I believe someone mentioned at some point that this is Columbus, Ohio, that it is somewhere around the fall of the year two thousand two (if memory serves), and that the place was something of an environmental disaster before we had that unexpected explosion that nearly killed everyone.
I think there was also a bit of an explanation about the fact that you're a verser, now, although I'm not sure how much of that you processed.
Eric has recognized Ed; I'm not sure whether Ed is quite as sure as he was that this is Eric.
--M. J. Young
OOC: Right now my character isn't really sure what to believe. I mean, he was blown up, and by all rights he should be dead. Than he starts seeing a bunch of weird people in a place he has never been before, a person identical in appearance and voice to Eric casting spells, using Sci-fi weaponry and psionics in a very conversational matter-of-fact way. And, oh yeah, let's not forget Headless, Big and Scaly here and the fact that the MIB are apparently more than just a tabloid invention.
He would consider him Eric if he identified himself as such, but this being calls himself Tadeusz. And he did catch the conversation about being a verser. He just has his own interpretation of that information.
Agreed. There is also the fact that when you arrived there was a sort of inner sense drawing you toward Tadeusz. Also, were you aware prior to joining this game that your friend Eric played a character he called Tadeusz, or wrote stories about such a character? If so, they would not be Multiverser stories, but they would still exist as game and story characters of which you were aware.
That, of course, might make you think you'd gotten knocked into one of Eric's crazy fantasy stories, but that's up to you to decide. (There is a famous original player who believed that about the verse, that he had become part of all the stories; he had less evidence than you, I think.)
But I think I need to hear something from Eric on that. Meanwhile, have you any idea what you want to do next? Finding a hotel might prove challenging, given the amount of damage that has been done in the city, but your decision to get away from the scene of the crime, as it were, has merit--so pick a direction. (You can give it to me in terms of which way everyone was moving a moment ago, if you like.)
--M. J. Young
I run my finger along the edge of my Russian Army jacket, and remove from the secret compartment where I carry some of my money, a gold doubloon bearing the image of Ferdinand of Castille and the year 1485 AD, and a silver coin, an Alpha Centauran mark inscribed with 2217 Anno Domini Ad Astra, an orbital map of the star system in question, and on the obverse side a many pointed star.
I hand these to Ed.
"Get us a hotel. Some food would be nice too although I have some Heateneat cans."
Down deep, I'm still tired.
"I know you, or I did in my first world. In my first world, I went by another name. In the many universes, I...well, I've made enemies. There are other me's, and I don't think they'd like it if my enemies went after them. I certainly wouldn't like it."
I pause.
"I've seen you or another you a few times since that first world, but for me its been well, to keep it simple, its been more than four hundred years since I left my first world. In that time, I've seen and done things that....well...unusual, yeah, thats a good word for it. Learned magics and miracles and mental tricks, and martial arts, and along the way I became Tadeusz the Sledgehammer of Justice, the Servant of the One God, the terror of the wicked. Picked up a plasma cannon, and some cybernetics which is why my face is slightly reshaped, and I'm a couple inches taller. Have to stick the cyberware in somewhere. Along the way, I've died, or versed out...I think versed out is more accurate because we don't exactly die, I think...well over a hundred times. Knife, and plague, and A-bomb, and magic fireball and tripping, breaking my leg, falling into a mine shaft, and dying of thirst within the sound of a waterfall have all gotten me.
There are others older and more powerful than me. The Architect is five thousand or so, I think. The Hermit reached eight thousand. Michael Di Vars I've fought him four times, and only won outright once, and thats because I can be really sneaky if I have to be. One shouldn't bring a sword to an asteroid fight. But, I've walked into rooms filled with dangerous beings, and not all of them even remotely human, and said....'I'm Tadeusz' and watched them get out of my way like the sea parting before Moses."
I rub my face.
"Of course, great power often means the opportunity to really mess things up. So, I want to do two things in this world. One, help you out. Two, try to finish fixing the mess I and the people of this planet have made of this place. You interested?"
Eric
Ed, your move, I think.
--M. J. Young
I absorb what he just told me. Okay, he's four thousand years old and apparently some kind of demigod. That means either a lot of time has passed and the future has come full circle in some kiind of warped Hollywood way, or I'm still in a coma dream.
