look around, do your Nancy Drew thing."
M. ToombsMolly seemed to think about the answer she got for a moment, then shrugged one shoulder and nodded as though to concede. "That's fair enough, I suppose..."
If this was Molly's Reflection, she knew enough of the person she was bound to to know that she was smarter than to just walk off into the land of reflections and get herself lost. She did roam around the room, looking about carefully. She checked carefully the area where the mirrors where, were she'd left Jack laying on the floor as well.
The doorway was checked out as well, but before that she spoke softly to her reflection again, as though absently wondering aloud while doing her Nancy Drew thing as suggested.
"If I were go go looking, how worried would I have to be about getting lost? Or nabbed by something nasty?"
nothing"We hate you here," Molly says. "Every time you primp and preen, every time you build something reflective, something to show your fucking faces, one of us gets trapped and we have to dance and do whatever you want. We can't talk. We lose our voices. We hate you here; how worried do you think you should be?"
Beat. "There are lots of exits. Finding one isn't something you're going to need to be worried about. Hopefully your boy out there lights a candle to draw you back to those mirrors but if he doesn't," a shrug. A shrug Molly knows intimately.
M. ToombsThere was plenty of vitriol in her reflection's voice when the mechanics of reflections was explained. For what it was worth, Molly listened to the answer that was given and looked sad, or maybe regretful about the nature of mirrors and what they've done to the spirits on the other side.
"What were you before--," she started to ask, curious about the origins of reflections. She said that when a mirror was created one of them was trapped, after all, indicating that they used to be something before the awful magic of mirrors was worked. Instead, she sufficed for.
"I'm sorry." She never made a mirror. She didn't know that her primping in the mirror-- applying mascara and checking ample cleavage-- was slave's work for the image on the other side. All the same, a bit of sympathy was offered. It wouldn't cure anything, but at least it was there.
"Okay," she said, then nodded. "Thanks." And with that said, Molly moved quietly from this room to the ladder that would lead her upstairs again. She was willing to search the rest of the warehouse that Jacky apparently haunted but with the warning given about how hated she was here she had no plans to wander far enough to find any other people's reflections.
She just wanted to find one in particular.
nothingThe ladder is cold to the touch and when Molly begins to climb she can feel the beginning of a bruise in her muscles, but it isn't bad enough to give her any great difficulty, so Molly climbs. This has been an exhausting week for the young nurse; who knows if she'll have another week? This might be the last.
She might never get home.
Up she goes, and the things she noticed hanging from the 'ceiling' (though the ceiling disappears the higher she climbs; dissipates into a dark fog, a smear of formlessness) do not seem to be wakened quite yet.
But when she is done climbing the ladder, she finds herself standing somewhere quite different from the factory she remembers walking through. Oh, there are little slivers of space which look like they've been cut out of the factory, little bits of familiarty: the things that were reflected and so are given form. But between those reflections of the real world as captured (and somewhat distorted) by a door knob or a handle or a broken bottle the ground is slag rock folded over and over again stretching out a very long way, a thick white fog roiling across, and the air is full of lightning.
That-a-way, there is a door.
That-a-way, there is the ghost of a car, and its reflection. Other ghostly reflections, echoing silently whatever it is their person is doing- rigid beneath it but you'd never know. They don't get to express themselves.
That-a-way-over-there, open doors in the ground.
And that-a-way, over there, a bus.
M. ToombsEverything was cold, incredibly so. She had to favor her right wrist-- the pull through from the Physical Realm into the Realm of Mirrors was a painful one, and though she was a gal with a sturdy constition her hand still took the brunt of the damage from the transition. She'd put it in a brace when this was all over, assuming that she would make it through intact.
The world above was nothing but fog, with snips and clips of the 'real world' to be found throughout. She recognized a knob here, a bit of familiar flooring there, but there was no ceiling, and there was no way to see through the distance. There was a car, a bus, some doors left open that are in the earth itself, and a solitary upright door.
Molly had carried the thermos that once held the blood along with her, forgetful about it still being clutched in her right hand. She looked around thoughtfully, and stared at the standing door in particular for quite a while. Looked to the door in the ground that she had come through herself. Slowly, carefully, she tested out a theory.
Fingers dipped into the interior of the thermos and scraped along the side, pulling what blood residue was still in there (admittedly, there was plenty of it-- Molly certainly didn't lick the thing clean or get every last drop) onto her fingertips. Testing first, she smeared the red of blood onto the door she'd come through. As it was her only real option and seemed sufficient enough, she made several dashes of the bright red blood on the earth with her fingertips, forming a circle around the door she had come through.
The trail of blood was lightly, sparingly dribbled on the ground between this door and the next as she walked. The single door that stood upright was what she would test first.
This time when she grabbed the knob and twisted, she used the flannel shirt tied around her waist as a guard for bare flesh.
nothingThe bloodied markings do not become any more sinister than any bloodied markings are to begin with. They do not disappear; they hold.
And Molly grabs the door knob and twists it, using her flannel shirt. The door knob twists easily and without sound; when it opens, she finds herself looking at what might be a city. Denver, but viewed from above: a spider web of lights, blinking and illuminated, a strange staircase leading from the door and spiraling downward.
It is incredible and it should not exist but Molly is no longer on earth or in the fields she knows. As for Jack or Jack's Reflection:
The few times she's seen Jack's Reflection, it has come to her, in her own house or her place of work: it haunts the familiar locations. (There might be two of them, she thinks.)
Molly is looking for a needle in a haystack, but she has also made herself into a needle in a haystack: the thing needles in haystacks are is lost. Directionless? We'll see.
Going down the staircase will surely take her 'far' from where she is now, although who is to say what direction means now.
M. ToombsThe sight through the door took Molly's breath away for a moment. She knew she was in a place that made no sense, where the rules didn't apply, but it was still mind-boggling to open a door and see an entire city below, with a staircase leading down to it on top of that. She stood with the door open for several seconds, just staring with her mouth slightly open, before hastily (but gently, quietly) closing the door again. She was slightly worried that something may have 'gotten in' during the time that she was standing there. Doors weren't really made to be ajar, after all.
Rather than assuming this was the right path and moving forward, Molly wanted to know her options. She very much did not want to get lost. There were plenty of endings that she would accept, but forever wandering through fog was the least of them.
That was close enough to her actual life as it was. She wouldn't be able to stomach the irony nearly as well as she did the blood.
This door was marked with a crude pictoglyph of multi-height rectangles, just three of them so she wasn't being wasteful. To her it represented a city's skyline. That was what this door went to.
Next, she would check one of the doors that was built into the ground. Presuming that nothing intervened otherwise, she did this with all of the doors available-- simply opening and looking and checking, then closing, marking, and moving on to the next. The whole while she looked about shiftily, as though paranoid of attack or being snuck up on.
nothingThe first one: opens into darkness. The darkness is wet and cloying and seems to be breathing. In, and out. In, and out. In, and out.
The second door: opens into a street. The street is wide and generous, and after a moment or two, Molly may recognize it for a street down in Santa Fe. There are people moving around on the street, but it is absolutely silent. Nobody says anything at all to one another, although if she takes time to watch the way people move she may notice a pattern.
The tiny little revolutionary acts that one might commit.
The third door: opens on a car, black and wide and wealthy.
The fourth: on the hotel room she had an audience with the Sophie the Ventrue and Morris the Malkavian.
The fifth: a cave with a sign written in a script she does not know, roots tangling over them. The roots are pulsing, as if they are feeding, in time not to breathing but to the beating of a heart.
M. Toombs[Wits 4 + Investigation 2: Which door will fuck me up the least?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN9 (1, 2, 5, 5, 7, 9) ( success x 1 )
nothingMolly considers and by considering realizes a couple of things. 1. In darkness, things which are enslaved by sight might have more freedom of movement. 2. If Jack's Reflection is here, so is She that took it. 3. The door which might fuck her up least and the door which might take her to Jack are not necessarily the same doors. 4. This place has rules, but she doesn't know them. Still: it must be easy to spy from this place she is in. 5. Spying is not what she is here for, so the car and the hotel room likely do not have what she is looking for.
M. ToombsMolly took her time, stopped and thought carefully about each door that she opened and each option that was available. She decided immediately not to go to Sophie and Morris. That was the last place she wanted to be-- it was like hitting her timer early going to them. She didn't even mark what this door was, actually, just wrote "NO" in big bloody letters across it.
The car seemed interesting. She had a feeling that if she got into that big, expansive back seat the driver would appear faceless in a black hat and start quizzing her. She was willing to bet she'd learn plenty, and see some amazing places in that car.
Not now, though. This door was marked with a crude crawing of a steering wheel and nothing more. The first door was marked with hatch marks to represent darkness. The second, lines to show a street and its paint marks, and the fifth was a small cave drawing (an arch within an arch). They were all considered, and very carefully. She was a smart woman, but in a land whose rules were unfamiliar to her. There were some things that she was able to put together, though-- likelihoods, possibilities, and so on.
It was only when she started to feel rushed by herself-- how long had it been? How long did time here translate to on the other side? How long could Gregory just stand there waiting for them before he assumed her lost for good and packed up his show and left? What happened if her mirror circle got disturbed? A decision definitely had to be made-- she didn't want to waste any more time finding out.