The joke "I deny your reality and substitute my own" keeps running through my mind for some blasted reason.
I choose not to tell him to get his own room. One, that would be just plain vicious on my part to say that. Two, truth be told it's the least I can do for his assistance.
"I'm not made out of money, but I should have enough for at least one night. After that I'll be bone dry. Somehow I don't think my ATM cards are valid here. And yes, I'll help you out with deeds of do-goodery."
Ed, Eric handed you a gold dubloon and an unidentified coin that might be silver (Eric, any guess on the weights of those coins?), so I think he's planning to have you pay for it out of that money--although that's probably not the local currency, and whether the recent devastation is likely to make such coins less valuable or more is really difficult to say (and probably not even the coin dealers, banks, and jewelers know the answer to that question right at this moment).
Of course, I can understand if you are intentionally ignoring these "coins" for one reason or another.
Also, rooms might be at a premium at the moment, or they might be cheap as dirt--after all, nearly everyone needs hospitalization not vacation space, but most of the hospitals and hotels will have been badly damaged.
You can bet, though, that food and water are going to be rather pricey at the moment.
--M. J. Young
An ounce for the doubloon, and a half-ounce for the silver mark. Historically, doubloons were an ounce, and I thought the other should be thinner and lighter.
OOC: Oops. Not like me to ignore free money.
"Hmm..." I finally look at the coins for a moment. "I'll use my own currency. You pay for things with gold coins you tend to draw a LOT of attention. Attention I'd rather not be dealing with right now. Maybe later."
"Let's just find one quickly. The sooner we get off the streets, the better."
You look up and down the street, but the buildings in close proximity are too damaged to be anything anymore, and as far as you can see in the distance signs and marquees and other identifying aids have been smashed, toppled, and otherwise removed.
Finding a hotel that might have an intact room and a functional food service is going to require doing more than looking up and down the street. One of these buildings might have been a convenience store; there seem to be cigarettes spilled into the street, and bags of chips just beyond the smashed window.
--M. J. Young
"Well, this is going to be a long day." I remark to no one in a particular. I turn to Eric. "Okay, if you can think of a fast way to get us out of here without having my mind wiped clean, I'm game."
If the answer is no, I intend to start walking away from the zone of carnage and finding a hotel. I'm keeping a low profile, because I don't want swarms of journalists ruining my day.
"Ed." I reply gently. "The zone of carnage is the planet. I'm afraid I've really made a bad re-introduction of myself. Hello, how you doing, let me blow up the world, let me try to fix it with God's grace, sort-of by pulling back everyone from the brink of death, but not really fix it, and now telling you to please find me a place to sleep. Look, this world was an ecological disaster in the process of happening, slow motion train wreck. I....well, I sped it up...a lot. Let me ask you a different question. Given this world situation, what do you want to do to fix it?"
However, I'll walk with him. I've had lots of experience in walking by now.
"Hmm..." I was thinking zone of carnage as more immediate. "Well, global carnage is a little beyond my ability to handle. I suppose the best thing to do would be to locate any survivors and gather them up. Rebuilding civilization and all that jazz. The world may have been on a tailspin for a while, but this is a unique opportunity for the survivors to correct that."
"But first things first. We are no good to anyone if we can't take care of ourselves. Food, shelter. Basics first."
"Do you want to go pay the guy in the small store with the potato chips spilling into the street? Or would you like to try for some place closer to where you intend to be down?"
As time passes, I feel better.
Eric
As you walk along the street, you continue to see wreckage. No building is completely undamaged, but some have suffered considerably more than others.
Reporters are few and far between; in fact, uninjured people are completely unknown here, and the number who are ambulatory at this point is about a tenth of the population.
You do spot a place with an old wooden sign that says "hotel", with another attached beneath it, apparently permanently, that says "vacancy". It seems fairly intact, an old brick building, although there are some broken windows. There is a hot dog vendor sitting out front, clearly old-world, firm in the belief that near death is not an excuse for skipping work.
--M. J. Young
"Hot dogs." I note the vendor. "Probably overpriced, and I probably don't want to know what they are made out of, but right now, who cares? I could eat a cinder block."