Taking a breath, deep and nervous, she opened one of the in-ground doors and walked from the land of fog into a cave of living, feeding, thriving roots. It seemed the kind of place that a creature like Jacky may go.
M. Toombs[Dexterity 3 + Stealth 2: I don't want to disturb anything I just wanna get my guy and go]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 6, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )
nothing[Ears in the Dark]
Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 4, 7, 10) ( success x 2 )
nothing[Eyes in the Dark]
Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 3, 4, 4, 6, 8) ( success x 2 )
nothing'Walk' is more of a 'gently let herself down into this oh wait gravity is behaving strangely now oh walking indeed okay' and then she is somewhere that is underground. The sense of being underground is strong; didn't Jacky tell her that his reflection was stolen when he was exploring beneath Seattle?
The Cave.
If Molly looks past the door she just walked through, she can see the cavern stretching out and over until it turns into something manmade, something with arches and brickwork and the sound of water rushing. The air has a hollow feel to it; it echoes. The sound of water rushing is one of the first sounds she has heard since coming here; something that is a sound natural to this environment.
If she looks ahead, the cave broadens, there is the sign, and past the sign:
a labyrinth made out of stone. Staircases built into the wall, and tunnels. Graffiti here and there, looking more like glyphs than anything else, and of course the pulsing roots--feeding roots. The roots snake across the ground, and what light there is seems to come from no light source at all but to be dim and ever-present, a diffuse filtered out almost-brightness, the sort of light you get from the last gutter of the last candle, a sort of night air brightness when there's no moon and it seems dark but if you know darkness and shadows you know it can get much much much much darker.
M. ToombsThe rubber soles of Molly's sneakers were quiet on the rock-and-earth upon which she tred. They, too, were a decision made with intent. She didn't just happen to pull on the clothes she did-- she knew she may need to run or sneak or climb, so she wore clothes with give, clothes that were dark and wouldn't show evidence of everything she did tonight, shoes that she could get the hell out of there with if need be.
There may be something lurking about-- more than likely, as a matter of fact. Places like this didn't usually exist without sentries and residents. But if anything was there it didn't notice Miss Molly as she slinked forward past the sign she couldn't read, following the deep echoing sound of water and noticing how the walls gave way to man-made brick.
At last she came upon a labyrinth that looked like something out of M.C. Escher's portfolio. For a few moments she stared, and even tried to follow a path from whatever vantage point she had until it was lost. Those moments were precisely that, though-- just a few seconds ticked by on a clock somewhere (in her perception, at least). It didn't take her long to decide against this particular path. She was trying not to get lost, after all.
So Molly turned about and went right back the way she came. Seeking the hatch-and-door back to the plane of someplace inbetween. She didn't want to go to the darkness, but perhaps it was better after all...
nothingAs soon as Molly returns to the door, re-opens it (for it is closed when she returns to it, whether or not she left it that way), she will notice a change:
The air smells of salt. The door opens not into the room fog-world many doors and many corners that she'd climbed up into, but into the room where her mirror ritual stands and Gregory is standing, or half of Gregory is standing, the half that is visible in one of the mirrors a pale ghost she can reach through perhaps if she tried (although isn't he a slave? He is a slave; a mirror world slave), back braced against the side of the room, his kindle on, reading.
The ladder seems different, too. Darker; abyssal tendrils hiding just behind it, as if something would snatch at her were she to climb again.
The labyrinth waits at her back.
All ways are forward.
M. ToombsBack into the room-- not the room with doors again, oh no. Apparently she didn't have the option of seeking the breathing darkness, or the mirror-world Santa Fe street where everyone walked silently in a pattern that she didn't take time to dissect. Rather, she was back in the room where she'd initially stepped through to this realm. She spied the half-views of Gregory (oh good, he was still there!), and glanced briefly about for her own reflection as well.
Well damnit. Her nostrils flared-- the room smelled salty, like the sea or perhaps some rock chamber far below the earth where salt actually grew into crystals. It was different from before. Something had changed, but what?
A glance back at the ladder. The tendrils of darkness that swayed around it, vaguely threatening, had her backing away from the ladder and further into the room. She scowled, stuck for the moment.
Tonight was a night of trying, apparently. She touched a hand to her face- the blood that had caked her chin and neck was drying quickly on the surface area of her skin-- it would flake off if she took the time to scrub at it, but this wasn't the time for that either. So, bloody-faced and pale underneath that still, Molly approached the mirror circle again and came to stand in its center. After a cautious glance upward, she looked into one of the mirrors and called softly, gently, as though cooing for a child to wake from their sleep.
"Jack... Can you hear me? Can you come to my voice? Please, I can't find you. I need you."
nothingThe surface of the mirror shivers as the flat surface of a lake might shiver when a breeze comes trip-trapping over it.
Trip-trap, skim-shudder, and then: Molly's own eyes looking back into hers. They shift into something hideous, drooping; her skin loses its lustre, becomes paler; her visage shifts into something truly hideous. She loses some of her hair.
Monster-Molly reflection opens her mouth and says "Molly?" in a voice she knows quite well. Honeyed voice, something about it and its cadences cornfed and hale and hearty and it's a good voice and it's Jacky's. Sounds foggy, with sleep.
M. ToombsHer own reflection appeared at first, and Molly was braced for sarcasm. No, she was sure she'd hear herself say in that raspy growl of a voice. I told you to go do your Nancy Drew thing on your own what are you doing asking for help from me again.. But the image shimmered along the surface, then began to melt and morph and grow. The monster was a disfigured thing, and watching her own face transform into what Jack's face was now had her cringing.
But there was Jack's face, ugly as sin as it was. And more than that, there was his voice. Her name on his voice sang in her veins and made her heart soar with relief and excitement and a weird, deep, bound love all alike. She had to resist the urge to press hands to the glass between them in her excitement. Remembering the cold burn and worrying that it would disrupt the connection and send him away kept her hands to herself, both wrapped tightly around that thermos.
"Jack!", she exclaimed quietly and leaned forward, closer, but touched nothing.
"Jesus Christ, Jack. I'm gonna help get you back, okay?" He sounded sleepy, though, so she felt compelled to explain: "I need you to stay here, okay? Can you do that? I'm gonna fix this, but I need you to stay here in these--" indicating the mirrors around them. Even as she was gesturing to the mirrors she was looking around at them, and if he were coherent enough he could see the gears spinning full-speed in her head. She was figuring out getting back across, when she should, and how quickly she would be able to go into binding.
Waiting for his answer first, though.
nothingThe mirror is not flat or smooth right now. The surface has the texture of liquid but it is still held perfectly straight. Ugly-Molly (for there is more of Molly in the face that looks back at her than there is Jack, but there is more Jack than would mean the reflection looking back at her is strictly Molly, so Ugly-Molly) monster-Molly blinks. Lifts her/his/its hands up knuckles skim out of the mirror elbows poke out too and then presses the palm of her-it-his hand to her-his-its face.
"Jack is an important name. A humble name. It's important to be humble but also arrogant enough to know you can get more if you only want it enough," and the end of the sentence wanders away from sleepy-Jack voice.
"Molly, I haven't been sleepy for longer than I can remember."
And the mirror shudders again, and the reflection is gone.
Instead, the mirror reflects a hallway.
M. Toombs"I don't want anything more than getting you back to the right side of the looking glass right now," she said quickly a the reflection that was mingled between herself and Jack rubbed at its face. More to Jack's voice than not, a statement about not being sleepy for a long time ended their talk. The reflection faded away, shuddered and shimmered, and instead there was a hallway.
Only forward, not back. And this was the best lead she had so far.
Without near so much hesitation this time as what she's shown before, Molly reached out to touch the glass surface, reluctant to whatever pain it may cause her, and then pushed through to try and access the hallway she was seeing.
nothingThis time there is no pain. There is no cold and no shock and she gets no bruises, but the hall is slippery: difficult to walk on. The walls seem to be coated with water; water is slowly, and noiselessly, dripping from the ceiling, slicking down the walls, slick across the floor, a subtle and constant undulation.
The hall she is in might be a castle: it seems old, with wooden beams (crusted with salt deposits), and then all the stone. It also has the sense of being under-the-ground, under-the-world. Up ahead, it opens up into a couple of rooms, and one of them is a blackness. A darkness.
Behind the door-mirror she just came through, a stair case that spirals downward. More darkness.
M. ToombsThe pain didn't come, and Molly was grateful. Her wrist was a constant throbbing ache and was no doubt beginning to swell up. Her muscles were all tired and worn already, as though she'd run a couple of marathons over the course of a week. That she transitioned so easily into the hallway was a blessing.
There the walls were stone, supported by wood, and everything was slick and wet and salty. It made her think vaguely of saline spills at work. One hand touched the wall in case she needed steadying. At the end of the hall there opened a room, and there were more doors. She got the impression that she was at the same crossroads that she was at earlier, but with a different facade to it.
Ahead-- the darkness. Behind, the darkness. Good, she thought. That's where I thought I had to go anyways.
So, not going back, but instead going forward through the door, Molly stepped into the dark.
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