I approach the vendor. "Greetings. Two big dogs, if you don't mind. And do you know if anyone is at the desk of that hotel?" If anyone would know anything, it would be this guy. In conspiracies, everything begins and ends with the guys no one else would notice.
That's a good plan by me, and I'll let him handle the conversation.
Eric
"Four bucks," he says, as he hands you the large sausage-like sandwiches and nods toward an assortment of condiments that includes chili, saurkraut, and liquid cheese along with the basic staples. "Yeah, old Pete's working. Never missed a day, I think, tough old bird."
--M. J. Young
"Awesomeness." I hand him the money and accept the liquid cheese. I pay for Eric here to. "By the way, today's going to get pretty busy. Hope you are ready."
I head inside and ask Pete for a room.
He's an agent and the guy outside is his partner, but I don't care. Even if I'm just being paranoid, the presumption can't hurt. That or they are both Greys, and I'm going to end up being bisected in my sleep.
Pete is willing to give you the room for a steep discount--thirty dollars a night for both of you together, two double beds. He's checked the plumbing in this room and it still works, but there's no electric on the whole block, as far as he can tell, and his generator is damaged. He's working on it, but there doesn't seem to be anyone available to come out and fix the thing.
He gives you a room key for a first floor room three doors down the hall on the street side. He's still checking the structural integrity of the upper floors.
--M. J. Young
I stuff down my hot dog.
Pray for protection from the Archangels, and go to sleep. I set my internal mental clock for fourteen hours.
I hand Ed the Uzi with the fifty round clip of flattened honeycomb bullets.
"I am so not going to be awake, so shoot anyone that needs shooting."
I engage my Lekostian cyberware, grab the bed's mattress at the bottom, and flip the mattress in one move so that the dust on top is now in the air, and on the bottom, and I'm not sleeping on a dust covered sheet. Showoff, I know.
I hit the bed, all 350 pounds of me, and am asleep before two breaths are taken.
"Right-o." I take the Uzi, check the clip, and set the ammo by tapping it on a hard surface. (Naturally, I'm doing this up in a room.)
I set up anything glass on the doornob. This way if someone comes in, I'll hear them. Lock that door, and relax. If it gets nighttime, I'll go to sleep.
It's been a very weird day.
Ed, you now have temporary possession of an Uzi and space in a hotel room with someone who seems to be the far fantasy version of a friend of yours.
--M. J. Young
I muse about everything that has gone on. I mean, I turned Godzilla's skull into the world's largest salad bowl today, I am speaking matter-of-factly about the MIB actually being a real entity, and (Eric?) is not only refusing to call me completely insane for being so paranoid, but he just killed off all of mankind not a few minutes ago and subsequently brought them back.
I wonder what door my sanity checked out at, because my life is turning into some kind of cheesy drama series. Or a comedy, if everyone hates me.
The day fades toward dusk. The phone rings; I'll assume you answer it. It's the hotel manager, offering to try to get you some dinner if you would like, although he's not certain what he has or what can be made. He also suggests that you lock your door tonight, as he's not sure all the downstairs doors and windows can be secured. He's also pleased to note that the phones are working within the building. He asks if you need anything else, promising to make your stay as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.
--M. J. Young
"Nah. I'm fine. I've got some things to do, so I'm going to let you go now. Take care sir." I hang up. I secure the door, and check the windows of the room I'm in.
I have no illusions that I can stop everyone who wants in, and I've probably already been bracketed. Indeed, he probably called to insure I was still in the room. My exit time from there and my probable paths have already been determined.
Well, forget it. Anyone who breaks in here will be identified as a hostile and can expect to receive an unhealthy dosage of Vitimin L courtesy of the submachine gun in my hand. I won't have any qualms about it after today.
Actually, its Vitamin U as in Depleted Uranium...if I remember right. I do remember, its loaded with foldable honeycomb matrix bullets. That is the bullet is ejected into the firing chamber, expands to size.
It has ramjet holes in it so that much of the power that is used to shuffle air around an ordinary bullet is recycled by being shunted through the ramjet scoops.
Note this technology is an easy thirty years in advance of anything we can currently do on Earth.
My understanding of Ramjet scoops is that they collect air to oxygenate fuel in a jet or possibly internal combustion engine, or possibly hydrogen in space to power fusion engines. Putting them on a bullet would only slow the bullet, from what I can see. But it is fantasy, so I'm not going to quibble.
Gradually sleep overtakes you.
You awaken in the daylight, undisturbed and unharmed. Ed awakens first; Eric seems to be recovering from a very long day.
--M. J. Young
On Time.com: Best Inventions of 2002....
Imagine a jet engine that doesn't pollute the atmosphere, flies at seven times the speed of sound and doesn't carry any fuel. Sound like a blue-sky pipe dream? One day last July, 300 km above the South Australian Desert, that dream became a reality in the form of the HyShot scramjet. A scramjet (that's top-gun shorthand for "supersonic ramjet") is a jet engine that is powered by oxygen it scoops out of the air as it flies, so it's not weighed down by a fuel tank (though it needs an initial boost to get going). This summer's launch represents the first time a scramjet has flown outside of a wind tunnel. It will take years of work before scramjets are available for practical uses, but they could eventually revolutionize space launches and commercial flights. At Mach 7, New York City to Tokyo is just a two-hour hop.
Availability: Alas, commercial flights are still many years away
....I should have said 'scramjet'. It is counter-intuitive for sure.
Eric
This suggests that what you have here are jet bullets, complete with tiny scramjet engines to provide continued propulsion after the gun gives them their initial boost.
Cool. Sounds expensive.
OOC: Gah! Stop corrupting my session with distractions! Although I must admit, that is cool...must focus...there. Now then, back to my game.
IC: I check the weapon. Likely I'm satified. I knowing this world, I probably got abducted by Greys and I now have a chip in my skull. Oh, well.
I'll let Eric sleep it off. Heck with it. I am not leaving him alone though. Last thing I need in this crazy world is to get myself isolated. I'm not a super-warrior, although the way this dream's going that will change. I mean, I killed Godzilla.
When I wake up, that will still be awesome.
I wake up, and see Ed, and blink. OK. He still has the dazed look of a new verser, but he's holding the Uzi competently.
I need to figure out some sort of ripple field for the local ethereal field. Too many people are still too injured.
I open my backpack, and pull out some of my emergency supplies. I toss a random one to Ed, and one for myself. These are pull tab cans with the top doubling as a spoon (obviously not the razor sharp edges of my home world), and pulling them drips water into lime salts I believe that are below the food in a separate container. Its normal tech, but it gets very hot.
I blow on my Cream of Spruiachne Stew, and look over at Ed to see how he's handling the Fried Steppers with Fresh Mango Salsa Soup. I've never figured out what a Stepper is. I think its some type of fish that is smoked, fried bone hard, and then softened in water.
"Well, Ed, welcome to the Verse. I'm sorry I was totally out of it last night, but such is life. What do you want to do now? And hang on to that Uzi for now." I reach into my bag regrettfully. I typically carry four to five knives on my person, and some backups in my duffel bag. But this was my sole 'working knife' backup.
I pulled out a pukka, which is a Finnish hiltless knife suited to chopping wood saplings, opening up a reindeer, or gutting a man in a knife fight. It has a heavy blade, and some might almost think of it as a short sword.
I slide it over to Ed.
"I don't have a scabbard sorry. Although we could make one. Now with a gun, a knife, a tarp, and a water bottle, you're fully outfitted."
The Time article is apparently confused. According to NASA, the Scramjet still carries the same amount of fuel; it doesn't carry an oxydizing chemical. This reduces the "fuel payload" by half, because ordinarily rocket engines use a combustible chemical fuel plus a chemical oxydizer to enable it to burn. The scramjet draws its oxygen from the air, as a jet or internal combustion engine would, using the hypersonic velocities of the vehicle to force sufficient air through the intake to provide abundant oxygen for the combustion process.
You can't burn air; you use the air to burn something else. (It would be the other way around on a gas giant--there the methane/ammonia atmosphere is highly flammable, but needs the introduction of an oxydizer, so you could use compressed oxygen tanks as flame sources. I'm really curious as to whether it looks different.)
Sorry for the disruption, Ed.
Thus far things are pretty much as they were last night, except that the sun has risen on the devastation.
--M. J. Young
"Great." I note my supplies, and remind myself to be careful. Government officals don't like it when civilians carry automatics. Especially concealed autos. I don't know if this time parellels the one I remember, but the last thing I need is to be branded a terrorist.
"When you're ready, let's go see what's going on in the world. I'm wondering how they got rid of the Godzilla corpse downtown."
When you are both ready, you head out. Are you taking everything with you, or leaving what behind? Are you saying anything to the manager on your way out? (He is complaining that the help didn't come in, and he had to man the place all night, although he admits he got some sleep and no one arrived.) He also asks if he can get you some breakfast, again with that uncertainty that he's not sure what he has. All the eggs broke, for certain, and he's not found anyone who has more, but he's got some other stuff.
The hot dog vendor is back on the street.
Godzilla's carcass has not yet been moved. It's starting to smell of death. The streets are still mostly empty, although you see some people, showing signs of recovering from serious injury, moving about trying to reconstruct their lives, searching through rubble for whatever they can find.
--M. J. Young
I let the manager know everything went fine last night, and I thank him for putting in the extra mile for us.
I'll halt long enough for breakfast. It's possible that this incident has given the conspiracy based government some food for thought. They will probably be wondering what their next move should be. I mean, everyone in the planet died, and immediately came back. When they wake up, Godzilla is dead on the streets. The world might look different too. I mean, brush with death changes everything.
While I'm eating, I draw the conculsion that "versers" as I apparently am now, are forces of change, whether they want to be or not. No matter what, we are outsiders meddling in the affairs of a universe which was probably working just fine before our arrival.
Not that I'd let that stop me, mind you. Sometimes, the status quo needs to be shaken up.
"Well," I ask Eric as I sit down to eat (whatever). "Is my life always going to be this interesting, or do things sometimes mellow down a bit?"
I laugh.
"Even for me this is pretty wild."
Ed should still be damaged, and as I understood, Heal Damage to Others Psi 6@3 is well within the curve. If so, I focus my mind, empty it of hostile emotions, and establish a zone of calm about me as I gently and slowly call up my power. Then I use the tiniest, teeniest bit of power to heal just a mite by touch.
2@1 SAL. The other four preparatory powers are 2@3, 1@8, 2@2, and 2@5. They yield +10 SM, RS/5 SM bonus, +5 SM, RS/5 bonus.
"I've had places where nothing much happened for decades. I think it depends on who you are to some degree. I met one guy who had lived in a world peaceably for seven hundred years. I met another guy who had been versed out three times in the last week."
"That second guy is either really aggressive, or really stupid. I'll probably pass his record if I get left alone."
I have a way of ignoring what my body is telling me when it comes to being hurt. I'll try to deny or suppress the pain, if for no reason other than pride. That might get me killed (or versed, apparently).
I'm gathering this is my brain's way of telling me that I need to settle in. Get used to the idea of being comatose, because I'll be here for a while.
Fan-flipping-tastic.
"So everything is all about the individual and luck of the draw, huh? I can get used to that. I guess I'll need a hobby."
"A little bit of both, I think." I lean back and think. Its been over seventy years since I last talked to Captain Carter. happily, I'm very good at perfect memory when I'm not too tired to bother.
"Hmm...he landed with him and his wife, Little Sureshot, on a battlefield between Russian T-72's and Martian tri-pod walkers. So he killed a few walkers, and got toasted. He thinks he turned the tide of battle, and that he was sent by God to do that. Then he arrived in a world where Slobodan Milosevic was UN Secretary General and Marion Barry was president. He said after he killed a few people everyone left him alone, but the Captain is not one to leave evildoers alone, so he went on a crusade. Maybe he should have just lived, and been a good example, but he doesn't do that. Last place, he said he arrived. Pretty valley, lots of animals...he looked up an asteroid was plunging down on him. God has his reasons for us too."
Eric
When Eric focuses his mind on healing Edward, he brings him back to full health this time.
That probably makes you two the healthiest two people on the planet.
--M. J. Young